tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14510273690350198222024-03-05T11:36:19.495-05:00Salt On My TongueThat Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-31082540790813115962017-02-08T13:31:00.001-05:002017-02-08T13:31:31.329-05:00distracted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGLPxYuDws7SXalr9JUU2GSvIHf-hFrI07lFH9BYXUfCDi8-m9J3fMAQI9GZp8cAsDPNBvLiDkgbFeDlcNwaI2BEDJbJyDPz8XPit6fOkZ0TqKJIRfoSmHves44QT-NiWsjawL_jfG7U/s1600/rachandhankelpat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGLPxYuDws7SXalr9JUU2GSvIHf-hFrI07lFH9BYXUfCDi8-m9J3fMAQI9GZp8cAsDPNBvLiDkgbFeDlcNwaI2BEDJbJyDPz8XPit6fOkZ0TqKJIRfoSmHves44QT-NiWsjawL_jfG7U/s320/rachandhankelpat.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Hank makes passes at girls who wear glasses.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-68220939040017036542017-01-29T11:12:00.001-05:002017-01-29T11:12:53.508-05:00tay tayTay is my boon companion. We made a good go as a romance and stepped into a much better friendship a million years ago (I'm so thankful that my parents showed me that was possible). She's sharp and mean and her cat is the only mammal besides elephants that can't jump. She's a line cook, legendary in local kitchens for her skills, her humor, her loyalty, and her dedication to taking no shit. I'd tell you a few of those legends, but she'd hate me a little for it.<br />
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When something needs doing, she does it. She's working through scary medical stuff like a fucking pro. She's there if you need her, even if she's been puking all day.<br />
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Tay may be the funniest person I know, when the mood strikes her. She's saved my life a few times, and I love her.<br />
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Happy birthday, Tay. Glad you're here.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcgPjVAdUKAh2YhlhdJ-Cxj4kUyV-V9k0V4mKmpevORbXZi1rWqLTwSawH9T9hn9QHFxkBBw-D6ljyIoKR5e4wxy0cHBbxEragMQne1CXC0blVwB7JscTLKKqS452I48Z3DHFSOjB2ig/s1600/trio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcgPjVAdUKAh2YhlhdJ-Cxj4kUyV-V9k0V4mKmpevORbXZi1rWqLTwSawH9T9hn9QHFxkBBw-D6ljyIoKR5e4wxy0cHBbxEragMQne1CXC0blVwB7JscTLKKqS452I48Z3DHFSOjB2ig/s320/trio.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-20432682701173582322017-01-28T00:21:00.000-05:002017-01-28T00:21:05.597-05:00since last we metI have, in no particular order:<br />
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- lost 50-some-odd pounds<br />
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- shuffled some of my nights of trivia around, adding a queer Sunday and a once a month gig at a suburban gold club<br />
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- recently spent affectionate time with several cool people<br />
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- successfully helped run yet another year of Gaines Street Fest<br />
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- remembered I was writing a blog.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-3959896904126783832016-09-30T02:40:00.001-04:002016-09-30T02:40:58.570-04:00qwertyliv asked, "what's that full, dark band on the other arm?"<br />
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I think you mean my typewriter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhelcgQywcLWKL8alDtQChnfEzGKg1ozU0bDe-6YGkw9MRw4-iQ2NsNHG_0fcmjCo0G7vxmbP8dYHWJpZrvOSl7HSHTzvCpto6fQw60pn3-WOyquVv3upnL6eaIFkR05YYL4A39tfWEOkw/s1600/freshtype1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhelcgQywcLWKL8alDtQChnfEzGKg1ozU0bDe-6YGkw9MRw4-iQ2NsNHG_0fcmjCo0G7vxmbP8dYHWJpZrvOSl7HSHTzvCpto6fQw60pn3-WOyquVv3upnL6eaIFkR05YYL4A39tfWEOkw/s400/freshtype1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhJN29mA5ew66yZ2VMpnkpu3xH_vXq2xiisLJ9UkAN0d4vWQRzdB_EF-bkF2xX0sufM98XuEuru9xM-dfrFotGjnKXCu78BS2VepMIa8MW0GwWjTlXsFhiP2CM2iNrw-U_UTfuJa5uEA/s1600/piratehank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhJN29mA5ew66yZ2VMpnkpu3xH_vXq2xiisLJ9UkAN0d4vWQRzdB_EF-bkF2xX0sufM98XuEuru9xM-dfrFotGjnKXCu78BS2VepMIa8MW0GwWjTlXsFhiP2CM2iNrw-U_UTfuJa5uEA/s320/piratehank.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Plus, my next tattoo will be my knuckles. I've waited long enough.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-61322532500075734462016-09-30T00:27:00.000-04:002016-09-30T00:27:11.525-04:00drinking ink<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kox6cvYabFztLTMfc5lSXndINS6FeRbwLyFWY-fg-pBF_D1BEcGFjbGOQB2EVeSH4XOK5F5FIpW8ZUnGYpmNRSRm4XBw009YMTK3cpJpHCRUbNN6LV3YDyVDhDdmSWlCwZutNuZAojk/s1600/Snapshot_20160930_5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kox6cvYabFztLTMfc5lSXndINS6FeRbwLyFWY-fg-pBF_D1BEcGFjbGOQB2EVeSH4XOK5F5FIpW8ZUnGYpmNRSRm4XBw009YMTK3cpJpHCRUbNN6LV3YDyVDhDdmSWlCwZutNuZAojk/s400/Snapshot_20160930_5.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Man, my forehead looks big in this picture.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-43177649212221505342016-09-29T02:37:00.000-04:002016-09-29T02:37:00.567-04:00Pabst Blue Ribbon is union madeIn 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.<br />
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I kind of stand by that. I had good drinking instincts.<br />
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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.<br />
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"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.<br />
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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."<br />
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There are moments in my life that became forks. This was one of them.<br />
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You couldn't get PBR is many places then. Atlanta was a rockabilly town, and Pabst was part of the fun.<br />
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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.<br />
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Have I showed you my tattoo?That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-2949560637609032842016-09-27T12:14:00.002-04:002016-09-27T12:14:59.498-04:00taking requestsI feel like writing.<br />
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I dunno what to write about.<br />
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Questions? Requests?<br />
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Ask and be answered.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_7NQWG5NXOdhWxI0iRpHgCZcui7SmIkOSYZXu3bTN4MUoJ3xh2biCaUGFAD9Qjzjg9dmwVy_UoR16XYyNPmYZl-zsj_vzUBOU3bQx-V6KHBKDXD8o_iaU1TmhAbVoIwEBVwzlxYstD4/s1600/baggytongue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_7NQWG5NXOdhWxI0iRpHgCZcui7SmIkOSYZXu3bTN4MUoJ3xh2biCaUGFAD9Qjzjg9dmwVy_UoR16XYyNPmYZl-zsj_vzUBOU3bQx-V6KHBKDXD8o_iaU1TmhAbVoIwEBVwzlxYstD4/s320/baggytongue.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
Here is a photo of my last cat, Baggy. Because why not.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-22402374250128182182016-09-25T22:22:00.001-04:002016-09-25T22:59:44.552-04:0040: the year of why the hell notShoog McDaniel, <a href="http://shoogmcdaniel.com/">artist</a>. Known for <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shooglet/">photographs</a> of southern queers and feral kids, often in nature.<br />
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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. </div>
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"Does everyone laugh when they take their clothes off?" I asked. Yes, they do. </div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"Does anyone ever not want to put their clothes back on after?" I asked. Yes, sometimes.<br />
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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.<br />
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Oh, and mama's meatloaf was damn good, too. </div>
That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-20501694843012004912016-09-20T21:15:00.000-04:002016-09-20T21:15:21.481-04:00practicalityI 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.<br />
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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.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-65866146530411993732016-09-18T02:00:00.002-04:002016-09-18T02:01:19.526-04:00junkSometimes 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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Honey Kix are not honey enough. Add honey.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-69667016737362904182016-09-16T18:54:00.000-04:002016-09-16T18:54:16.340-04:00Florida Man in his natural habitat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlafiXcdkOmU0S3lZ3ZR6ynnGF4YtyjKLns3o2jx9xtFyQQPTOAGr5K7zJUJ5yI8T02F1XHY6d8Fag4tIFE2P9A4e6XTjpgmvBof1ZmpsUM66eAb0qFFt9IRDktyr5hNlhtHout8GO1S4/s1600/atstgeorge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlafiXcdkOmU0S3lZ3ZR6ynnGF4YtyjKLns3o2jx9xtFyQQPTOAGr5K7zJUJ5yI8T02F1XHY6d8Fag4tIFE2P9A4e6XTjpgmvBof1ZmpsUM66eAb0qFFt9IRDktyr5hNlhtHout8GO1S4/s400/atstgeorge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-21361122565162714602016-09-09T00:18:00.003-04:002016-09-09T00:18:58.097-04:00hurricane seasonHell, Martha.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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So, how've y'all been?That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-65595075834499789842016-08-31T15:54:00.002-04:002016-08-31T15:54:42.463-04:00If every pork chop were perfect......we wouldn't have hotdogs. <div>
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And that is how my day is going. I got yelled out by a friend, although that's worked out by now and didn't have much to do with me. I have been waiting all day to take my car into the shop, but time and tide got away from us. It happens, I'll get it in tomorrow. I've written my trivia and now I'm trying to find a ride to work, as one does. I have faith, it'll happen, just have to get all the ducks lined up and marching straight. </div>
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A day of minor inconveniences but nothing worth fussing about. I feel sort of jagged, but in the mood to laugh with friends. Luckily, it's karaoke night, so that's a given. </div>
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Blah blah blah, sis boom bah. </div>
That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-65392781975404490562016-08-28T18:18:00.001-04:002016-08-28T18:18:32.028-04:00fundayMy starter is still broken - to be fixed this week - and I haven't got so much as a spare dollar, so today is sort of odd, quiet, and boring. Happens sometimes, I guess.<br />
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All my hangout friends are night time people.<br />
I'd go for a walk, but it's 98 degrees outside and I would die. Possibly literally.<br />
I have data entry I need to do for the upcoming festival, but really?<br />
There's trivia to be written for tomorrow, but I'm not feeling inspired.<br />
Had I a car, I could maybe get laid, but that will have to wait.<br />
I could clean, but fuck it.<br />
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Hmm. Fuck it. I think that may be the phrase I'm looking for here.<br />
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Upsides:<br />
Not at the local Mexican restaurant drinking two for one margaritas and eating tacos, thereby upsetting my plans for healthier eating.<br />
Eventually I will get bored enough to get some work done.<br />
This isn't my general situation or attitude, so I don't feel guilty about wallowing in cabin fever a little.<br />
My cat is really cute. Here is a picture of Johnny trying to help distract me.<br />
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No, I don't wear a shirt when working on the computer. This is Florida.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-87278861489715988442016-08-28T15:23:00.002-04:002016-08-28T15:23:46.035-04:00music on a sunday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-38542187630757575672016-08-27T17:46:00.001-04:002016-08-27T17:46:53.519-04:00big manFat at 25 is a world away from fat at 40. Fat at 25 is largely an aesthetic issue. If you like being big, if you are attracted to big people and confident that people will be attracted to you, go for it. It can be hard to find clothes that fit and you likely won't win any foot races, but you can certainly be a big kid and keep up physically.<br />
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By 40, your body's starting to chug anyway. That time your knee got kicked out in a mosh pit isn't just receding comfortably into the past, if you know what I mean. Your back aches because your mattress sucks. You get a weird elbow pain and hope it's not impending elbow cancer. So maybe having a bunch of extra weight on you starts to be more of an issue. You're panting goes up stairs. You don't want to take a trip across country because plane seats are a pain in the ass. You worry about your blood pressure, your heart, all the inside bits.<br />
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So you start to weigh calories in verses calories out. You cut back on your beer some. And then you remember that if you could do all that shit regularly, you wouldn't be a big fat guy.<br />
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So, trying to lose weight. Not sure if I want to talk about it or not. Definitely don't want advice - thanks, though, heard it. Just putting that out there.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-19892478914764948012016-08-23T13:31:00.002-04:002016-08-23T13:31:25.509-04:00I just can'tWhoa, I'm having a hard time getting my feet under me today to work on trivia. Usually I wake up, take a shower, fill my water mug, and start doing that thing. But not so much right now. I ate a tuna on rye. I watched a little Star Trek, I got as far as deciding what my picture round will be. But putting that thought on paper seems to be pushing my luck.<br />
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I have a few dishes I can wash - often, the physical can kickstart the mental. And even if it doesn't, I'll have that chore done. Beats sitting around reading Steven Universe fanfic.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-52731295092512471862016-08-22T17:18:00.001-04:002016-08-22T17:18:57.764-04:00a momentJohnny Karate, lolling in the tub. He did not expect to be suddenly covered in catnip! Oh, the meeping and writhing. Oh, the licking and rolling. Now he's looking off into space, occasionally twitching, cleaning his paws without a care. High cat, living the kitty dream.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-71933282642941241302016-08-19T13:56:00.002-04:002016-08-19T13:56:27.379-04:00won't crankMy starter's gone bad. That's not a metaphor, I really mean it - the starter on my car has gone bad. That means it mostly works, except when it doesn't, and when it doesn't I might be able to get it to work again by banging on it with a piece of rebar.<br />
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So I have a car, maybe? And now there's this constant question of whether it's worth trying to go do stuff. I may get my errands run and come home without incident. Or I may wind up sitting in hellish heat in a parking lot, waiting for a friend to come by and scoop me up.<br />
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I'll have the money for a new one soon enough, but until then I'm trying to be philosophical and see the whole thing as an exercise in handling uncertainty. Plus, I don't work today, so I guess I could just get really high and clean my house.<br />
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I've had worse ideas.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-14842337660276322382016-08-19T00:15:00.001-04:002016-08-19T00:15:02.566-04:00triviaman's fridayIt was a good night at trivia. The scores were close, no one seemed left out. The music round was both nostalgic and silly. I did a thing I do sometimes, which is write a round of fake personal ads from historic figures or presidents or parts of your body. In this case, Disney characters.<br />
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Here, have a few:<br />
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1. Looking for a pleasingly plump guy who likes to dance,
eat ants, and not wear pants? I don’t make much money – okay, I don’t make any
money – but I manage to get my needs met. Seeking laid-back love to take a
float with me down this river we call life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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2. I give and give and what do they call me? A witch.
Well even a villain needs love. Big, beautiful woman with intense hair looking
for a seaworthy mate. Must like eels. John Waters movie and chill? <o:p></o:p></div>
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3. Short guy fed up with too many goddamn roommates in
search of a woman who can cook, clean, and sooth my angry soul. I’m pretty sure
there’s a sweet core deep inside me, but it’ll take someone pretty fucking
special to crack my asshole exterior. Whatever, screw it, no one will respond.
Never mind, this is just pissing me off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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4. Look, you may not be a furry, but you know you always
thought I was cute. Dashing outlaw type needs partner in crime for night time
rescues and good natured class warfare. Love a girl in a wimple. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So that's what I do to keep the lights on. I don't blame you for being jealous. </div>
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Shit! I just heard a crash from the kitchen, but Johnny is sitting next to me licking between his toes. Ghosts. </div>
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<br /></div>
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[1. Baloo 2. Ursula 3. Grumpy 4. Robin Hood]</div>
<br />That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-47752800763929751182016-08-18T15:13:00.000-04:002016-08-18T15:13:29.805-04:00affiliationI didn't have friends in middle and high school. Did I? One or two, but not past that. I was heavily bullied. I remember crying over McDonald's commercials that showed a group of friends hanging out. <div>
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I did survive, I did get older, and I did fill that gap, thanks to the queer and punk scenes. I don't think I am able to consider myself popular, but I suspect that I am, at this point. But of course that kind of misery left scars (a few literal). </div>
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Being part of a crew makes me a happy man. A contented man. Nothing makes me feel safer and more centered then being able to reach out and put my hand on a friend's shoulder, slap someone's back, touch elbows. Pull someone into a hug for no reason at all. Ruffle hair, bump knuckles, all those little physical ticks that help define us as a group. I love having a shared anthem, a song that gets us all up shouting with our fists in the air. </div>
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That gang dynamic helps shut down that little voice that is still, decades later, whispering the back of my head that it's all a joke. That my friends are lying to me and will turn on me someday and point and ask how I could ever think it was anything but a prank. The damage remains, but it doesn't run me. I have my people. </div>
That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-40917786443742317272016-08-16T10:57:00.001-04:002016-08-16T13:09:31.532-04:00KasperIt's one of those weird, unanticipated results of the internet age. Woke up to the news that a friend is dead. We knew each other for 15 years, closer or further, but never in person. He was Norwegian and an anglophile. He loved the Smiths and had very good hair. At one point, I think we flirted, but by now he was simply a queer kid I'd known since back in the day.<br />
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I asked this last time and I still won't know next time. How do you mourn a friend you've always never known?That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-10055782562190218262016-08-09T23:57:00.001-04:002016-08-09T23:57:39.751-04:00thank you, Joanna, for this catJohnny Karate is a scroungy little bastard, but I love him. He started out among the horde in a hoarder's house and wound up looking at me through the bars of a cage, ready for rescue. I'd just lost my evil familiar Bagheera, the most amazingly violent cat ever hatched, an elegant villain in a black and white tux. I missed her and wanted an orange male or something equally unlike her.<br />
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Instead I picked up this scrawny baby, curled him into a ball on his back, and tucked him into the crook of my arm. He accepted it, calmly meeping, and so it was done. He had hernia surgery - he's not a healthy boy - and came home to papa. Look how pitiful, poor little guy.<br />
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Took me about two weeks to figure out that my cat was broken. Sweet as sugar, friendly as you could hope for, and so sick that I first named him Humbert Humbert. This is gross, but he pooped constantly. All the time. On everything. Runny, horrible poop. For a while, I just gave up having anyone over. We suffered through six months before I figured out, through trial and error, that if I fed him gluten-free food he'd be okay. You have no idea, the sheer relief when he started to get better and I realized I wouldn't have to put him down. I replaced all my cloth-covered furniture, ruined and stained. I moved into a new apartment. I invited friends to hang out.<br />
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During those six dark months of poop, my little guy also survived a fever that scrambled his brain. He's not bright, but who cares? He's a cat, he was never going to write a best seller. He's still tiny, at almost three, and probably always will be. He doesn't meow - doesn't seem to know how - still only emits tiny meeps when he wants to make a point. He still prefers to sleep on his back in my arms like a baby. His fangs hang out of his lips, his claws never quite retreat into his paws and he sometimes gets hung up and limps for a few days. Every so often he forgets how to eat and I have to syringe feed him for a day or two before he remembers. His favorite game is kick-it-off. His breath is just foul. The boy ain't right.<br />
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But he's at my hip or in my arms all day. He'll walk on a leash and you can't freak him out. He's not smart, but he's good company. I'm glad of him.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-29197049495119687592016-08-08T16:07:00.000-04:002016-08-08T16:07:06.938-04:00time freeBetween the storms rolling in and it being a dead week for FSU, I have an unexpected day off. On the down side, no work no pay. On the up side, I am not the least bit mad about having time that is unassigned to any task or triviality.<br />
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To daywalkers, it's getting on toward evening. You're thinking of supper and how you wish you hadn't already watched all of Stranger Things. But for me the day stretches out into possibility and a beautiful, thunder and lightning sort of night. I'll attempt to gather in a few friends, play a few games, drink the beer that's lingering in my fridge. Or read a book or maybe cut a stencil for a project I'm working on. Get high and read Steven Universe fanfic. Design a new flyer for trivia night. Sit on my stoop, fight with the cat.<br />
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And I even have a fresh haircut. Mine is a good life.That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1451027369035019822.post-17090888823185043632016-08-07T04:17:00.000-04:002016-08-07T04:17:23.671-04:00wild in the street<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeH_cnF_fQi7Z3UgpEdmiai0QnBc-pdfkamTYmjl7anjeUbz1rwsglP6cPiwgdjxcbJl0LqkJhofFtfpfEsqfWtp0AGw1b9BcH9Tz1J__QN1No73Mllrzh72ohYTrfNkidD9F1S9rd6XE/s1600/2014poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeH_cnF_fQi7Z3UgpEdmiai0QnBc-pdfkamTYmjl7anjeUbz1rwsglP6cPiwgdjxcbJl0LqkJhofFtfpfEsqfWtp0AGw1b9BcH9Tz1J__QN1No73Mllrzh72ohYTrfNkidD9F1S9rd6XE/s320/2014poster.jpg" width="240" /></a>Six years ago, a friend of mine named Biro got saddled with the creation of a local music festival. Everybody else sort of fell away, and there she was. She'd never even set up a house show. First I sat around saying "this ain't gonna work," because I am sometimes an asshole. Then I said, "I could help with that," because only sometimes. And now I help Biro set up a great big shindig every year, with a hundred bands playing on a half dozen stages over the course of a day in a two block area. Gaines Street Festival, it's a thing.<br />
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Every band that applies gets in, pretty much regardless. From bar cover bands to instrumental metal, they all get 20 minutes and a good time. Plus all the rest of the stuff you need for a street party - food, tanks of beer, oceans of booze. Local orgs, dogs to adopt, artists and bellydancers and a guy who gives you a piece of fruit if you draw something for him. We partially fund it with nudie calendars every year.<br />
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So, the season is upon us. Between now and November 12, I'll devote more and more time to the Festival and less time to everything that is not the Festival. I'm sorry, friends. I'm sorry, family. I'll try to leave time for karaoke.<br />
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<br />That Hankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05514310999129694443noreply@blogger.com13