qwerty

liv asked, "what's that full, dark band on the other arm?"

I think you mean my typewriter.

I collect them, I display them, I clean them up, I use them, I give them to friends. I never pay more than $10 for one, because they're still everywhere, safely resting int heir little suitcases in thrift stores and flea markets. They almost always still work - they were made to take a beating, literally. You can still buy ribbon through Amazon or possibly even physical office supply stores.

This is fresh, of course, and better than it looks now with my Robin-Williams-like arm hair grown back over it, but I'm still a fan. If the blade and marker are my basic tools, the typewriter is an elegant machine, every piece clicking softly together to make language hold still long enough to carry meaning.

I have big arms. It made sense to get big ink. Here's pirate Hank, walking the Dog Island decks. Note PBR bottlecap done just inside the line of my farmer's tan.

I'd like to get another, still manual but newer, on my right arm. Balance, I like it. Finances being what they are, that will have to wait.

Plus, my next tattoo will be my knuckles. I've waited long enough.

drinking ink

In this photo you see the curtains I recently made (slightly different lengths), my gross couch, and two of my tattoos. By request, two stories.

On my right arm, a Sharpie marker and box cutter, crossed. The most basic tools of information dissemination. With those two things and any form of paper I can make a zine, cut a stencil, draw a poster. Plus, I have this thing for office supplies.

Between my collarbones, 'choose your own scars'. I got this one done after chest surgery, a comment on the Frankenstein scars that are slowly fading. They don't bother me, I just felt like they needed balancing and this would do it. One of my only tattoos that hurt like hell, mostly toward either end when it felt like they were halfway up my neck. Worth it. though. I get compliments on this one.

Man, my forehead looks big in this picture.

Pabst Blue Ribbon is union made

In the late 90s, in my early 20s, I lived in Atlanta. I didn't know how to drink yet. I mean, I knew how to put alcohol in my face, but I didn't know how to deal with myself on a regular basis in a bar. I drank a lot of rum and cokes back then, because it was something my parents drank and didn't seem ridiculous.

I kind of stand by that. I had good drinking instincts.

At five, my dad taught me how to order. I remember it clearly - I doubt he does. He was playing at a beach bar, and in the middle of the afternoon he stood me up on a bar stool and handed me a money.

"Don't yell for him. Look at the bartender and hold up your money, he'll come to you." He did, and I ordered a Shirley Temple, and I learned a skill that has stood me in good stead for 35 years.

So, 97 or 98. East Atlanta before that was a thing. A friend took me into a bar, stepped up, and said, "Two Pabsts please."

There are moments in my life that became forks. This was one of them.

You couldn't get PBR is many places then. Atlanta was a rockabilly town, and Pabst was part of the fun.

I remember the way that first Pabst tasted. Clean and dirty at the same time. Cold, a line to my gut. I don't know how many $1 tall boys I drank that night, but I was sold. Brand loyal, buddy, to this day. I literally just walked in from karaoke night, where I drank more than a reasonable number of them.

Have I showed you my tattoo?

taking requests

I feel like writing.

I dunno what to write about.

Questions? Requests?

Ask and be answered.

Here is a photo of my last cat, Baggy. Because why not.

40: the year of why the hell not

Shoog McDaniel, artist. Known for photographs of southern queers and feral kids, often in nature.

So, Friday afternoon, Shoog turned up at my house with their camera and we got in my car and headed out to my mom's place in the country. She'd been alerted as to plans and asked to make venison meatloaf and greeted us warmly. I gave the tour of the house, warned mama off the back porch, and shucked my tshirt and shorts. 

"Does everyone laugh when they take their clothes off?" I asked. Yes, they do. 

I stripped down to my skivvies and sat where Shoog told me to sit. Propped my arms behind my head or set my hands on my belly. Flashed all my ink. Talked about various fat rolls and how your body changes over time.

We wandered upstairs and took some on a bed. We hung out on the front porch off mama's bathroom. I watched cars speed by and never look over to realize I was out enjoying my skin.

"Does anyone ever not want to put their clothes back on after?" I asked. Yes, sometimes.

It's only for everyone else's sake that I ever wear more than what I had on that day (which I have on now). But there's so much gender and size and class mixed up in casual nudity. So I said to hell with it, and now I'm art. I've checked out my photos on Shoog's instagram, and the comments are flattering.

Oh, and mama's meatloaf was damn good, too. 

practicality

I have become shabby. For reasons both financial and cultural, I don't do much shopping. My shirts are either polos, all getting older and frayed at the edges, or tshirts with the word FESTIVAL on them. My pants are a pair of shorts (black) and a pair of jeans (second hand). I've got boots, but I wear converse.

I'm fat, and clothes fit me oddly. The state of my appearance needs to become someone's hobby, if only for the good of my trivia nights.

junk

Sometimes I want to write but I have no idea what to write about. Hey, I didn't do trivia today, but I promoted one night, answered a guy's questions about how it compares to Brain Bowl (favorably), and started the wheel in motion to create and host a queer-centered Sunday trivia.

My car didn't start! And then I ate lunch and held a baby and my car started again. I have no fucking clue, I am a car moron. I'm still carrying around a piece of rebar in case I need to bang on the starter again.

The weather's cooling off and it's about time to pick out a new hoodie for the winter. Traditional black? Something I screen print? Crying Breakfast Friends?

I've arranged to do sort of an odd thing this weekend, and if I don't lose my nerve I'll report back. The unexperienced life is not worth living.

Honey Kix are not honey enough. Add honey.

Florida Man in his natural habitat

hurricane season

Hell, Martha.

One week ago tonight, right?, I was sitting here waiting for the storm to hit and generally hoping I wouldn't lose power. Ha ha to that, motherfucker.

So yes, the storm hit, and yes, I am calling it Hermione like everyone else. And Johnny Karate and I lost power in the wee hours and had a very sweaty night.

The next day I got up and ran what errands I could. It was like some kind of dangerous holiday. I had to back up and get around downed wires and trees and yard furniture and all other manner of flotsam and jetsam. The Waffle Houses were open, mostly, but mostly just taking cash. No one I know had power. I wound up at the downtown restaurant where my buddy Bishop works. We drank cold sodas, talked about Harry Potter, and watched people walk by with a jaunty, end of the world attitude. I went home and read Harry Potter by flashlight and spent another sweaty night.

It went on like that for a couple days. All you talked about if you ran into someone was power and how much you missed it and maybe who else had it. Mama got it back quick, so some of my sisters and their kids posted up out there. I was glad, I don't like to think of all the kids fussy and hot and annoyed.

I played card games at El Patron, my local Mexican joint. I rode around town with Lindsey, sliding through pockets of deep darkness in the heart of the city. "Like Silent Hill," she said. I read another Harry Potter book. I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and was grateful that the water worked.

Monday morning around 3:30, I'd given up hope for the night and started to head to bed when everything clicked back into technicolor and I head the woosh of the AC. Praise be, y'all. Window unit, Hallelujah. I got lucky. Some folks still don't have it back. Plenty of people wound up with trees in their houses or on their cars. We live in a jungle, and the jungle don't give a fuck.

So, how've y'all been?