distracted

Hank makes passes at girls who wear glasses.

tay tay

Tay 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.

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.

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.

Happy birthday, Tay. Glad you're here.

since last we met

I have, in no particular order:

- lost 50-some-odd pounds

- shuffled some of my nights of trivia around, adding a queer Sunday and a once a month gig at a suburban gold club

- recently spent affectionate time with several cool people

- successfully helped run yet another year of Gaines Street Fest

- remembered I was writing a blog.

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.