At the flea market on Sunday, the Mexican vendor offered me Tamarind as a Sno-Cone flavor. I declined, instead choosing Red flavor, but did buy this Tamarind soda at Walmart. It tastes pretty good, kind of a more tart ginger ale…way better than that nasty Kombucha I recently tried, for the first and last time. Also, Jeff Foxworthy’s Grits Chips sadly taste like old unsalted Fritos.
atlanta, boutique grocery stores, business model, Central Avenue St. Petersburg, culture, different, foodie, funny, gay, humor, LGBT, love, perspective, point of view, salted caramels, sesame sticks, St. Petersburg, tampa, Tampa Bay, Trader Joe's
Trader Joe’s are small, quirky, eclectic, high quality, different, expensive, and only a certain segment of people like them…I am Trader Joe’s! I am addicted to their Sesame Sticks, and on this day my purchases included Salted Caramels, Garlic Fries & Speculoos Crispy Caramel Cinnamon cookies…I remain the gay Central Avenue junk food foodie.
atlanta, dating, depression, different, gay, LGBT, loneliness, love, perspective, point of view, queer, quotes, relationships, sadness, sex, St. Petersburg, tampa, Tampa Bay, the Good Earth -Pearl S. Buck.
“The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration. ”
― Pearl S. Buck
My dear friend Carmen has a beautiful 3 year-old grandchild named Chloe, who is cute as a button. Too bad she might be a cute little alien baby, as witnessed by the webbing between the 2nd and 3rd toes on her cute little alien feet!!!
authors, Ben Ryder Howe, book reviews, books, Brooklyn, culture, different, fiction, Gowanus canal, humor, inspirational, john jernigan, Korean, My Korean Deli, New York, non-fiction, opinion, Paris Review, perspective, point of view
I loved the nomenclature of this book, and getting to use the word nomenclature…the author(a senior editor for the Paris Review) and his wife (lawyer) buy a Brooklyn bodega for his hardcore, traditional, no-nonsense Korean mother-in-law. He ends up working there 4-5 nights a week, blocks from the projects and the polluted Gowanus canal.
“Howe and his relatives do spend an awful lot of time failing. The store makes less money than expected even as it is hit with massive tax bills; vendors and deliverymen screw over the new owners, leaving cartons of unwanted products on the floor of the store and then invoicing later. The city also tries to confiscate the deli’s refrigerators and nails Howe for selling tobacco to a minor. Howe’s evocation of the financial knife-edge on which he finds himself is so convincing that even if you step away from the book and go out into the world, you’ll still thrum with low-level panic.”
It’s a Thursday night, I am sharing some time with a gentleman admirer at his palatial estate on the water. We are in the throes of passion, passion of a nature so torrid and exhilarating, passion that only I am capable of inciting in men…it’s on and crackin’, until my friend looks up at me and says “Oh my God, you’re spurting blood!” I look down, and indeed my penis is bleeding profusely. WTF? How did this happen? The answer is right there in front of me, on this gentleman’s leg: his insulin pump has come undone and the needle has apparently sliced through the underside of my…my manhood? I jump up and head to the bathroom…blood, blood drips, drips on the ultra chic and assumably uber expensive carpet. I jump in the shower, leaving a trail of bright red droplets in my wake. My friend only has these super nice huge monogrammed towels, white of course with his initials. I ruin a couple of them along the way, blood blotting you know…
I made a joke that I thought was funny “Lucky for you it’s me bleeding all over you and not some *Corner Pocket hustler* you picked up” but my friend was not amused. We staunched the bleeding, the cut wasn’t real deep, and since we had not yet finished what was started…like countless women who have agreed/given in/acquiesced to sex with horny men at that special time of the month, I laid down two of those already bloodied monogrammed towels and 3 minutes later we was done, ya heard? If it’s a race like that, winning…Post climax, we agreed we weren’t into any kind of blood or vampire gay fetish bullshit either, ok? My only concern now is in consideration of men, all men. Before this vicious baby slice, I had the prettiest penis in North America, dozens of men can testify to that…now I got scar tissue and damage, will my dick still be the prettiest one at the ball(s)? I’ll just have to expose myself around Florida (again!) and see what the men say…I’ll tell you this though, I am NOT going back to prison…1 strike, 2 strikes: no more for me!
*My friend says he has never even been in the Corner Pocket, he vehemently,vehemently denied all that*
alternate title: It’s You Baby
My paternal side of the family are of Irish ancestry, black Irish. My maternal side is a hodge-podge, German, Italian, French…and Romani, Roma, the people. I’m looking back on some of my life choices and wondering if I can blame the mistakes on my gypsy roots. I have caravaned my way through life for 23 years now, moving on, giving up, starting fresh…however I want to spin it. At 17, I moved to Pensacola, FL, then Birmingham, AL, Jacksonville, AL, Alpine, AL, Atlanta, Birmingham, Pensacola, Orlando, Pensacola, Oakland, CA, New Orleans, Birmingham, Pensacola…and now Fort Lauderdale. Four months later, I’m trying to talk myself into moving back to Birmingham, there might be a man there, cost of living is low, I could possibly swing a mortgage, it actually gets cold…WTF?
Take a good look at yourself, John: It’s You Baby! Until I find myself and figure out how to be happy with me, I’m not gonna be able to settle down and live happily ever after, ever…with someone else or alone. I’m in arguably the gayest nomenclature in the U.S., certainly in the southern states. I have a good…uhh fair…uhh paying job, I’m healthy, I have some degrees and education, there are literally thousands of middle-aged gay men lurking everywhere ’round here…I need to make this work, I can make this work, people like me, I’m special (good special)… I’m all yours Fort Lauderdale, help me get back to being happy and gay! well happy anyways…
My Granny, Sara Caldwell
Never was much of a romantic,
I could never take the intimacy
And I know I did damage,
’cause the look in your eyes is killing me,
I guess you’ve got another advantage
’cause you could blame me for everything.
And I don’t know how I’m a manage,
If one day you just up and leave…
My plan for the holiday weekend was to file my taxes at the Jackson Hewitt cubicle at the Pompano Walmarks and get paid $$$. Sadly, my last employer Lakeview smugly informed me that they had not even started sending W-2’s out, and here I’ve been running home to check my mail everyday!
Let me assess my situation, things are lookin’ kinda ignorant:
1. Spent $80 in Walmarks on groceries, checking account balance is -$37.00 as I miscalculated my money and Regions said please give us $36 for overdraft now, those hateful bastards
2. Car insurance just switched over to Broward from Escambia, was $70 a month, now $168. That went on my poor credit card, I do have remaining credit though…the card limit is $750…I have charged only $748.11 🙂
3. I went to my second job (Irish work ethic) but was not allowed to sell my plasma as Fatima checked and re-checked my blood pressure: 140/110 and 138/108, lower # has to be below 100.
4. I’m in something of a pickle, 1/4 tank of gas, 2 hampers of dirty clothes that need the laundromat ($18 right there)…
I could’t even ask him out on a date if I did discover Mr. Right on the interweb or out walking the dogs or at the library (not that there’s much of chance of that happenin’ anyways) and while I obviously wouldn’t want to pay for dinner I like offering to pay, I’m not the guy that turns a blind eye or runs to the restroom when the bill comes.
So it appears me and my bitches are going all reclusive this holiday, just chillin’ at the crib, watch my Ravens & Patriots, walk to the library or to the basketball courts in Riverland or Shady Banks maybe…maybe Mr. Right will be cruising around in his silver Range Rover and discover this talent…or it’s equally possible that I’ll get robbed walking around downtown or out Davie Blvd. I lead a wild, dangerous and horribly unfulfillingly life, what can I say? 3rd ward Magnolia ya heard
I have highlighted some stuff in pink, to make me feel more better…my Granny and my bus driver always said I was real special
Portrait of an INFJ – Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging
(Introverted Intuition with Extraverted Feeling)
As an INFJ, your primary mode of living is focused internally, where you take things in primarily via intuition. Your secondary mode is external, where you deal with things according to how you feel about them, or how they fit with your personal value system.
INFJs are gentle, caring, complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and creative, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. Only one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the most rare of all the types.
INFJs operate within themselves on an intuitive basis which is entirely spontaneous. They know things intuitively, without being able to pinpoint why, and without detailed knowledge of the subject at hand. They are usually right, and they usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put a tremendous amount of faith into their instincts and intuitions. This is something of a conflict between the inner and outer worlds, and may result in the INFJ not being as organized as other Judging types tend to be. Or we may see some signs of disarray in an otherwise orderly tendency, such as a consistently messy desk.
INFJs have uncanny insight into people and situations. They get “feelings” about things and intuitively understand them. As an extreme example, some INFJs report experiences of a psychic nature, such as getting strong feelings about there being a problem with a loved one, and discovering later that they were in a car accident. This is the sort of thing that other types may scorn and scoff at, and the INFJ themself does not really understand their intuition at a level which can be verbalized. Consequently, most INFJs are protective of their inner selves, sharing only what they choose to share when they choose to share it. They are deep, complex individuals, who are quite private and typically difficult to understand. INFJs hold back part of themselves, and can be secretive.
But the INFJ is as genuinely warm as they are complex. INFJs hold a special place in the heart of people who they are close to, who are able to see their special gifts and depth of caring. INFJs are concerned for people’s feelings, and try to be gentle to avoid hurting anyone. They are very sensitive to conflict, and cannot tolerate it very well. Situations which are charged with conflict may drive the normally peaceful INFJ into a state of agitation or charged anger. They may tend to internalize conflict into their bodies, and experience health problems when under a lot of stress.
Because the INFJ has such strong intuitive capabilities, they trust their own instincts above all else. This may result in an INFJ stubborness and tendency to ignore other people’s opinions. They believe that they’re right. On the other hand, INFJ is a perfectionist who doubts that they are living up to their full potential. INFJs are rarely at complete peace with themselves – there’s always something else they should be doing to improve themselves and the world around them. They believe in constant growth, and don’t often take time to revel in their accomplishments. They have strong value systems, and need to live their lives in accordance with what they feel is right. In deference to the Feeling aspect of their personalities, INFJs are in some ways gentle and easy going. Conversely, they have very high expectations of themselves, and frequently of their families. They don’t believe in compromising their ideals.
INFJ is a natural nurturer; patient, devoted and protective. They make loving parents and usually have strong bonds with their offspring. They have high expectations of their children, and push them to be the best that they can be. This can sometimes manifest itself in the INFJ being hard-nosed and stubborn. But generally, children of an INFJ get devoted and sincere parental guidance, combined with deep caring.
In the workplace, the INFJ usually shows up in areas where they can be creative and somewhat independent. They have a natural affinity for art, and many excel in the sciences, where they make use of their intuition. INFJs can also be found in service-oriented professions. They are not good at dealing with minutia or very detailed tasks. The INFJ will either avoid such things, or else go to the other extreme and become enveloped in the details to the extent that they can no longer see the big picture. An INFJ who has gone the route of becoming meticulous about details may be highly critical of other individuals who are not.
The INFJ individual is gifted in ways that other types are not. Life is not necessarily easy for the INFJ, but they are capable of great depth of feeling and personal achievement.
Let’s see…I only like older men…I really like nerds…Jim Parsons is younger than me, but is smokin’ hot with his pale skin, unathletic body and nasally voice…nerd love wins, I heart Jim Parsons
adam4adam, and 1, basketball, boston terrier, dating, different, french bulldog, gay, gay fort lauderdale, humor, john jernigan, kevin mckidd, LGBT, manhunt, Miami, perspective, point of view, Ray Allen, sex, south Florida, Stephen Curry, Steve Kerr, The Daily Home, the professor, tres leches, Winterboro
I would have preferred to have used one of my better basketball pics. I actually had a few good game pics from high school, from my yearbooks, and one really awesome church league shot that I laminated, that made the Talladega Daily Home…but no, all those were lost during one of our evictions…thanks mom!
When I was still living in Pensacola I perused the “dating” websites in Fort Lauderdale and Tampa and Miami, using them to help me decide where I wanted to move. In Fort Lauderdale, I found this one guy *Mark’s * pic and profile on a couple of sights…and he was (and is) adorable…to me anyway. 5’9 dark-blonde/copper red hair, glasses, slightly nerdy in a good way…picture a 50-ish Kevin McKidd with a slightly sharper nose, aww so cute…
When I got to south Florida and settled in, I quite naturally contacted *Mark via the interweb and asked him out on a date…wait, that’s not right. I might have tried to hook up in a moment of weakness, I was lonely okay? but I was ignored.
Four months pass, and I am online doing some educational research and whatnot and I come across his little smiling-face profile again…and he’s online…it’s about 1 a.m. (what can I say, I have a thirst for knowledge).
So we message back and forth and I make my grand exit, leaving him my email address and blog link and telling him I didn’t want to just sleep with him, I wanted a real date, ya heard?
So *Mark never contacts me to take me somewhere nice like Olive Garden or the Red Lobsters. Yesterday I logged into the two “dating” sites where his profile lurks and left this message:
Hey *Mark…I remember checking out your profile when I lived in New Orleans & Pensacola…and I remember messaging with you late night about a month ago, either here or a4a? I just knew you were going to email me and arrange a date, but nothin’ happened…let me give you my info again, see if something jumps off…my email is email@example.com John Jernigan my blog is johnjernigan.wordpress.com – I play ball at Hortt Park, in Shady Banks…I will be there around 11 a.m. tomorrow (Saturday) if you wanted to come check me out, play or be my cheerleader…or if you propose a meet somewhere else I’m up for that as well…holler back
So I get up this morning, take the dogs, walk them around the park, harness them to a tree, and start ballin.’ I am of course looking for Mark everywhere and I’m confident he will be there…and he is. He is sitting with a woman across the park, past the playground, on some benches. Smart move, if he wasn’t going to play ball, bringing a fig bag I’ll call her, a security blanket, is something I might have done myself. Even though my insecurity is screaming at me to put my shirt back on because I’m too fat and pale and old, I persevere, off comes the shirt, and I’m ballin’, the Professor ya heard? ** even though I only look like the Professor when I am about 20 pounds lighter than my current 150**
A group of men have just finished softball practice on the field next to us, there are 3 or 4 tween skate kids wanting to play, so I quickly divide us up and it’s crackin.’ Admittedly I am at my best, uhh I seem to do exceptionally well against inferior competition, but sucks to be them then cause today I’m trying to impress my future husband * Mark. My shot is straight money…Swish Steph Curry…Zing Ray Allen…Pop my ex-bf Steve Kerr. I am watching * Mark out of the corner of my eye the whole time and he’s not being real attentive, keeps talking to that ignorantwoman. I get loud and argue more than I would normally about Kobe’s rapin’ ass and the Lakers with the lone brother on the court, hoping * Mark will wake up and pay attention and notice how masculine and cool his future boyfriend is…but no, *Mark and the Fig go to the water fountain, then turn and geez, they are walking toward the courts. Game time. I run and grab my t-shirt and wipe my face, don’t want a shiny forehead. Wait a minute, * Mark and the Fig are holding hands! WTF!? They are like 50 yards away now…it’s not *Mark, this guy is taller and skinny and maybe 30 years old. I give them a dirty look as they walk past, they are so ignorant.
My picking-up-a-man showoff skills have dissipated. I don’t make another shot, and we soon lose. Dude asked if we wanna run another, but I say No, I’m out, I’m done. I collect my babies and leave. I stop at the Super Saver on Davie and buy a tres leches, and I eat it all as soon as I am on my bed. Well I have my two loyal, constant steady girlfriends anyway…even if they stink a little and need a bath. I curl up with Squeak nestled between my legs and Cricket on my stomach, and we fall asleep together…without *Mark.
*Mark is not his real name*
A stay-at-home father whose own father has just died, struggling in his career, possible infidelity of his wife, her success as a big-time attorney, their son an odd child who isn’t fitting in at school and is instead regressing back toward babyhood…this father is asking: Is this what life means? Is this all there is?
My name is Logan Pyle. My father is dead, my wife is indifferent, and my son is strange. I’m thirty-six years old. My life is nothing like I thought it would be.
The three of us plus one dog, Jerry, live in my childhood home, a sweet and sturdy Craftsman-style bungalow on a quiet block in a tree-lined section of a small Western city that was until the end of the last ice age the bed of a glacial lake. We sit at the confluence of three rivers, two of which — the Clark Fork and the Blackfoot — come together just east of town. A few miles downstream they receive a third, the Bitterroot, and the three persist across the Idaho panhandle and into the great Northwest as one. The scenery — the natural world in general — gets a lot of attention here. We’re ringed on all sides by mountains, and the sugar maples that line our streets turn outrageous shades of red and orange and gold every fall.
“Where’s the blue, Jules?” I shout in the direction of the stairs. “It’s a blue day, but I only see red. Julie,” I shout once more. A sudden pain clutches at my spine. “Fuck. Four is too big to be carried,” I tell Owen, depositing him a little roughly on the bed. Right away, his thumb is in his mouth.
“You sure it’s blue?” asks Julie, rather dreamily, from downstairs.
“It’s the twentieth,” I shout back. “Odd, red, even, blue.”
“Four and three-quarters,” he says, showing me the fingers of his free hand.
“Exactly my point. Now come on. Take that thumb out and help me look.”
He frowns. “I don’t want to.”
“Julie,” I shout again. I give up on the top drawer and start in on the middle. “Sometimes in life we have to do things we don’t want to do,” I tell Owen. “It builds character.”
“What’s character?” he asks, around the thumb.
“Pardon? I can’t understand you with that thumb in the way.”
He takes the thumb out and says, “What’s character?” then pops it right back in. Flipping over, he buries his face in the pillow and sticks his rear end in the air.
“Sit up like a big kid, please,” I say.
He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. “Shh. Baby sleeping.”
“Christ, Owen, now? We have to go.”
“Baby sleeping,” he says again. I sit down next to him and rest my hand on his rump.
He’s been carrying on this way for weeks now — “regressing,” according to one or another of the myriad parenting books Julie’s perpetually reading half of, then quoting to me. Besides the thumb, he’s gone back to the bottle and climbing into our bed in the middle of the night, and he even insists on wearing a diaper some days under his pants. And now and then he’ll slip into an odd, German-sounding baby talk it pains me to hear. Julie insists it’s normal, or at least common — “‘a phase many children experience,’” she read aloud to me last week, while we were getting ready for bed. “‘It’s incumbent that the parents of the distressed child recognize his or her behavior as expressing a critical emotional need and react accordingly,’” she said, laying the book down. “What that means is that we have to act like whatever Owen does is okay.”
I have about 20 of my mother’s journals , her diaries I guess I’ll call them…lots of cringingly-bad life choices and social ineptitude. They’re a frickin’ goldmine. I’m contemplating adding a little Linda Jernigan adventure at the end of each of my short stories that I’m trying to get published. My mother was fired from EVERY job she ever had, we had some evictions for hoarding and whatnot, my credit was ruined by my sophomore year of high school…
My mother has a Master’s in music and when I was young she taught first grade, then music, then teacher’s aide, then Head Start, then daycare, then she was a nanny…then disability. A steady downhill slide professionally…
Here is one of her journal entries, from when she was working at a Head Start program in Talladega, verbatim:
“Dontarious and Kimani were soo wild again today! They were running everywhere and Dontarious was grunting and kept saying he was a little pig! I told him he was acting like a little pig! Ms.Carmen took a way too long break after lunch and left me all alone with the kids, knowing how bad they are and that they won’t listen. I think she did it on purpose! Dontarious would NOT listen to me so I scratched him on his arm with my fingernail. He cried a little bit but then he went and laid down for his nap. I told Ms.Carmen I had to scratch him when she came back. She looked at his arm and said he probably deserved it.”
Two subsequent journal entries note that Dontarious’ arm had gotten infected. My mother notes that she told him that “With as long as your arm has been infected, you will remember to not act bad with me anymore.” She was let go about two months later, and in her journal entry she is shocked and confused, has absolutely no idea why she was fired…scratchin’ and shakin’ babies, 45 days called in sick, asking parents to stay at school and “help” her watch the kids, wearing jogging suits with no bra to work, taking a $100 box of sausages from the lunchroom and promising she was going to pay for them next payday(when caught), eating the leftovers from the children’s lunches once they were full…those are only the things she “journaled” about. No one will ever know the true extent of her terrordome while responsible for those kids…but I think I have a pretty good idea.
I met someone online last week, this guy really intrigued me, I was interested, and he invited me over to his place. We both knew what time it was if I was taking a shower and popping over at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday, and that was the first mistake I made. Anyway, this guy (let’s call him BJ) has a nice place at Sunrise Harbor, only a bed for furniture as he has only been in town for two weeks. BJ lives in a rural southern state and rented this condo because Fort Lauderdale is undeniably the place to be all gay and whatnot. He plans to live between here and his home in xxxxx. Cut to the chase, we share a nice shower together and then some adult cuddling. I distinctly remember saying that it might have been a mistake to fool around so fast, since I am fully aware that an immediate physical relationship almost invariably leads to it being nothing more than that, never developing into anything deeper or meaningful. For me, I often have no interest in ever seeing the person again following a one-night stand. But with BJ I am still liking him post “cuddling.” He has excellent manners, he seems to be a gentleman and is cute, to me anyway. Kind of a generic Harvey Levin. He did talk about his ex-bf a lot, but then so did I. Pillow talk and whatnot, ya heard?
The only slight concern I had with this man was when he wouldn’t tell me what he did for a living, his profession. I had of course told ALL about myself, I am my favorite subject i.e. awesome social worker, altruistic, love da kids and dogs, almost published author, NBA-level talent, untested and unidentified Mensa-level genius, etc...He initially didn’t say anything, then “Oh just some business stuff.” Look asshole, I have cuddled with dozens of doctors and lawyers and one movie star and kissed one real famous singer and one somewhat famous writer, so your reluctance to share that you are a CPA or deli manager at Publix is not endearing. Following our shared time, I made my dramatic exit with BJ walking me out to where my car was parked at CVS. Everything looked good, we both had fun, we agreed to email and go on a date the upcoming weekend.
Thursday I emailed BJ and proposed maybe going to South Beach on Saturday, I knew a good Cuban restaurant on Washington, we could go see Les Miserables, whatever…
Ok, so I then appear to have made some errors. I did just pay my $1000 rent, I had a $400 vet bill for Cricket, paid my cable, power, cell-phone and credit card…I was headed into the weekend with about $20 in cash. Here is my email to dude:
Hi Mr BJ…that sounds good, if you’re up for it…nothing set in stone, whatever we want to do…I am on my hustle right now, going to work for an hour or two, then to the plasma center, then I’m meeting someone named Francisco here to sell him the second refrigerator that came with the rental (I’ll have to replace it ,when I move out) and then I’m good…this might be too forward, but since I already XXXX cuddled with you…:) could I possibly bring my laundry over to do? I have my own detergent…wow that sounds bad…and then maybe I could wash my clothes when we get back tonight, while we fool around? holler back John
Reasonable, right? I was only going to sell plasma so that I would have money to pay for the movie, or at least offer to pay for the movie…and it costs $20 to do my laundry at the laundromat…he has a washer/dryer, so…more green of me as well, global warming and whatnot
BJ’s almost immediate response:
Jphn, I am going to pass today on all that. I’ll catch up with you soon though. Thanks, Bob
Ain’t that a bitch…I wanted to prep him ahead of time that I was selling my bodily fluid, because when I leave the donation center my arm sometimes looks heroin-needle-addict-ish. I want to call BJ and remind him that I work 50 hours a week at my salaried job, that I’m all alone in Fort Lauderdale and have to be thrifty right now, that I never asked him for a goddamned thing except some companionship and hot water, and that he’s making a big mistake, huge. BJ, you just got to south Florida, so get on out there, test the market, see who you can see and do who you can do, it’s your world. Good luck, you’ll see
Note to self: You will continue to fail in finding a partner if you keep fishing in this polluted pool…the pool of older, uptight, conventional, safe, pedestrian daddy-types…they just ain’t never gonna get where you’re coming from…
culture, dating, dieting, different, fort lauderdale, french quarter, gay culture, gay fort lauderdale, gay man, hermaphrodite, humor, john jernigan, LGBT, maimi, new orleans, perspective, sex, south Florida, stupid men, Venus Shante Deviss, wilton manors
alternate title: Men are such stupid simple creatures
Let me start by saying I have only male parts, not a hermaphrodite…hundreds of men can attest to that. Maybe I don’t want to be a hermaphrodite per se, it’s just that men are so stupid and simple and visual and obvious…I envy the fact that a woman will take the time to get to know a man on a different level, scratch below the surface…hold off on having sex until there is actual emotion in play. The whole time I’ve been in Fort Lauderdale, I’ve been trying to show various men my great big pink pulsing throbbing…BRAINS, with absolutely no success. So if men are such base animals whose little brains only react to physical stimuli, then that’s what I’ll give ’em. My New Year’s resolution was to get back into fighting shape, to my ideal weight of 145 pounds, to have a 2-pack or at least a completely flat stomach. I’ve been in pretty good shape 4 or 5 times over the years, luckily it doesn’t take much to get me back there…mainly just physical activity and cutting back on the sugar (goodbye tres leches and dulce leches) and it’s all good. I’ve started playing pickup ball again and I’m walking the dogs every evening, so suck it dumb mens. I’ll lose my ten pounds, get all tan and toned, and be back in the high life again. That’s my hope for the New Year anyway…I feel like Carrie saying “Your girl is lovely Hubble.” Let me try to dumb down my intellect and tone up my body…I won’t want for admirers then, they just ain’t gonna be smart ones.
fat me 2011, fat me 2006, kinda skinny me 2010, real skinny me 2005 , skinny me & the world famous Venus Shante-Deviss 2003
Possibly the greatest show that a young gay man could ever want. Ahead of it’s time, so well-written, full of angst and awkwardness and first loves and first heartbreaks.