Surviving Valentine’s

There are a couple holidays I really cannot stand. The first is New Years Eve. The second is Valentine’s Day.

And the more I think about it, I realize that what I dislike about both holidays is the same: they’re amateur hour (also, I really cannot be bothered to stay up past 11pm, so that’s just another axe to grind with NYE).

Why do I need to carve a day out of my calendar to say, “I love you”. Or to be told that. And it’s like if you’re in a relationship and you DON’T do that, well then it just all goes to pieces because so and so got flowers at work and I didn’t, and blah blah blah. And so when I’ve been with a boyfriend around those holidays, we’ve both felt like we should do something.

And the worst, I mean THE WORST, was a few years ago, when me and my boyfriend were sitting down for our special Valentine’s Day dinner in a nice restaurant at 6pm and I looked around and the place was PACKED. I mean, never on a Wednesday night had they been so busy at 6pm. There were tables on the ceiling. It was like the cattle had been called home and here we were, ready for our meal. And I looked at the other couples and saw the plastered smiles on the women, and these sortof awkward looks on the guys, as if every move was to reassure themselves, “don’t fuck this up. Let’s get through the night and maybe I can get laid…”, the forced conversation, the SILENCE, the poor guys just all dressed up and helpless and everyone has this look on their face this WE ARE ENJOYING THIS GODDAMMIT BECAUSE IT’S VALENTINES DAY AND FUCK ME WHAT’S HAPPENED TO MY LIFE.

And I’m part of this! I’m experiencing all these emotions too. And I’m feeling like a total phony, a complete amateur and I wanted nothing more than to run out of that place and just move on to February 15th.

And so from that point on I said fuck you to Valentine’s day. In the following years, we would go out of our way to stay in, order pizza, avoid the world and pray that the day passed and we could just go onto the next, where saying “I love you” was by choice, because we felt like it, and where flowers were a showing of love and appreciation because he could actually remember that’s something I loved and not because FTD was busting up his email.

And you watch single people agonize over this holiday. Because somehow, being single has been classified as a Stage 4 Terminal Cancer that must be rooted out of the body with our strongest prescriptions (annoying mothers, OK Cupid, Grindr). And I agonized over it too when I was single in my 20s. I hated being alone, or seeing people happy and seeing something I didn’t have but so desperately wanted.

But after 5 years of dating the same guy, I’m single again. And I’ve had this revelation about Valentine’s. Because never before in my life have I been so fulfilled with being me. With feeling complete and with truly living a life that I want because it inspires me. And when do I really take time for me? When do we, as women, take time to just love ourselves without reservation? No I haven’t lost those 30 pounds I want to, but I’m done waiting for the day when I’m finally good enough to like me. No, love me. That moment is now.

And so this year, I’m asking myself some different questions about February 14th:

What if I just celebrated me? My body, my sexuality and the love I have going on for that woman I see in the mirror? What if I just had a big love fest with myself?

What if I spent time doing something with myself that I love. Like going for a hike, or making a nice meal for myself, strutting around in some sexy lingerie, or buying that extra nice bouquet of flowers.

What if I turned off the tv and computer, had a nice glass of wine, some good music and snuggled up with my journal and wrote myself a love letter?

How about I make love to the woman reflected back at me and just love her up real good?

And yeah, I know to some of you that’s going to sound lonely, pathetic, narcissistic and lame. But fuck you. This is my story I’m writing. Go write your own story of your life and fill it however you want. Do what nurtures you… or don’t.

All I know this feel right to me. This feels like the Valentine’s Day I would love to have.  Maybe Valentine’s can be a great reminder to us women to love up our femininity and bring that into the weeks, months and years ahead.

Surviving Valentine’s

About the time I accidentally visited a cult

Living in the mid-Market section of San Francisco (roughly from Market and 5th to Market and Gough), I am accustomed to a parade of junkies, deadbeats, vagrants and mentally ill people on my walks around the hood. Consequently, the neighborhood has suffered a lack of retail options. San Francisco has taken steps to encourage more businesses to set roots in the neighborhood, and over the last 6 months I’ve begun noticing more and more businesses coming to town.

One of the newer establishments is the International Art Museum of America, in a regal looking building on Market between 6th and 7th. Their window display is a life-size diorama with a nature scene that includes a treehouse, a stream, a gazebo and lots of fake grass. It’s weird, but super intriguing. I had walked by this place a million times, assuming it was some sort of natural history museum, but it closes early, so the mystery remained.

Today, all that changed. On a lazy afternoon I saw that the museum was open, and opportunity struck.

Red Flag #1

Once inside you realize there is nothing terribly official about the museum. “Admissions” is a desk plunked down in the center of the room. They seemed surprised to see me. The guest services agent, who I later discovered also runs the gift shop AND is the curator, told me the exhibit focused on Asian art. That seemed discongruent with the nature scene diorama, which I now realized extends far into the entrance (and is completely off limits). But whatevs, I figured they were new and still finding their way.

I paid my $10 and waited patiently as the guest services agent called for more visitor stickers. I understand that’s a common practice when visiting museums, but I didn’t realize how strange that actually turned out to be since I WAS THE ONLY PERSON IN THE MUSEUM and never saw a security guard (or another living soul).

Mr. Buddha III
Mr. Buddha III

Red Flag #2

The tour began and I walked into the first room which had a bust of this man: H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, who, according to the placard is the most amazing and magnificent being to grace the Earth and his artwork which adorns the museum is so magnificent it could never possibly be recreated. Don’t even think about trying to! You may think I am exaggerating about what was written about this man, but I assure you, if anything I am downplaying the praise lavished upon him.

Of course, it all made sense when the placard informed me that H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III is the only true incarnation of Buddha, so of course he’s got to be the best at everything. Bastard.

Red Flag #3

Come to learn 90% of the art in the “international museum” is by H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. And let me tell you, this man is prolific! Room after room of a dizzying array of art in every medium imaginable. For example:

  • You know what you get if you take spray-on foam and shellac it? Art by H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.
  • How about if you take a giant wine bottle, cover it in clay and chemicals so it looks like spent wax dripping down a bottle? More art by H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.

His artwork spanned from Impressionist backgrounds, to Chinese calligraphy, a multitude of faux rock sculptures and the PIECE DE RESISTANCE, rock frames WITH HOLOGRAMS INSIDE THEM.

One of these holograms depicts a man on a horse (or is that a hippo?) frolicking around a swamp.

Oh and did I mention all of the art was pixelated? This shit isn’t even the original?!

All the art is adorned with these hilariously bombastic placards praising his work. The price of admission is worth that alone! Case in point, I covertly snapped this photo:

From the first paragraph:

This Yun Sculpture Art is called “Forever Brilliant”. This unmatched form of art was created for the first time in this human world by  H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. In doing so, H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III pioneered for the first time in human history a form of art whose works cannot be duplicated by any person or through any scientific method. Such unprecedented art is truly mysterious… These works of art are like treasures from heaven.

My mind was BLOWN.

On my way out I decided to stop by the gift shop. I hope you’re sitting down for this:

Red Flag #4

I enter into a gift shop unlike any other. IT’S A CERAMIC FLOORTILE SHOWROOM. Guys, I cannot make this stuff up. I wish I had a picture of my face taken at that very moment, because never have I been so bewildered.

I walk through the tile showroom into what resembles a more traditional gift shop and find the salesperson:

Me: What’s with the floor tiles?

Him: They’re for sale.

Me: It’s rather untraditional to buy floor tiles at a museum, don’t you think?

Him: (Points to gift shop floor) This way you can take home our floor tiles with you.

Me: (Incredulously) I can take home the floor??

Him: Well not the actual floor.

Me: Right.

I cannot believe I walked through the entire museum and neglected to realize I had the once in a lifetime opportunity to own the same ceramic tiles that adorned the floor of H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III’s art.

With my spidey sense tingling, I went online to investigate. According to SFist:

The project [International Art Museum of America] first caught Curbed’s attention about two years ago, and we went on to draw what we believed was an ownership connection to a Chinese Buddhist temple in the Mission called Hua Zang Si and their spiritual leader H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.

Interrrrresting.

No one actually tried to recruit me to the cult of  H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, and for that, I am mildly insulted. After all, I was the only person in this goddamn place!

I am adding the International Art Museum of America to my list of “must-see” attractions in San Francisco. If you are in the hood, this is the most entertaining way to spend an afternoon!

About the time I accidentally visited a cult

Regarding the foot fetishist

One of my favorite stories to tell about my adventures as a single lady is the time that I met the foot fetishist.

I didn’t know that at first, of course.

I met Mr. Foot on Match.com. Rather mundane “get to you know you” emails led to Mr. Foot mentioning that he had a thing for feet. Compared to a recent first date I went on, where over the course of dinner the guy asked me, totally out of the blue, if I could help him re-enact his rape fantasy, foot fetishes seemed relatively harmless.

Having never met a foot fetishist, I did the only thing I knew how to do — I made a joke about it. I wrote back and said:

You’ll be thrilled to know I have ten toes and two feet, both supported by an ankle.

Ha. ha. ha. Right? WRONG. For a foot fetishist I had just opened the floodgates. Mr. Foot’s next email dropped any pretense of caring about me as a person and honed in on my feet. He clearly stated that if we were going to meet, I would have to send him a picture of my feet first. If they weren’t up to snuff, I just wasn’t dating material.

And really, wouldn’t you like to know what a foot fetishist thinks of your feet? Are you foot-worthy? I wanted to know! So in response to Mr. Foot, I sent this picture:

Well. Not 20 minutes later did I receive this response (verbatim from email):

I don’t expect you to understand, but, that photo excites me profoundly. If we date and you want something from me, your feet with freshly painted black toenails and flip flops could get me to do anything! If you answered your door  wearing the stockings we mentioned without shoes and the black toenails, I would be in heaven!! Okay, I will stop. Is it clear that I love the photo?

I AM FOOT FETISH WORTHY! A question I never realized I needed the answer to, was now fulfilled. And of course, now I need to meet the guy. Why? Because there’s a story here that needs uncovering and as the single lady of record I am here to uncover it.

So I set up a date with Mr. Foot at my favorite bar on the planet, Martunis. This is a gay piano bar that is very dimly lit and serves fabulous cheap martinis. Worst case, I get to sing along to “Hello Dolly” and drink a few martinis. The guy is already nuts about my feet, what could go wrong…

Suffice it to say, this started off as a horrible first date. Mr. Foot didn’t want to talk about ANYTHING but my feet. How much can I really say about my feet? They’re feet for christ’s sake! Generally, I’m a pretty good conversationalist and I can draw out a conversation. But not this time. Two martinis down and 30 minutes in, I realize this is not the date that I wanted. So I switched gears.

Upon sipping my third martini and feeling the liquid courage warming me up, I said coyly to Mr. Foot

You know, I’m wearing boots because I don’t show toe on the first date.

Mr. Foot nodded solemnly, taking this not as a joke, but as a serious statement about the sacredness of my feet. To this guy, seeing my toes was tantamount to me shaking my boobs in his face. And of course no one in their right mind would do that in a bar on their first date…

Except that I was drunk and bored, so upon seeing his response I exclaimed:

BUT I WILL FOR YOU!

And took of my boots and plopped my feet down in his lap.

To describe what happened next… well, upon receiving my pantyhosed feet Mr. Foot let out a giant (I mean GIANT) sigh.

UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Whatever pithy conversation had occurred prior, was now over. No talking. Mr. Foot moaning and a foot massage (plus showtunes) were the only things happening.

It was a fantastic foot massage. I turned down Mr. Foot’s offer to “go back to my place and kiss my toes through my pantyhose” but I thoroughly enjoyed my foot massage. And when my drink was done, and it became apparent that Mr. Foot only wanted me for my feet, I extricated them from his lap, put on my boots and wished him a lovely evening.

And that, my friends, was the foot fetishist.

Regarding the foot fetishist

Nice to meet you; and could you please stop touching my breasts?

With the arrival of Pride Weekend this year I was planning on writing a post looking back at my shenanigans during Pride 08.  Last year I was helping out Derek’s Two Spirit’s LGBT Native American Group during pride.  This year, with Derek out of town, I had no such duties and was planning a relatively low-key weekend.

That was until last night.

But before I get to that, let’s take a walk down memory lane…

Pride 2008

As I mentioned, last year I was helping out Derek’s LGBT group for the Pride Parade.  One of their members (the busty lady with the red hair– no not me, the other busty redhead) was crowned something like, “best Charo drag queen look-a-like” or something like that (honestly I don’t see the resemblance), and with such an honor they had a special position in the parade, next to the grand marshall’s car.  I was called on to be a safety monitor.
So the Friday before the Parade, I was required to attend a special safety monitor class.  They explained what to do if someone got drunk and fell down, how to handle crazy gays running through the parade with used syringes and that we should not touch anything “wet”.  Basically, assume everyone at Pride has AIDS and is trying to give it to you.

While at the training I was sitting next to an older gay gentleman, and began chatting with him about his life and at some point just asked completely innocuously if he’d ever been with a woman. (Honestly, don’t ask me why I went there.  I was on a roll I guess).  Well he seemed to misunderstand my statement and thought I was propositioning him for sex, at which point he responded,

Well she’d have to be positive.  I can’t be with something whose not positive.

To which I reply:

Well I only like to surround myself with positive people.  Why would you want to hang around any kind of negativity?

This man looks at me, like the idiot that I am and replies,

HIV positive

Oh.  So yeah.  My bad.

Anyhow, I end up leaving the training session and meet up with Derek’s husband, Lucius, who is on his way to a Native American talent show that Derek is running at the LGBT center.  I agree to go, but we both realize that every event Derek’s group puts on is an unmitigated disaster and we can’t show up  without have a drink.  And that’s where things go horribly wrong.

We stop in at Martunis, and in the course of… oh I dunno, in 20 minutes? have 2 martinis each.  With no food.  So I, in short, am a complete mess, and with that head across the street to the LGBT center.

When we arrive, they have  buffet set out of all kinds of middle eastern food, to which I grab a plate and begin slopping enormous amount of food onto my plate.  Like a crazy woman.  The MC of the event is the “Charo sortof look-a-like” who I am in awe of.  The event begins with some person getting on stage to sing, but the cassette tape they brought to play the accompanying music doesn’t work, or the sound system is broken or no one bothered to put batteries in it.  Who knows.  In any case, it’s not a good situation.

I get distracted and end up striking up a conversation with a very peculiarly dressed black man who has made his way into the event and has on fatigues and a giant (I mean GIANT) rimmed hat with mesh and grass coming off of it and dangling about his shoulders. (Sidenote:  about three months later I saw this guy dancing in circles in a very expensive looking superman costume waiting for the bus at Haight and Fillmore).  If I didn’t know better I would have thought he had just come back from fighting in Vietnam.  I quickly assess that he is completely insane, and in fact, homeless.

The first act finally ends, and the Charo look-a-like comes back to introduce the next act.  I however, am enthralled by her total fabulousness, and before she can continue, I scream out from the back of the room,

You have amazing styrofoam nipples!

It was only a couple minutes later that Derek found me, escorted me outside the room and asked me to go find him a diet coke at a store 10 blocks away.  Obviously that was my cue to leave (but not before I found a table filled with condoms and stuffed fistfulls into my pockets, Chrome bag, pants, hoodie, etc etc).

Sunday came, I walked in the parade, monitored for safety and all was good.

End of story, right?

Pride 2009

So this Friday before Pride was much different.  I spent the evening being treated to a 90 minute full body massage and made my way through Dolores Park and towards home where I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner and a movie.  No Pride preparation, no gays in town, no plans to even attend the Parade on Sunday.  Just a nice, relaxing weekend.

As the night winded down, I found myself at home around midnight and tucked myself into bed, looking forward to a very relaxing morning of sleeping in.

Off to sleep I go.

Several hours later (4:30am to be exact), I hear the creak of my bedroom door open.  Someone is in my bedroom.

“Arwen” I call out, assuming it’s my roommate who has something to tell me.  What do I know?  I had been completely asleep and wasn’t really processing what was happening.

“Yes,” she responds.  And gets into bed with me.

So imagine my state of mind.  I am not awake and my roommate gets into bed with me.  This is kindof weird I think, but maybe something happened or there was an accident and she had to talk to me.

And then I realize the woman in bed with me is completely nude and is trying to cuddle with me.

Alright…  so I turn around in bed and look at her to see what the heck is going on, and I am so incredibly exhausted that I can’t even tell if I’m looking at Arwen or not.  And so I keep staring at her, trying to remember Arwen’s features and voice all while attempting to understand why her hand is on my breast.  I realize this is a straight guy’s wet dream come true, but I am beyond confused.

As I continue to gaze at her, trying to wrack my brain and understand whose face I am looking at, she begins to ask frantically, “Are you OK, Are you OK, Are you OK, Are you OK, ARE YOU OK, ARE YOU OK”, over and over and over, the stale smell of alcohol on her breathe.  And I say that yes I am OK.

I am just too asleep and too confused to figure this out.

So I close my eyes and think about it and finally begin to wake up and realize this makes ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING SENSE.  And that, in fact, this can’t be Arwen.  This has to be someone else.

So I begin to calmly ask her about herself:  What’s you name?  How much have you had to drink?  What drugs have you taken? Where were you last sleeping?  She responds to all my questions, though her answers don’t make any sense really, other than learning her name.

I get out of bed, throw on my robe (because yes, I too was completely naked) and begin walking around the apartment trying to understand where she came from.

Finally I realize that Arwen was going to have a friend staying with us over the weekend and this girl must be her friend.  I wake Arwen, who upon learning what’s happened is beyond embarrassed for her friend and we begin to try to rouse the girl from my bed.  She doesn’t want to leave and when we finally cajole her from my sheets, she tries to carry them with her.  A moment of clarity finally overcomes her and she says, “I’m so sorry”, and extends her hand as if to greet me.

I shake her hand and reply, “It’s nice to meet you too; you better get some rest.”

And that, my friends, has turned my completely innocuous Pride 09 into one of the strangest and most hilarity filled events of the weekend.

Nice to meet you; and could you please stop touching my breasts?

How to fail at pole dancing

So yeah, pole dancing FAIL.  Let me give you a breakdown of the situation.  A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine had organized a bunch of us ladies to go to take some pole dancing classes at the S Factor in the Marina.

Sure, pole dancing sounds like fun, and why not add more sexy dances to my repetoire, but there were a couple red flags:

1.  What in the name of christ is an S Factor?  I honestly don’t know.  All I know is this screams marketing lame-o talk and I can spot it a mile away.

2.  The class was held in the Marina.  Say no more.

Ok, so despite my skepticism about the location and the way they’ve branded this place, I brave the throngs of douchbags on the 22 to get there (they were in overabundance today as it’s also the SF douchebag fair Union Street Fair).  But seriously, this should be fun, right?  Me and a bunch of friends… how could this go wrong?

Well let me tell you.

So we get all set up and sign a 6 page release form (I may have handed over an unborn child.  Honestly it was ridiculous) and enter into a dimly lit room with a couple lights at either end, draped in red sheer fabric, two stripper poles in the center and a bunch of yoga mats lying about.

Our instructor, an extremely exhuberant woman enters the room with literally 200+ pounds of sass to throw about and begins to tell us that this is a place of love and acceptance.  We are all beautiful woman (blah blah blah) and there are no judgements here.  There are no mirrors, as well.  So far, I’m ok with this woman.  I like that she’s not a skinny bitch, I like that she’s got some personality and while I’m not big on the whole woman empowerment “you are a blossoming beam of light in the world” thing (which generally rings phoney to me), whatever.  I can deal.

So before we get stripper poling, or whatever it is we’re supposed to do, she asks if anyone has injuries.  Of course on the tome of paperwork I’d signed prior I did mention that I have achilles tendonitis due to a past life as a somewhat overzealous tennis player:

So I mention this, and my friend Hadessa mentions some rather serious issues she has with her knee caps just randomly popping out of place.

And with that out of the way we begin.  The lights are dimmed even further to the point where I can barely see anything and we are instructed to close our eyes (because we don’t want to judge the other woman as they warm up or work out — seriously??) and for the next 45 minutes are, literally, blindly instructed on a variety of stretching and pilates moves.

Red Flag #1: There are a lot of wrong ways to stretch and do pilates.  Not looking at the instructor is the absolute HEIGHT OF STUPIDITY.  To suggest that I have to close my eyes to do these exercises because I might judge or be judged by the other women there further emphasizes how shallow this whole “women empowerment b.s” really is.  I don’t need to close my eyes to be supportive or feel supported by other women.  Honestly, this is dangerous and very poor form.

So after our 45 minutes of blindly and presumably improperly stretching to phrases such as:

Clear your mind, open your arms and let them flow around your body the same way a fisherman casts his net into the deep blue lake of your soul.

WHAT?  What kind of stretch is that?  What does it mean?

And, my personal favorite:

Feel your vagina with your hands as you lie down and let your hands slowly caress your body as you move from the birthplace of the goddess to fondle your breasts.

Honestly it felt like a group masturbation circle.  Especially when in this process we were instructed to lie on our sides, rub our asses and on the count of three spank ourselves. Honestly, I can’t make this shit up (and no, in case some of you are wondering, the class isn’t open to men).

So finally after all this stretching we’re ready for some sexy moves.  We start learning some move to make us pounce like a cat.  The instructor mentions that we should use this to distract our boyfriends when they’re watching football (which, incidentally, if I ever do date someone that watches football and isn’t naturally distracted by my sexual prowess, please shoot me).  So we practice this move for a bit and then go onto sexy walking, which is kindof like coordinated drunk walking, slinking one foot in front of the other while thrusting our hips to and fro.

But there’s a problem, Hadessa’s knees are in pain from the 45 minutes of improper stretching and then overexerting herself while doing the cat move “entice your p.o.s. football watching boyfriend” thing.  So she moves to the side of the room and takes a break.  At which point, 200 pounds of sass comes walking up to ask her why she’s not doing the sexy drunk walk.  Hadessa explains that she’s in pain and need a break to which ‘sassy’ responds:

There are no breaks in this class.  If you’re not going to participate you have to leave the room.

So Hadessa gets kicked out.

Shortly thereafter, we are taught how to swing around the poll.  This move is dependent on placing all your weight on one ankle as you slither down the pole.  Immediately another red flag goes off.  I spent a month in physical therapy trying to un-fuck my achilles tendonitis two years ago and have no desire for a flare up.  But I give it a shot and sure enough the pain returns.  I tell the teacher I can’t do that again and she shrugs it off and says I should just try on the other ankle.

But I can’t.  See achilles tendonitis is recurring and can be debilitating.  So I leave, unprompted by the teacher, though feeling dejected and certain she’ll kick me out when she realizes that I won’t risk injuring the one ankle that isn’t in pain.

I walk outside and see Hadessa, who looks like she’s just been punched in the face and she immediately starts crying.  We leave, but not before I read the manager the riot act and get us a refund.

I wish there was a happy ending to this story; I did find the moves, the new age hypocrisy and the personal molestation rather amusing.  I just wish we could’ve ended the class actually feeling accepted for who we are and not on such a low note.

At the very least I’ve learned how to slink around the floor like a sex kitten and I’m sure one of these days that’ll come in rather handy.

How to fail at pole dancing

The Prank: Part Deux

{This story has been sitting in my queue, nearly finished, for four months.  I’m FINALLY pushing it out there!}

From February 2009:

Would you believe that the gays left me in charge of their cats AGAIN on their most recent trip out of town? I thought after the last incident they would have banned me from entering hearth and home in their absence.

I overestimated them.

Before I explain the prank itself,  I need to take a bit a detour in the story to round things out.  You see, the gays have this completely bizarre homemade poster in their bedroom called, “The Race to the Cock”.  It is comprised of various magazine cutouts of naked, fully erect men, on some sort of shoots and ladders type path… to the cock.  Perhaps the most disturbing element of this poster is that in the middle there are the faces of Sally Struthers and Rue McLanahan.  Honestly I don’t know how to explain it.  It’s just WEIRD and kindof looks like this:

iweb22

(that diagram, btw, was so traumatic for me to actually sketch out,  that I think my computer may be trying to file a battered spouse suit with the SFPD)

//backstory complete

So there I found myself, taking care of the cats, Dotty and Rhubarb, and planning my next prank.  I knew they’d be expecting to come home and find something altered in the house, so I had to up the ante.

I enlisted my roommate extraordinaire, Arwen, who enthusiastically agreed to take some rather humorous photos of us in their bed and create a more feminine poster for them,  because CLEARLY we had to bring some balance into the penix-overload.

roll-302

Now I do imagine you could speculate about what kinds of photos we took, but I can assure they were all (kindof) tasteful and left EVERYTHING to the imagination… because you know, gay men are positively terrified of a naked woman.  (Well there is one involving our heads cut out and replaced with monkey stickers with “monkey” Arwen pointing to her nipple.  But that’s the only bad one.  Really.)

And so with the help of Arwen’s gay, Mike, we got to work taking those pictures and left the apartment exactly as it appeared when we entered.  No sign of the prank to be found.

A couple days later, Derek and Lucius came back into town and called to take me out to dinner for all my troubles.  So off I went to meet them later that evening at their apartment.  From there we headed out to dinner a couple blocks away at Borobudur.

Once we got seated, Derek asked my for the keys.  I responded:

Crap!  Would you believe I’d forgotten the keys to the apartment at my house?  Fortunately I remembered to call Arwen on my way over and she’ll bring them along and meet us for dinner.

Of course little did he know that Arwen had actually come with me to their hood, and was crouched outside their apartment between two cars holding the giant posterboard of our nudie photos while she waited for the three of us to go to dinner.

Arwen met us for dinner and things proceeded exactly according to schedule.  We invited ourselves over for a nightcap and the reveal finally took place.

The reveal brought much hilarity and shock from both Derek and Lucius who then mentioned how disappointed they were when they’d arrived home from vacation and realized I did NOTHING unusual to their place (they’ve taken to tearing the house apart now that they know I like to play pranks on them when they’re away).  Little did they know that the poster was not the only thing we’d left behind for them…

Revisiting this story (May 2009):

It’s been nearly four months since we executed this prank and there have been a number of developments.

1. Back in March Derek was on a flight back from D.C. and opened up his book, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, to see a nudie photo of us come flying out from between the pages and into the lap of the elderly man sitting next to him.  Yeah, we made wallet sized photos and littered them through their books.

2.  About a month ago I received a call that they were “dusting” the inside cases of their DVD porn collection and happened to uncover another photo of us inside the celebrated film, “28 Gays Later”.

3. The poster we’d created has been moved from their bedroom into the closet, where Derek is forcing his gay brother to sleep for the 7 weeks that he’s visiting SF.  You heard me.  The gay brother is being forced back into the closet, with pictures of naked women, for 7 weeks.

It’s the gift that just on keeps giving.

The Prank: Part Deux

On meeting Tiny Jesus…

(From December 2007)

You’ve probably never heard of Tiny Jesus.

I hadn’t.

Mytinyjesus.com is this site that aggregates tweets and spits them out from a tiny jesus statue.  Like this:

 

my-tiny-jesus-saviour-20

As most people know, I’m endlessly intrigued by crazy, random shit so in that spirit, I decided to send tiny jesus and e-mail. Here’s what I wrote:

“Look for the Jeebus hands”

(and if you’re wondering what the Jeebus hands are, this is a Simpson’s reference)

I pressed send, and forgot all about it.  And then a couple days later I got a response.  Here’s what he wrote:

Dear Laura,

The Jebus hands are hidden in an old salt mine south of border,
guarded by a cranky norwegian blacksmith and his dog, Max. I hope
this secret is safe with you.

Your lucky number is 7.

Your invisible pal,
Tiny Jesus

OMG. Tiny Jesus is the man… and has left me totally intrigued.  So I wrote back:

Tiny Jesus,

You intrigue me.

Your host.
So perfect and round.
Hits my tongue.
And melts.
Into me.
Onto me.
And in my intestines.

Click edit, to answer your questions.
Call me, biznatch

Thinking that was the end of that. But no. A couple days later, Tiny Jesus responded. That dirty bastard, here’s what he had to say:

Dear Laura,

Bless my holy soul if that’s not the most erotic poem about wafers that I have ever read (and believe me, it’s a genre of which I consider myself to be a connoisseur). I can only respond in kind, answering poetry with poetry. Or, to quote my favourite angel up here, “Eat haiku, tiny human”

Sweet baby marmots
dance, wide blue eyes laugh. For fun,
hit them with a stick

Your lucky number remains 7.

Your invisible pal,
Tiny Jesus

Tiny Jesus is one sick man. But I’m into that.  My last letter to tiny jesus:

Dear Tiny Jesus,

I’m aroused by your mastery of haiku, and your in rambling non-sequitors. I now understand how you swayed the masses and all I can say is:

Turn your water into wine.
And fill me.
With your alcoholic rage.

Bring your marmots
to my shore
And beach them
on my milky love moons.

WWJD?

Call me, Tiny, call me.

Well Tiny didn’t call.  So I got down to business and found out who the domain mytinyjesus.com was registered to.  That led me to the man behind Tiny, and possibly one of the funniest twitterers around:

@gilfer

I haven’t heard from Tiny now in over a year now, but I do have the pleasure of reading his creator’s mumblings, grumblings and hilarious rantings which is more than I could ever have asked for.

On meeting Tiny Jesus…