tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33672428417826185452024-03-13T00:48:00.826-04:00World Class StupidRomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.comBlogger3400125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-66168082246062197662023-12-23T05:31:00.003-05:002023-12-23T05:33:56.119-05:00It is winter and in every German tree are clumps of mistletoe. I guess it's there all year round, but you can only see it after the leaves drop in winter. It grows in giant balls that are thickest at the tops of the trees.<br>
<br>
In New York you pay five bucks for a couple of twigs, so of course I couldn't resist greenery that was more valuable than my education. One day while we were driving to a local farm stand I spotted a low-hanging ball, and I told hubby to pull over so we could get it. He jumped a small creek, crawled through a hole in a rickety fence, and waded through a muddy pasture to the tree. That night I attached a string of miniature Christmas lights and hung it on the balcony.<br>
<br>
The next day our friend Evelyn came over to make gingerbread houses, and she said in Germany it's illegal to cut down mistletoe. I said it's a parasite that hurts its tree host, but she said it's protected like all wild plants.<br>
<br>
"Do you know why there's more mistletoe at the tops of the trees?" she asked. "Birds eat the berries, which means there are seeds in their poop. Since they're always flying, that's where their poop usually lands."<br>
<br>
She doesn't say why you're supposed to kiss under it. And despite her decidedly cold explanation, I still find it romantic. The next time we're walking through a forest and I see some hanging high above I still can't resist. "Hey, a bird pooped up there," I say to my husband. "Give me your face."
RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-87123191946836239782023-12-22T10:54:00.003-05:002023-12-22T10:55:51.337-05:00One night on our cruise my friend Mike got really excited about the evening's entertainment: a mentalist. He had to sit in the front row, and for some reason he'd put on a suit, which stood out among all the muumuus and flip flops. I asked him why and he said, "I had a really, really good friend, Rick, who died twenty years ago. He promised me if there was any way he could contact me, he would. And I've been waiting ever since."<br>
<br>
I just about cried. Mike is a really sweet Southern man so this didn't surprise me, though his naivete did. "You want a medium," I said, "not a mentalist. A medium talks to the dead. A mentalist asks you to think of a number between one and a hundred, and two minutes later a chicken walks in with the number painted on its ass."<br>
<br>
Mike was stunned. "Oh," he said. "So this guy can't talk to the dead?"<br>
<br>
I shook my head. Mike's face fell as the realization slowly crushed him. He seriously thought he'd hear from his long-lost friend again.<br>
<br>
There wasn't much I could, but I had to do something. "You should definitely talk to the guy, though," I said. "The skills don't seem that far apart. If he asks you to think of a number between one and a hundred, tell him, 'I will, but first do you see an older man near me whose name starts with an R or an L?"RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-87259754888861459792022-06-06T06:55:00.003-04:002022-06-06T06:56:09.207-04:00Conversation with my fictional American husband.
<br><p>
<b>FAH:</b> "Hey, it looks like a beautiful day. Let's go have some fun!"
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "Great idea. What do you want to do?"
<br><p>
<b>FAH:</b> "We could stop by the flea market at City Hall and then have Aperol Spritzes by the park."
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "Oh, that sounds perfect. Will I need a jacket?"
<br><p>
<b>FAH:</b> "You'll be fine. If it gets too chilly, I'll keep you warm."
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "Aren't you wonderful? Okay, let's go!"
<br><p>
Conversation with my real German husband.
<br><p>
<b>RGH:</b> "Get up. At your age you need to move around or you will die."
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "Great idea. What do you want to do?"
<br><p>
<b>RGH:</b> "First you will use the toilet, then I will use the toilet. Then we will go out. When we come back, I will use the toilet, and then you will use the toilet."
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "Oh, that sounds perfect. Will I need a jacket?"
<br><p>
<b>RGH:</b> "Yes. It is not cold but you need something to absorb all of your sweat."
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "Aren't you wonderful? Okay, let's go!"
<br><p>
(Naturally I'm crazy about him.)RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-45194269649381340742022-03-16T07:09:00.002-04:002022-03-16T07:09:18.902-04:00Opens today in France. I'm not going to see it but I'm curious how much sugar they needed for the top.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv7L5VkjdzU3L54MI2PDdsH292tB5ChN6LLTkFBmHk8wlcSaAzUDEJHPOdbgI1bSyU6iAXaYIP-uC9dABjp5r4ajC0occk381FZo50-63dzl8lygWLf8IVxpWN5v7WAXUrz_jg-0Dtnav4Ji2fNOdM9sq3HTAaJQwFBWQrGhItGVo7d6KuujDFwMY=s714" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv7L5VkjdzU3L54MI2PDdsH292tB5ChN6LLTkFBmHk8wlcSaAzUDEJHPOdbgI1bSyU6iAXaYIP-uC9dABjp5r4ajC0occk381FZo50-63dzl8lygWLf8IVxpWN5v7WAXUrz_jg-0Dtnav4Ji2fNOdM9sq3HTAaJQwFBWQrGhItGVo7d6KuujDFwMY=s320"/></a></div>RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-37896730519073143462022-02-14T05:55:00.003-05:002022-02-14T05:55:19.954-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7SNtPQYnvM24NV_Ra0iyr24JshdIYGew2piIfNCgvJLJiieF_ZtKGVhKt9HANG1WQWllSzyFRWc6lX2jfm-Dnb04RSxtzNy5SVkIDKdDUP6Tlfh6gQSwRob-H6MULIzv0i4HXQh8ZV0op7RRAthY_gQsZry9bx18J-y0_vouuN6ay3Ydq_BL8Z4I=s3631" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="3631" data-original-width="2654" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7SNtPQYnvM24NV_Ra0iyr24JshdIYGew2piIfNCgvJLJiieF_ZtKGVhKt9HANG1WQWllSzyFRWc6lX2jfm-Dnb04RSxtzNy5SVkIDKdDUP6Tlfh6gQSwRob-H6MULIzv0i4HXQh8ZV0op7RRAthY_gQsZry9bx18J-y0_vouuN6ay3Ydq_BL8Z4I=s320"/></a></div>
<br><p>
<b>STRANGER:</b> "Is that a Moose Knuckle?"
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "No, I wear thick underwear. [PAUSE] Oh, you mean the JACKET."
RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-87260401224377802902022-02-02T15:42:00.003-05:002022-02-02T15:44:59.370-05:00SurpriseI have to do something. Every morning I wake up and it's like my eyebrows have grown just a little bit bigger, until they threaten to consume my face. It looks like two squirrels are scurrying across my forehead, and very soon there's just going be to one. Years ago, though, after an overzealous afternoon with a razor blade, I learned that shaping and tweezing your facial hair is like trying to remove your own gall bladder. This time around, I decide, I'll let a professional handle it.<br />
<br />
I don't exactly keep up with the trends, but I know about threading. I've seen it on the news, where an Asian woman wielding something like dental floss wraps a loop around a stray hair and yanks it out, faster than the blink of an eye. While I run my daily errands I pass eight or nine threading salons, and I slow down in front of every one. I feel my giant eyebrows weighing me down until I can hardly hold up my head. I think, why don't I just go in and get it done?<br />
<br />
You hear all these rumors about New York metrosexuals, but I'm the only guy in the salon I finally choose. There's so much estrogen in the building, in fact, I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into a frozen yogurt shop. Mercifully, the procedure is quick and painless. Five minutes and fifteen dollars later, the woman passes me a hand mirror. My eyebrows are far apart and half their original size. The delicate arch makes me look ever so slightly surprised.<br />
<br />
I look at the woman. She looks at me. "Well, <b>I</b> think they look good," she says.<br />
<br />
I race to the bathroom of a nearby Bed Bath & Beyond and survey the damage. They could definitely be worse. They're certainly not that 30s Jean Harlow brow, the thin Sharpie squiggle dancing just below the hairline. They could almost pass for natural. Still, the arch is sharp enough to change my default expression. I'm no longer bored. I'm not exhausted. If I keep my face entirely still, I'm somewhere between inquisitive and questioning. Add in even the slightest additional surprise, though, and I look like a man fleeing Godzilla.<br />
<br />
I run my remaining errands as I struggle to keeping my face utterly placid. Inquisitive eyebrows aren't such a horrible thing, I discover. They have the attitude that I don't, second-guessing every word I hear.<br />
<br />
I stop at a fruit stand for a mango and some strawberries. "That'll be twelve dollars," the man says. I look at him. He looks at me. "Okay, okay," he snaps. "Maybe it's just eight."<br />
<br />
I drop in Macy's to see what's new. There's a red knit cap I almost like. I'm not sure if it works with my beige skin and ridiculous height. "You look great!" a clerk says. "You look fabulous!" I look at her. She looks at me. "You look like a lit match," she admits.<br />
<br />
By the time I head home it's late, and the subway is deserted. Still, a middle-aged man sits down right next to me. His suit is cheap, his hair's thinning, his mustache nearly hides his mouth. "You should be a model," he says, just out of the blue. "I mean, you are absolutely gorgeous. You've got cheekbones for days, and it looks like you've got a smokin' hot body too. You could be, like, in one of those Calvin Klein ads, just wearing underwear. David Beckham's got absolutely nothing on you."<br />
<br />
I look at him. He looks at me.<br />
<br />
"Well, I wouldn't turn off the lights when I fucked you," he says, so imagine my surprise when he did.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-64547859473646894332021-12-18T09:08:00.072-05:002021-12-20T05:43:12.723-05:00Halloween in New YorkThis year, like every other year, I didn't make plans for Halloween. I figured I'd maintain the distance I kept from the real world and just watch it from the comfort of my apartment. The first knock on my door, though, wasn't a trick-or-treater: it was Emma and Charlotte, who weren't quite as content with staying inside. Though it came as news to me, apparently Having Nothing To Do On Halloween is a humiliating predicament for Brooklyners, and after a few minutes of frantic texting suddenly the three of us had a party to attend.
<br><p>
Emma and Charlotte disappeared for ten minutes and came back wearing wigs, revealing dresses, and dramatic makeup. I'm pretty sure these were Halloween costumes, though it was also what single New York females wore to the grocery store. I had no clue what they were supposed to be, but I figured if I asked they'd laugh and say, "Oh Roman, you are so out of touch."
<br><p>
So, let's go with Internationally-Renowned TikTokers.
<br><p>
Halloween has changed dramatically since I was a kid. Back then, you had a reason for your costume, and since we were young and dumb it was usually just a stupid joke. Every neighborhood would have a Cereal Killer, a Taco Belle, and a Black-Eyed Pea. These days, though, it doesn't matter how you're dressed but only that you're hot. Highlight your boobs and your ass and nobody says a word. Nobody ever says,
<br><p>
"Excuse me, but since they lived millions of years apart, slutty cave women couldn't have worn dinosaur-skin bras."
<br><p>
Or "If Little Red Riding Hood had actually worn something like that, her grandmother would have dropped dead years ago."
<br><p>
Or, "Judging by the toga, I'm guessing you're a Trojan woman. Did the war start because you used up all the hair spray?"
<br><p>
Or, "Oh, I see. You're a Sexy Scarecrow. Because enormous tits make birds go, 'AIEEEEE!'"
<br><p>
Or, "Sorry to nitpick, but even Sexy Football Players restrict the padding to the general shoulder area."
<br><p>
Or, "If Tinkerbelle's boobs had been pushed up that far, she'd never have gotten through the window."
<br><p>
Or, "Why would a Sexy Bee have such enormous cleavage? Do they want to pollinate flowers, or Charlie Sheen?"
<br><p>
When I was a kid, Halloween was fun. Now, it's a kitschy excuse to get laid, and as long as you look sexy nobody really cares if you're Ruth Bader Ginsburg or a Slutty Manatee.
<br><p>
Emma and Charlotte gave substantially less thought to my costume. Charlotte grabbed a few wigs she had lying around and slapped them one at a time on my head. I don't know what she was looking for, but her final decision was a wild, straggly blonde mop. Although it went against everything I stood for, she clearly didn't give a damn if the carpet matched the drapes.
<br><p>
Never in my life had I worn a wig, and I knew absolutely nothing about them. I couldn't imagine why she had this one, unless she spent part of her day breaking in wild horses on the Scottish moors. I assumed with styling she'd magically transform it into something attractive, but instead she just tousled the front of it and pronounced it done.
<br><p>
For my clothes, she rummaged through her closet and then tossed me a Led Zeppelin t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. "Be careful with that," she warned.
<br><p>
"I didn't know you liked Led Zeppelin," I said.
<br><p>
"Never heard of them," she replied. "I paid four hundred bucks for it at a vintage shop."
<br><p>
I put the shirt on. I'd never had the nerve to wear a sleeveless t-shirt in public, but Charlotte was the stylist and I was the mannequin so I didn't complain. I also didn't know who I was supposed to be: I gave off major notes of grungy, dissolute, and creepy with undertones of kinky sex and weed. Aging porn star? Bisexual surf instructor? The answer to "What would Sean Penn's character in <b>Fast Times at Ridgement High</b> look like all grown up"? Emma agreed that I looked good and then we hit the road.
<br><p>
Before we even got to the subway, it was obvious something had changed. I'd always been ignored when I ventured out of doors, and I'd assumed that was true for everybody. New Yorkers were famously cold, and too self-absorbed to care about anyone except themselves. Now, suddenly, everybody was looking. They were interested in me. I was getting double takes.
<br><p>
One of the heads that turned was a stocky bearish type with a beard."Hey," he said, flashing dark green eyes. "How are you doing tonight?"
<br><p>
Had he confused me with somebody else? I wondered. Was his Cousin Sid a traveling carnival worker? Had his Uncle Mark grown up in an abandoned condom factory?
<br><p>
"Uh, I'm doing good, I guess. Just on my way to a party."
<br><p>
"Cool. Yup, it's Halloween." Something clicked in his head and once again he looked me up and down. "That's a costume? It's a costume! Ah, that's cool. Have a great night!"
<br><p>
Emma and Charlotte and I exchanged confused looks and headed for the subway again. This was literally the first time in New York that a stranger had spontaneously talked to me. Well, I'd never been outside for Halloween, I thought, so maybe it was always like this.
<br><p>
The L train was crowded, with maybe half the riders in costume. The three of us temporarily went our separate ways, with Emma finding a seat and Charlotte and I leaning in opposite doorways. Standing next to me was a DILF in t-shirt and sweatpants. I'd have noticed him even if he didn't keep looking my way.
<br><p>
"Hey," he finally said the next time I looked over. "What's goin' on?"
<br><p>
I shrugged my shoulders. "Nothing," I said. "Getting ready for a fun night out."
<br><p>
"You're looking pretty casual. You looking for somewhere to go?"
<br><p>
This sounded like an invitation from an actual living male so I immediately carpet-bombed our previous plans. "Well," I said, "I <b>had</b> been thinking about going to a Halloween party."
<br><p>
"No costume?" he asked. The look I gave him must have run through a few different emotions: maybe confusion, followed by curiosity, then disbelief, and finally incredulity. "Ah, man! You fooled me. Okay, I'll leave you alone, but you really are looking great." The doors opened for 1st Avenue, and with a thumbs-up he was gone.
<br><p>
I closed my eyes after he left and tried to make sense of it. Did New Yorkers really think people looked like this? And, worse, did they like it better than my regular look?
<br><p>
It didn't seem possible. I checked out my reflection in the window. It was clear: I was the guy who sold photos of his feet online to put his girlfriend through tattoo school. My fall-back occupation was a cardboard sign that read, "Why lie? I need a beer." When God raptured everybody back up to heaven, I'd be behind the door smoking weed.
<br><p>
I was a totally new person, low maintenance and low expectation. The guy who ignored the rat race and listened to the beat of his own drum. But strip away all the judgements and I looked relaxed. In control. Possibly ... <i>fun</i>.
<br><p>
Thinking about it this way, my newfound popularity actually made sense, especially if opposites attract. Everybody in New York was fighting for a job, or a healthy relationship, or even just recognition, so it made sense that they were turned on by a dude who'd dropped out entirely. Who didn't give a fuck. Who wasn't fighting. Who was just happy to have a beer and a couch to sleep on.
<br><p>
I'd taken particular note of these guys through the years because they always mystified me. Worse, they made me jealous. Because I'd followed the rules and floundered, while they'd blazed their own trails and ended up happier than me. I'd remained largely single while they always seemed to have somebody by their side.
<br><p>
My parents impressed upon me what's required of a modern male: good grooming, good manners, clean clothes. I'd spent a big chunk of time and money trying to maintain those goals, and didn't even notice they'd aged as badly as a Fear Factor VHS. Nobody wanted that junk any more. Maybe it was predictable, maybe it was boring, maybe now that the earth had like seventeen years left nobody worried about retirement plans.
<br><p>
We reached the Sixth Avenue stop where Charlotte, Emma, and I reunited. I quickly got them up to speed. "So, all my life I've tried to stay interesting and look good, and all my life I've been completely ignored. Tonight, though, two men have already hit on me, because I look like I have a head full of Nordic Death Metal under a disheveled rat's nest for hair."
<br><p>
"Excuse me?" Charlotte snapped.
<br><p>
Emma shrugged. "I was going to tell you," she confessed. "Maybe this is something you should explore in the future. You really do look hot."
<br><p>
I didn't want to argue so I ignored her implication that "hot" was a new look for me. Besides, even before the words were out of my mouth I was already starting to reject this new theory. New Yorkers also had a modicum of common sense. Was I seriously thinking that the real me, at least faintly stylish with a competent haircut and borderline hunky in shirts with sleeves, was less desirable than an unemployed stoner whose t-shirt screamed, "Get a load of these guns!"?
<br><p>
Impossible. Absolutely not.
<br><p>
My parents also told me that crossing your arms in front of your chest was terrible body language, so it's exactly how I stood when we finally got to the club. I was fed up enough for one night, so I stood there in the dark, totally closed off, with a "stay back" scowl on my face. Despite all that, a middle-aged woman in a tight, sparkly dress was homing in on me like a heat-seeking missile from half a room away. She wasn't intimidated. She didn't care. She eyed me like a tiger spotting a bowl of tuna salad. "Yo, baby," she purred. "How's about you and me get some parts bumpin' on the dance fl-- "
<br><p>
"It's a Halloween costume," I snapped.
<br><p>
"Oh," she said. "I'm very sorry to bother you, sir."RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-37424236731889017842021-11-12T15:48:00.002-05:002021-11-12T15:48:52.919-05:00I'm not making friends here in South Africa. I walked by a mini-golf course and was snapping photos when an employee approached.
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b> "So when you get a hole in one, does Jesus clap his hands?"
<br><p>
<b>EMPLOYEE:</b>
<br><p>
<b>ME:</b>
<br><p>
<b>EMPLOYEE:</b> "They're SCARECROWS."
<br><p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HNh95NKqBlAqw1Fhj5hk3-id8u8P5sCvBe4uRvIV1Z-sE3ciNEeUppNWEol6Ggnxx97Z0DRpY8CezmpejhMk4qcGgxYHcOgw7JyGXcW3mbbLN-B5NTU0YwKqRzEPzp25kj5dMshHg2w/s550/scarecrow.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HNh95NKqBlAqw1Fhj5hk3-id8u8P5sCvBe4uRvIV1Z-sE3ciNEeUppNWEol6Ggnxx97Z0DRpY8CezmpejhMk4qcGgxYHcOgw7JyGXcW3mbbLN-B5NTU0YwKqRzEPzp25kj5dMshHg2w/s320/scarecrow.jpg"/></a></div>RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-44456643870060274642021-07-26T05:55:00.001-04:002021-07-26T05:55:21.034-04:00I am learning German while my friend Peter is learning English. I complain to him about long, ridiculously-specific words like “nebelfeucht” (“damp as fog”) and “kreidebleich” (“pale as chalk”).
<br><p>
I’m going to Munich on Thursday and sent him a note. He replied, “Why are you ‘looking forward’ to seeing me? What does looking have to do with your visit? Why are you looking anywhere at all?”
<br><p>
He has a point. He also said he’d get some bratwurst and kartoffelsalat so things are looking up.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-88537502723044447842021-04-18T06:06:00.003-04:002021-04-18T06:06:38.467-04:00Welcome to Hour 127 of Prince Philip’s funeral. Just like Hour 126, the female commentator will say “The duchess of Sussex can’t be here because she’s patiently awaiting the joyful arrival of Baby Sussex” thirty times, the male commentator will say “William and Harry are actually speaking to each other, which is the miracle we’ve all tuned in to see” twenty times, and your husband will say, for the four thousandth time, “Well, now it’s REALLY almost over.”RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-82896037810347134592021-03-30T08:53:00.279-04:002021-04-01T04:21:08.889-04:00I love the German people for a lot of reasons: they're practical, logical, and exceedingly helpful. They never hesitate to give strangers helpful advice. If you walked around with a shoe untied, for example, several thousand Germans would point this out to you. And that's before you left your house.
<br><p>
One thing I don't love, though, is German bread. It's solid and hard and heavy and healthy. You can get it dense or denser, from forty different wholesome grains, with or without dried seeds on top.
<br><p>
Which is great -- if the first item on your To Do list is "Scrub my colon until it's shiny and pink."
<br><p>
The bread I like, though, is a rough and primal thing. It's hand-kneaded and hand-shaped and baked in a wood-fired oven. It's pretty much the opposite of German bread, so I was ecstatic when I finally found some in Germany. I actually smelled it before I saw it, in a bakery in Braunschweig, where the fire scented the air for miles around. In the window were huge, misshapen, crusty loaves, and inside the fragrance was pretty much the opposite of toast and closer to incineration.
<br><p>
This stuff wasn't served with a smear of marmalade. It was eaten around a campfire while dinosaurs watched.
<br><p>
On the counter, one mammoth slab had been cut in half. While the crust was scorched and solid, the inside was all fluffiness and air, with barely enough substance to support butter.
<br><p>
"One of those, please," I said. And I smiled all the way home.
<br><p>
I couldn't wait to tear it apart, but first I had to make plans. Should I slice it up, or just pull off chunks and stuff them into my mouth? Should I eat it plain or make a prehistoric sandwich? Would a wedge of cheese be too much? Would a slice of prosciutto be enough? Before I'd come up with a real strategy, my husband jumped in to help.
<br><p>
"That is too much bread," he declared. "There is no way we can eat that much bread. We must do something with it or it will go to waste." He was quiet for a second as his German brain weighed the possibilities. "Here is what we will do. We will freeze some, we will make croutons with some, and we will crumble some into bread crumbs."
<br><p>
It made sense to me, so I didn't complain. Besides, I love German practicality, and would never be so rude as to turn down their help. Ten minutes later, though, when I decided I'd start with a slab smothered in unsalted butter, I returned to the kitchen.
<br><p>
I looked for the bread. And looked. And looked. "Honey," I called shakily, "do we have any bread?"
<br><p>
There was a pause for a second, and then "No" was all he said.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-50026486728120970262021-03-26T11:33:00.000-04:002021-03-26T11:33:03.554-04:00My German teacher had a very strange idea: that people who have zero experience with the German language will be able to differentiate between right and wrong by the way it sounds.
<br><p>
"'I like you,'" the teacher said. "'I' is nominative. What about 'you'?"
<br><p>
"Dative," I replied. "Ich mag dir."
<br><p>
"Not accusative? 'Ich mag DICH'? Which sounds better to you?"
<br><p>
Which sounds better? That seemed like the wrong road to take. You could propose marriage in German and it'd still sound like you were thinking about hitting somebody with a brick. I didn't say it but I definitely thought it: "Lady, if we cared about what sounded better, you'd be teaching us French right now."RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-8043325153295443282021-03-22T14:28:00.035-04:002021-03-29T16:50:44.497-04:00I'm an easy-going guy, relaxed and carefree, with just a few weird things that piss me off. Cheap toilet paper is one. I mean, who thinks, "Wow, we can save a dollar if we wipe our asses with sandpaper for a year!"? Then there's old, dried-out rubber bands that immediately snap when you try to stretch them. I actually came up with a pretty good solution for those, but if I don't have time to put on sunscreen, I'm not moisturizing rubber bands.
<br><p>
Recently, though, something else triggered me. Of course it didn't end well.
<br><p>
A few months ago I found myself frequenting an online chat group where everybody else was a straight, suburban housewife. Though they were pretty much my opposite, I stuck around for two main reasons: they appreciated everything I posted, and reading about their lives made me feel better about my own.
<br><p>
They complained about their jobs, their families, their cars, their dogs, and just about everything else. They also posted uncomplicated, unpretentious recipes, like one for Beefy Sausage Stew.
<br><p>
The title sounded tempting so I skimmed the recipe before I checked out the comments. Had anybody actually cooked it? I wondered. Was it actually good?
<br><p>
"Wow — it’s really beefy!“ Sarah wrote. "Beefier than Russell Crowe!“ Nancy added. "How the heck did it get so beefy?“ Francine asked.
<br><p>
These comments confused me a little. I mean, they sounded positive, but they didn't actually answer the question. They didn't use words like tasty, delicious, or finger-licking good. They didn't say they loved it, but just acknowledged the main ingredient. If I served steak at a dinner party I’d be flattered if somebody said it was juicy. I’d be thrilled if someone said it was tender. I wouldn't exactly be ecstatic, though, if someone said it was meaty. “Well, you know,” I’d probably reply, “that could be because it’s MEAT.”
<br><p>
See, there's a difference between an observation and a compliment. "Those sure are PANTS!" isn't a rave about your wardrobe. If somebody said to me, "Wow -- on top of your head! Could that really be ... HAIR?" I wouldn't send a thank-you note to Supercuts. Those are observations, and I'm not even sure they're complimentary. If you spend three hours getting ready for a party and the first reaction you get is, "Look out, world -- here comes BRONZER!!!" I'm pretty sure you did something wrong.
<br><p>
Before I know it, then, I’ve added my own comment about the Beefy Sausage Stew. "I think a quick glance over the list of ingredients should answer your questions,” I wrote. “Or did you miss the two pounds of beef?“
<br><p>
Nobody replied to my comment, and it didn’t get a single like. The next day, though, somebody posted a recipe for Creamy Pumpkin Soup.
<br><p>
I knew I should have avoided the comments, but I couldn’t help myself. "Wow — it’s really creamy!“ Sarah wrote. "Creamier than Leonardo di Caprio!“ Nancy added. "How the heck did it get so creamy?“ Francine asked.
<br><p>
This time I may have conveyed some impatience.
<br><p>
"I gotta tell you, ladies, it ain't exactly a miracle. Nobody’s materializing loaves and fishes here. You don't have to be the Son of God to make a creamy soup using roast pumpkin and -- would you look at that? -- EIGHT AND A HALF CUPS OF CREAM. In fact, I’m pretty sure you can make Creamy Dog Collars & Shoe Insoles with that amount of cream.“
<br><p>
It felt good to vent and nobody replied so I just assumed they ignored me again. The next day, though, somebody posted a recipe for Chunky Pepper Salad. I don’t know if they were purposely winding me up, but the comments were almost exactly the same. "Wow — it’s really chunky!“ Sarah wrote. "Chunkier than Jack Black!“ Nancy added. "How the heck do they get it so chunky?“ Francine asked.
<br><p>
This time my fingers flew over the keyboard. There was no way I could stop myself, and this time I was absolutely furious. "You know what?“ I replied. "I needed every encyclopedia I could find and forty-seven hours alone in a laboratory but I finally figured it out. All of the ingredients in this recipe are — hold onto your hats, rocket scientists — cut into CHUNKS. No joke. Not fucking kidding you. The peppers, the onions, every single one of the vegetables is CUT INTO GODDAMN CHUNKS. I tell ya, when the lightbulb finally went off over my head, it was like Madame Curie seeing her fucking hands glow in the dark.
<br><p>
"Needless to say, this revelation has made an amazing impact on my life. I'm almost too ashamed to admit it, but I've been -- hold onto your chairs -- <i>chiffonading</i> all of my adult life. Whether I'm making meatballs or moussaka, chopping up tomatoes or potatoes, everything gets cut into long, thin strips. And for what? NOT ONE FUCKING TIME did someone taste my cooking and say, 'Whoa, Roman! If I look up "chunky" in the dictionary, I know I'm gonna see a picture of <b>that</b>.'
<br><p>
"I can't express how much this has bothered me. Every night since my wedding my husband has said, 'Sweetie, thank you for cooking for me. Dinner is tasty, but — and I say this with the utmost respect — what is up with all the GODDAMN CHIFFONADES? They’re disgusting. They freak me out. When you’re making dinner do you think, “Is there some way I can get this cucumber to look like pubic hair?”’ I was too humiliated to discuss it with my pastor, so I just had to live with it. FINALLY, though, with your giant Sherlock Holmes brains, I think it's history now. I don't think it's an overestimation to say you've saved my marriage.
<br><p>
"So Sarah, Nancy, and Francine, I am forever in your debt. Now when somebody posts a recipe with half a pound of cheese in it and Sarah says, 'Wow — that’s cheesy!‘ and Nancy says, 'Cheesier than Nicolas Cage!‘ and Francine asks, 'How do they get it so cheesy?‘ I will happily join in with something like, 'Every bite has cheesy goodness!!!‘ instead of 'HOLY GOD, PLEASE LET ME PUSH THESE WOMEN INTO A LAKE!!!‘“
<br><p>
Anyway, I’m pretty sure somebody read that comment, because the next day when I tried to log in I got a message saying I was blocked. I couldn’t post anything, I couldn’t read anything, and I couldn't even message anybody to ask why. My life flashed before my eyes. Sarah, Nancy, Francine: they were <b>my girls</b>. What was I going to do without them? And what was today’s recipe going to be like: saltier than a pirate? Spicier than Rita Moreno? Easier than a truck-stop whore?
<br><p>
I spent an hour or so trying to sneak in through various methods before accepting that it was fruitless. How did it get so fruitless? Francine might ask, though this time around I couldn't reply, "BECAUSE THERE'S NO FUCKING <b>FRUIT</b> IN IT, YOU STUPID COW!"
<br><p>
I closed my laptop. It didn't matter. Like the rest of the internet, the site was a total waste of time. I had a great life, exciting adventures, and a wonderful husband, so why did I care about shallow internet bullshit? Besides, it was almost lunchtime. On another website I found a recipe for something called Hearty Chicken Fricasee and I resolved to make it, once I had a heart.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-13274940390739867532020-12-28T07:35:00.077-05:002020-12-28T17:59:45.110-05:00The Guardian's Predictions for 2021After this nightmare year, one thing is for certain: we are all desperately grabbing at hope. I know I am, which is why I was thrilled to see an article in the Guardian quoting psychics on their predictions for the future. That's exactly what I need, I thought: their clear, bright vision would re-energize me and spark hope that in 2021 life could be enjoyable once more.
<br><p>
For the most part, they didn't let me down. Here are some of the predictions and how they touched me.
<br><p>
<br><p>
<blockquote>Jayne Wallace is clairvoyant and practices aura reading, tarot and crystal healing. Her clients include Kim Kardashian West, Kylie Jenner and Kate Hudson.</blockquote>
(Wow. Résumés don't get more impressive than that. At least without stars of <b>Charles in Charge.</b>)
<br><p>
<i>"Every crystal has a different voice.... The darker, deeper the colour, the stronger the voice."</i>
<br><p>
In heaven right now Nina Simone is like "FUCK YEAH!!!"
<br><p>
<i>"As I link in to the first quarter of 2021, the biggest question people have is health."</i>
<br><p>
Which is weird, because during the Great Pandemic of 1812 everybody was fixated on tacos.
<br><p>
<i>"[T]hose first months are going to be stressful in terms of mental health. Make sure you have people around you who you love."</i>
<br><p>
Shit. Okay, but my family isn't going to take this well.
<br><p>
<i>"March through to June is about division in health, as well as realisation – understanding and accepting why some have suffered worse."</i>
<br><p>
Acceptance #1: I'm not rich or related to Trump so I'll get the vaccine after chickens colonize Mars.
<br><p>
<i>"For the first four to five months [of 2021], there will be weak structure."</i>
<br><p>
Huh. Yeah, I guess it could be difficult for Biden to get anything done after Trump tears all the wiring out of the White House.
<br><p>
<br><p>
<blockquote>Demian Allan is a teacher at the College of Psychic Studies in London, and has practised western astrology for more than 20 years.</blockquote>
<i>"We are entering a period of technological revolution in 2021 that will change jobs, education and how we interact...."</i>
<br><p>
I would never have guessed that, because Zoom stock is still forty-five cents a share.
<br><p>
<i>"Coronavirus is not going to disappear but Mars moves out of Taurus on 4 March, easing the general health picture."</i>
<br><p>
That's a bold stance. I thought some klutz might drop a bucket of the vaccine and be like, "Damn! Well, let's try again for April."
<br><p>
<i>"In this country, we tend to try to engineer things back to the norm."</i>
<br><p>
Because in other countries when, like, your refrigerator breaks down, you think, "Hey, instead of just repairing it, why don't we convert it into an otter sanctuary?"
<br><p>
<br><p>
<blockquote>Tatianna Morales has been a tarot reader and holistic healer for six years</blockquote>
<i>"Card: The Ten of Wands. [This card] points to working smarter, not harder,..."</i>
<br><p>
Sounds to me like the cards have seen too many T.D. Ameritrade commercials.
<br><p>
<i>"Card: The Page of Swords. [This card] brings an energy of busyness, of research and strategy in 2021."</i>
<br><p>
Shit. And I was just warming up to "Let Go, Let God."
<br><p>
<i>"It asks that if you are inspired to take up new studies, hobbies or find new income streams, you take action."</i>
<br><p>
Let me write that down. "If you want to do something, just do it." Oh, wait: it's already on my shoes.
<br><p>
<br><p>
<blockquote>Dale Spencer Weeks has practised as a psychic numerologist and seer for nine years....</blockquote>
<i>"If 2020 has been about building a rocket ship, I liken 2021 to that ship taking off."</i>
<br><p>
Interesting. But what if 2020 has been about dismantling your rockets so your enemies wouldn't release your pee tape?
<br><p>
<i>"It’s going to be a huge year of change."</i>
<br><p>
To all the skeptics out there, there have been a few years of absolutely <b>no</b> change. but they were so boring everybody forgot.
<br><p>
<i>"There will also be political unrest and missiles will fly."</i>
<br><p>
Shit! I had fifty bucks on missiles taking the train this year.
<br><p>
<i>"[T]he vibe of 2021 is about expression and looking for freedom."</i>
<br><p>
Fingers crossed that means everybody named Trump will be in jail.
<br><p>
<i>"People will speak out in large groups...."</i>
<br><p>
Finally! Because now every time eight of my friends get together, Paco is always, like, "Hey, guys, you know the rule!"
<br><p>
<i>"[I]t is not only those with peaceful or progressive views who will seek to be heard."</i>
<br><p>
That'll be a big change from 2020, when we didn't hear from any conservative gun nuts.
<br><p>
<i>"February brings a seven vibration, a time when truth will be revealed. Medically, that could indicate wider availability of a vaccine."</i>
<br><p>
Damn it. Okay, you win. Nobody's gonna drop a bucket of the vaccine.
<br><p>
<i>"We may see revelations about the government."</i>
<br><p>
I'm not so sure. Maybe Biden will also bitchslap anybody who crosses him on Twitter.
<br><p>
<br><p>
<blockquote>June Field was voted the world’s greatest psychic medium, beating 70,000 others in International Battle Of The Psychics</blockquote>
(Stop reading right now if you're a doubter asking, "Why did the other 69,999 psychics bother entering?")
<br><p>
<i>"These next 12 months are a stepping stone to something better."</i>
<br><p>
Honestly, I appreciate that, but things can't get worse unless masturbation makes us burst into flame.
<br><p>
<i>"People are in denial about the virus and that causes friction."</i>
<br><p>
This is absolutely spot on. I'll never forget my first boyfriend who was all, like, "You act like gonorrhea is a <b>bad</b> thing."
<br><p>
<i>"Long before coronavirus arrived in the UK, I had cancelled work commitments – theatre dates and events. I felt death coming. I wanted to give the year a miss."</i>
<br><p>
Well, you've got to hand it to her: she can hit it out of the park predicting <b>past</b> events.
<br><p>
<i>"2021 will present an opportunity to reassess what’s important."</i>
<br><p>
Because in 2020 we were all like, "Fuck worrying: let's dance!"
<br><p>
<i>"In politics, I feel there is major change coming next year."</i>
<br><p>
I agree, and I'm actually kind of worried about that. Fingers crossed Biden can keep America on track without the genius of Ivanka Trump.
<br><p>
<i>"You don’t need to be a psychic to see the anger over how this has been handled."</i>
<br><p>
You don't need to be a psychic to see <b>anything you've said so far</b>.
<br><p>
<i>"Political systems will be taken down, but we will then rebuild."</i>
<br><p>
Really? Everybody I've talked to has said, "There's no way we can replace Donald Trump or Boris Johnson. Let's just watch cat videos for the next twelve years."
<br><p>
<i>"We will hug again next year, and we will come through this."</i>
<br><p>
Love the positivity, but it's not exactly a risky prediction. Because if we <b>don't</b> come through this, only cockroaches and Cher will be around to call you a quack.
<br><p>
<br><p>
Read more <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2020/dec/26/im-getting-clarity-a-time-that-will-feel-lighter-psychics-share-their-2021-predictions">here.</a>RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-51713125922649750462020-12-16T09:55:00.009-05:002020-12-16T10:06:52.365-05:00Ram ToughWe know exactly two things about oversized American trucks: they burn through enormous amounts of gasoline, and they're primarily driven by politically-conservative men who allegedly have small dicks. Or is there some other explanation for why the truck names are indistinguishable from the brand names of penis pumps? Here's a list with a sampling of each. See if you can tell them apart.
<br><p>
a. Grand Stallion<br>
b. Nitro<br>
c. Ramrod<br>
d. Sport Trac Adrenalin<br>
e. Red Studmaster<br>
f. Explorer<br>
g. Magnum<br>
h. Gladiator<br>
i. Ranger<br>
j. Commando<br>
k. Power Man 6000<br>
l. F-250 Super Duty<br>
<br><p><br><p><br><p><br><p><br><p>
<font size=1><b>Answers:</b> b, d, f, i and l are American trucks. a, c, e, g, j and k are penis pumps. h is actually both. Here's more information for those curious about one or the other.
<br><p>
a. The Grand Stallion has a tapered latex sleeve and easy-to-use gliding action.
<br><p>
b. The Dodge Nitro is powered by a 4.0 L SOHC V6 engine rather than AA batteries.
<br><p>
c. The Ramrod has a battery pack conveniently attached for single-handed operation.
<br><p>
d. The Ford Sport Trac Adrenalin has a blown 4.6 engine making 390 pound-feet of torque. If it were a penis pump, it would be Jon Hamm.
<br><p>
e. The Red Studmaster has a studded adjustable cock ring, but no cup holder.
<br><p>
f. The Ford Explorer is available in an Eddie Bauer edition.
<br><p>
g. The Magnum is equipped with a new safety vacuum gauge. Don't try to imagine what could happen without it.
<br><p>
h. With three-foot clearance, the Jeep Gladiator could easily ride over anybody's penis. Unlike the silicone Gladiator, however, it has no internal nubs.
<br><p>
i. The Ford Ranger has a towing capacity of 4,200 penis pumps.
<br><p>
j. The Commando is penis-shaped, with a multi-speed vibrating bullet. We told our boyfriend we have no idea what that means.
<br><p>
k. The Power Man 6000 comes with a pleasure ring attachment. You could use it without it but, like, why?
<br><p>
l. The Ford F-250 Super Duty is twenty feet long. We bet its owners claim it's forty-five.</font>RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-62828280481914075322020-12-08T12:47:00.001-05:002020-12-08T12:47:00.308-05:00I live in a cramped New York apartment. It's so cramped that whenever I buy anything I have to toss something out, because I just can't cram in one more thing. Last month I bought a new lamp, so after careful consideration I decided a pair of pants would have to go.
<br><p>
I decided to sell those pants on eBay.
<br><p>
Now, the pants weren't in very good shape. The knees were baggy, the hems were frayed, and there was a quarter-sized hole in the seat. There was no way I'd wear them again, but with all the talk about reusing and recycling I just couldn't toss them out. I listed them with a starting bid of $1 and hoped somebody less fortunate would find them.
<br><p>
When somebody bid a dollar, it made my day. I'd done my part for the environment, and helped some poor person on a budget. When the bidding went to $10, my heart was full. It meant somebody truly appreciated these pants, and they'd take good care of them. Plus, it paid me back a bit for the time I spent photographing them and writing up the description.
<br><p>
Then one morning I turned on the computer and discovered the pants were going for thirty-five dollars. This knocked me for a loop. I mean, the pants didn't cost that <b>new,</b> so there was no reason they should command that kind of cash after I'd worn them a few years. There were four bidders involved, so I thought maybe they got carried away by the excitement. I thought about cancelling the auction, since a mistake had obviously been made, but figured it'd be a good lesson for all concerned.
<br><p>
The next day, when the bidding got up to sixty dollars, I got angry. Clearly there was more to this than just a simple pair of pants. Now there were nine bidders duking it out, and twelve people added the sale to their "Watch" list. This proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that something unseemly was going on.
<br><p>
And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning that almost made my breakfast come back up. I'd heard about vending machines in Japan where they sold the panties of schoolgirls, and realized the same sort of feckless perverts were fighting over my pants as well. My stomach churned as I imagined what the winning bidder would do to them: would his tongue explore the crotch like Lawrence explored Arabia? Would he suck every ounce of my sweat from the faded fabric? Would he pore over every nook and cranny searching for wayward, discolored spots of my bodily fluids? If his magnifying glass chanced upon a a hair from the nether regions of my body, would he press it to his face in ecstacy as he performed some vile onanistic deed?
<br><p>
Over the next few days, though, my anger ebbed, and when the pants hit $110 I turned flattered. I mean, indigent perverts are tawdry and disgusting, but now there were clearly businesspeople involved. I pictured these men -- accountants, lawyers, stock brokers -- sitting at their computers after a long day at work, ties loosened and Brooks Brothers boxers tenting at the thought of winning my tight, <b>tight</b> jeans and caressing them in their manicured hands. They'd press their faces up against their computer monitors and run their eyes across the outline of my muscular legs in the fabric, faded like the shroud of Turin. Then one lucky man would win them, and get to feel the warm cotton himself, left alone to his own perverted ends. It was sick and it was depraved and, by God, I couldn't get the thought out of my head.
<br><p>
I was haunted. Possessed. Which inextricably leads me to an open letter I'd like to share with the buyer.
<br><p>
When you typed in that $140 offer, I became a walking pool of turgid testosterone, ready to pounce on anything that moved. I couldn't rest until you had my pants in your determined hands. Were you hunky and continental, like Antonio Banderas? Were you a stylish, manly gay with a dark streak, like Tom Ford? Or were you a billionaire daddy entrepreneur like Ted Turner whose wealth gave him the opportunity to play out his every demented desire? As I packed the pants into the box to ship, I pleasured myself as I pictured you.
<br><p>
Given the circumstances, then, I think you can see why I threw in the underwear. After I wiped myself clean with them, it occurred to me that you might appreciate something I'd worn even closer to my skin. I pictured you with my grubby shorts plastered across your face, wearing a look of pure erotic bliss, and I felt a bond of kinship between us, separated by space but joined together by kink and a tiny pair of striped bikini briefs polka-dotted with pee. And that's when I wrote that little note.
<br><p>
So, I'd like to offer you a profound, heartfelt apology. I had absolutely no idea they were vintage Levis worth twice what you paid for them, and that nobody but me had anything untoward in mind. Please, burn the note, and toss the underwear straight into the trash. How horrified you must have been to pull them out of the ziploc bag and hear them crackle in your hands. I didn't realize some of the bidders were women, let alone religious ones in Utah.
<br><p>
In closing, I'd like to make it perfectly clear that you are certainly not a disgusting little pig who should be bent over my knee and paddled until your buttcheeks are red and burning with a heady mix of pain and pleasure, and, had I known you were a pillar of the Salt Lake City community, I would never have ordered you to suck the man-juice out of my filthy ball-rag.
<br><p>
Please, tell the police this was all a horrible mistake and I promise I'll never eBay again.
<br><p>
Your Loyal ex-eBay Seller,<br>
RomanHansRomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-37801227818825323972020-12-03T06:14:00.012-05:002020-12-03T06:14:00.606-05:00Over the last few days I've gotten literally hundreds of emails all saying the exact same thing: Roman, I just saw Harrison Ford on <a href="http://www.accesshollywood.com/article/9231/harrison-ford-gets-waxed-for-the-environment/"><b>Access Hollywood.</b></a> It was hard for me to believe, but he was getting his <b>chest</b> waxed. Even weirder, he said he was doing it to draw attention to <b>world deforestation.</b><br />
<br>
No, it was not a dream. <b>World deforestation.</b>
<br>
<br />Roman, I've been wracking my brain for days now and hope you can help. Why is Harrison Ford getting his chest waxed like world deforestation?<br /><br />
Dear Readers,<br>
<br>
I'm glad you wrote, as it seems quite obvious to me. Of course, I nearly have a degree from a major university. Harrison Ford getting his chest waxed is like world deforestation ...<br><br>
<b>10.</b> Because like trees, grasses, mosses, and lichen, Harrison Ford's body hair converts carbon dioxide to oxygen.<br /><br />
<b>9.</b> Because after a country is deforested, it looks a lot better in an open shirt.<br /><br />
<b>8.</b> Because timber companies often clear forests just to make it easier to apply sunscreen.<br /><br />
<b>7.</b> Because chest hair is great at preventing runoff, if you know what I mean.<br /><br />
<b>6.</b> Because after they're done clearcutting, lumberjacks frequently offer to tweeze your eyebrows for free.<br /><br />
<b>5.</b> Because like trees, Harrison Ford's chest hair provides a home for thousands of species of wildlife.<br /><br />
<b>4.</b> Because when you cut trees down, they frequently scream "KELLY CLARKSON!"<br /><br /><b>3.</b> Because when trees are allowed to grow wild across a country, it can be difficult to find its nipples.<br /><br />
<b>2.</b> Because when I think hard wood, I think Harrison Ford.<br /><br />
<b>1.</b> It's an metaphor: once its chest has been stripped bare, all the earth will have left is its pubes.<br /><br /><br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRznJOvQbfz12eJwyTmftERm6wL7kTR-64NutuRSvVDvlZk2qY5EQqcMdPhZUsgRfOvk4IczCaj9XKbnk8caOHc-VbEzSWMMUXkCBbU0uJusjmDtgOPAzAo1g79nv_cqgDauTWoL6b5rg/s1600-h/ford2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRznJOvQbfz12eJwyTmftERm6wL7kTR-64NutuRSvVDvlZk2qY5EQqcMdPhZUsgRfOvk4IczCaj9XKbnk8caOHc-VbEzSWMMUXkCBbU0uJusjmDtgOPAzAo1g79nv_cqgDauTWoL6b5rg/s400/ford2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194688097815895682" /></a>RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-41525805065760659512020-11-28T12:47:00.005-05:002020-11-28T12:54:45.491-05:00Thrilled, Chilled, and Possibly KilledTall men don't find a lot of amusement at amusement parks. Ridiculous admission prices, sure. Stomach-churning fast food, definitely. And whole hordes of Juicy Couture-wearing midwesterners who shove Mickey Mouse aside to stalk us, screaming "HOW TALL ARE YEW?" and "ARE YER PARENTS TALL?" But fun? Not a chance. Because when you're six foot eight, thrill rides are more of an actual fright than some casual thrill.
<br><p>
Now, I'm not talking about those traveling carnivals that skinny tattoed dudes set up in the parking lots of your local Pic N' Save. They'll scare anybody with a brain, and not just because you'll find thicker metal in Halle Berry's bra. No, I mean the roller coasters at major amusement parks. Space Mountain, Disneyland, Six Flags. The Matterhorn, the Cyclone, Colossus. The permanent ones. The ones where the owners can't skip town if somebody sues.
<br><p>
We start to worry when we hear the warnings: "Please keep your hands and arms inside the car at all times." This has always confused me. Isn't there a way of phrasing it where the two body parts don't sound completely distinct? I feel like replying, "Well, I'll keep my arms in the car, but where my hands go is anybody's guess!"
<br><p>
As we wait in line we replay the words over and over in our heads, slowly deciphering what they mean. They're saying that our little roller coaster car will barrel past things that are both (a) stationary and (b) cement, and they'll be within the average-sized person's reach. They're saying that an average-sized person stands a chance of death or disfigurement if they protrude too far from the car.
<br><p>
All the regular-sized folks, of course, couldn't care less. They laugh and joke and suck down their eight-dollar sodas, knowing that any amusement park that damages their puny little asses is just asking for a lawsuit. They'll go crazy on the ride, waving at friends on the ground, flinging their arms around so they'll fly up out of their seats, trying to snap off bits of passing stucco for souvenirs. They don't give it a second thought, and there's no real reason they should.
<br><p>
The tall guy, though, senses a real problem. He's gone through life protruding too far, in at least a couple different directions at once. Blithely wave your hands in the air while we're careening down that hill and you're not even going to reach my Adam's Apple. In fact, you're in serious danger of picking my nose. Once I scratched the back of my neck on a cruise ship and I knocked three folks on the Lido Deck overboard. If they're saying size could be a problem for average folks, you <b>know</b> it's going to be a problem for us.
<br><p>
While everyone is blithely chattering away, then, the tall guy has gone paler than usual. He tries to maneuver toward the speakers to get further details, like there's a tornado approaching, and screams like a banshee so folks'll shut up. He realizes he's got no defense in court: with all the warnings they give, he'd be pulled apart like a crockpot chicken. "Your honor," the defense lawyer would drone, "the man was six foot EIGHT. Six foot EIGHT. Too big to fit into a FORD. Longer than a CANOE. Too tall to wear HUMAN UNDERWEAR. We were warning REGULAR-SIZED folks to be careful -- why on earth would HE get on? Surely he must have realized that getting onto this ride was like leaping headfirst into a CUISINART."
<br><p>
As the sweat accumulates on our foreheads, we try to imagine: how tall do amusement parks think people <b>get</b>?
<br><p>
We're painfully aware of how estimates vary. We've strolled down sidewalks where tree branches have been meticulously trimmed to a five-foot clearance. We've seen pedestrian tunnels with six foot ceilings, and we've stumbled into low-hanging power lines that wrapped around our necks like rubber chokers. Heck, I had to duck to get inside the Taj Mahal. Somebody's made an assumption here, and we suspect that in a scene involving fountains of blood and decapitation we're going to find out what.
<br><p>
We imagine what the world was like when this roller coaster was built. "According to our studies," the designer declares, "ninety nine percent of all people are under six foot two. I suggest, then, that we make allow at least a six foot six clearance in all the tunnels, to allow for puffy hair or Stetson hats. Sure, maybe once in a while we'll get somebody taller in the park, but that 'hands and arms' recording will definitely scare them away."
<br><p>
"I wonder if I'm too tall for this ride," I tell my friends as the next available car halts in front of us. "It's sounding kind of dangerous."
<br><p>
They laugh. "Jeez," Steve says. "For a tall guy, you're really a wimp."
<br><p>
And so with fingers crossed the tall person steps in, buckles himself up, and the car speeds off.
<br><p>
Two minutes later his train pulls into the station, just like every other. All the riders are exhilarated and exhausted and just plain out of breath ... except one. He doesn't wave to the patrons waiting to board the ride, doesn't undo his seatbelt, doesn't clamber his way awkwardly out of the car. Because he's had his head sheared clean off. He's sitting there perfectly still, but blood is shooting out of the neck and splashing all over the white vinyl seats.
<br><p>
The attendants look at him, all strapped in, his white knuckles still gripping the lap bar, and they share a shocked look.
<br><p>
"Wow," one says. "I wonder if his parents were tall."RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-4155750450362972552020-11-12T13:13:00.001-05:002020-11-12T13:13:00.884-05:00Big Feet: Big Stuff or Big Bluff?In the history of the universe, ever since Nothing turned into Something, since cosmic dust turned into Zara stores and salamanders evolved into aura consultants, there have been exactly four studies to determine whether Big Feet mean Big Meat.
<br><p>
Scientists have examined virtually everything: why the sky is blue, why birds sing, why toast always lands butter side down (Svenska Joornal der Breakfaast, 1997, pp. 162-217). So why the penis ennui? When I'm hanging around some bar, trying to choose between the reasonably-attractive tall guy and the drop-dead gorgeous short guy, the last thing on my mind is dirty bread.
<br><p>
Gay people blame homophobia for all kinds of stuff, but I'm thinking it's involved here as well. This is the most frequently asked question of all time, surpassing even "Who killed JFK?" and "How did that whole Trump thing start?" A million times a day somebody asks if there's a connection, and that's just the folks who catch me in clothes.
<br><p>
Scientists, I'm guessing, don't want to be tarred by that "gay" feather. It's okay to grow a spare ear on the back of a mouse, or genetically merge chickens with Miracle Whip so they'll start laying egg salad. But get another man excited? That's just plain weird. What are the other scientists going to think? "That Guenther, he likes the penis a little too much," they'd tell their assistants. "Now go sew these lips on that dog." And how's his wife going to feel when he comes home and recounts his day? "Honey!" he calls, setting his briefcase on the hall table, "I saw a real whopper this morning!" She might feign enthusiasm to his face, but you know she's going to tell her family he's unemployed.
<br><p>
Even these four studies seem a little skittish, since they all have serious flaws. The first declares there's no significant correlation between penis length and shoe size, though somehow they've avoided handling erect penises. They "gently stretch" them, like they're tight socks, and measure them that way. Because, you know, who's got the energy to get a guy hard?
<br><p>
I want to tell these researchers that nobody cares how stretchy penises are. I have friends who have sex with rubber plants, and friends who have sex with balloons, but I don't know anybody who wants to get screwed by taffy. Then I notice their disclaimer: they don't need to measure erections, because an earlier study showed a strong correlation between stretched length and erect length.
<br><p>
This sounds a little farfetched to me, so I check it out. I'll just say two things about that study: one, math is boring even with big dicks involved; and two, while the correlation between stretched and hard length was 0.793, the correlation between soft and hard length was 0.678.
<br><p>
Translated into English, it means guessing how much bigger a stretched penis will get is just slightly more reliable than guessing how much bigger a soft, dangly penis will get. And if that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't have cried myself to sleep three times last week.
<br><p>
A few months later a second group of scientists comes along, and they decide they can do better. "To hell with stretching dicks!" they proclaim. "We'll have guys measure their own!"
<br><p>
I'll pause here so we can all laugh at these people. Mature men with advanced degrees, wearing white coats and stethoscopes, based a study on the assumption that men wouldn't lie about their endowments. Maybe they phoned the guys and asked how long their dicks were, or maybe they shoved them into little cubicles while they waited squeamishly outside. Either way seems pretty silly to me, and I buy my cologne from Rite Aid. Doctors can remove your spleen or transplant your gallbladder or even smear a woman's pap, but getting a guy visibly excited, well . . . that's not somewhere anyone wants to go.
<br><p>
Anybody who's ever answered a personal ad knows how that study turned out. They didn't find any correlation between shoe size and penis length -- maybe because regardless of shoe size, everybody reported nineteen inches. Guys lie about everything, even when they know they'll get caught. "That's in dog years," they admit when you question their age. "That's on the moon," they say when you doubt their weight. As for endowment, cold weather is a popular excuse. Except I lived with one of these guys for nearly a year, and two weeks in Death Valley wouldn't have nudged him toward tiny.
<br><p>
Eventually a third research group steps into the breach. "That second study was nonsense," they decree, "so we're going to reenact the first." They stretch, they measure, and there's no correlation.
<br><p>
The veil is lifted slightly by our fourth and final group, though they're stretchers as well. "We think we found something in index fingers," they announce, "but we just didn't see enough penises." You can criticize these guys if you want -- they should get better funding, or try to sign up volunteers -- but I just want to buy them a beer and say, buddy, you and me both.
<br><p>
And so here I sit, a ridiculously tall man who gets asked three hundred times a day if big feet mean big meat. I don't like sharing my own personal data, at least until guys have bought me appetizers, so I've always said nobody knows. Now I can add a well-informed postscript: that nobody's done a study comparing erect penis length to shoe size, or finger length, or height. That the geniuses in our prestigious research institutes have more pressing things to do, like calculating the force required to shoot a sheep to the moon (Applied Ovine Ergonomics, Nov. 2002, pp. 523-81). That maybe it's time gay scientists stepped up to the plate.
<br><p>
Heck, I'll volunteer, if that'll help. Because when my time comes, I'd be pretty damned proud to have this on my tombstone:
<br><p>
Here lies RomanHans.
<br><p>
He wasn't a doctor, or a scientist, or even particularly smart.
<br><p>
But he sure wasn't afraid to get a guy hard.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-11412189049788873012020-11-07T06:25:00.005-05:002020-11-09T09:02:15.417-05:00Tall guys have to be careful who they go out with. Wander around with another tall guy and the world will cower at your feet. Hang out with an average-sized guy and you'll still get admiring glances. Venture into public with somebody short, though, and you may as well glue a "Kick me!" sign to your ass.
<br><p>
I'm not talking about all the problems due to the height difference. Sure, the short guy will amble along just slightly slower than a disabled dachshund, while snails and Frankenstein scamper past. Then there's the impossibility of having a conversation: his mouth is roughly ten feet from your ear, which means you'd hear more decipherable words out of a seashell. Either you pretend to understand what he's saying and just randomly nod your head, or you actually make the effort and say "What?" every time he speaks. You're going to end up a frustrated hunchback, and he'll burn out his throat yelling like Grandma. Both of you will be spitting nails, but it'll get worse when you start dating seriously and he gives you an ear trumpet for Christmas.
<br><p>
Now, all this is irritating -- I mean, I'd prefer a sweater -- but the real horror is how everybody else treats the two of you like a Ripley's exhibit sprung to life. The rudest folks whip out cameras to get proof to show their friends. You're not just interesting: you're one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and they'll snap away like you're the Virgin Mary made manifest over the Topeka Wal-Mart. They won't just stand across the street and worship from afar: they'll want to twist the pair of you into all sorts of insulting poses. "We wanna play up the height difference," drawls Wilbur from Bag ‘o Pretzels, Idaho, like a redneck Orson Welles. "Why doncha pretend yer stuffin' Tiny in yer big giant pocket?"
<br><p>
"No, no, no," his wife Durlene protests. "Have Tiny sit on Lurch's lap, like he's a ventriloquist's dummy."
<br><p>
I hate taking part in these scenarios, though I actually can talk without moving my lips. I leave the house feeling like an average guy, and then these folks go and spoil it. I want to run screaming for a land where people are compassionate and considerate, but somebody's got to help Tiny climb up onto a chair.
<br><p>
Worse than hanging out with somebody short is hanging out with someone heavy. That's a completely different phenomenon. Now the pair of you won't just look strange: you'll transform into a number. Of course, you'll be the number 10.
<br><p>
Oddly, this is the only time I've heard of people turning alphanumeric. If Pamela Anderson kicked a skier nobody'd see RL. If Marlon Brando screwed Wally Cox nobody'd see Qr. When a pregnant lady frisks a midget, nobody sees BY.
<br><p>
Nope, the number 10 is it. When two tall guys stand side-by-side, nobody says you look like 11. Hang out with a hunchback and nobody thinks you look like 12. Loiter near a snowman and nobody sees 18. But pause for a second near an overweight guy and suddenly everyone's an accountant.
<br><p>
More embarrassing by far, though, is hanging out with a short female, because now everyone will assume you're having sex. And now they won't just casually glance at the pair of you, or stare as you walk by. They'll chase you down the street, screaming in disbelief. They'll follow you home, pluck out their eyes, and roll them under your door to get a better look. And then the inquisition begins, always with the same idiotic question:
<br><p>
"Gawrsh, you're like ten dang feet tall, and she's eentsy as a mouse. How in the name of Our Good Lord Jesus do the two of you manage to have SAYYY-ex?"
<br><p>
Now, I get so confused by this I wonder if I'm doing something wrong. Height doesn't have anything to do with any of my bedroom activities, yet these folks give me the feeling I shouldn't let anyone under five foot eight take a ride. I mean, it's not like my partner and I aren't flexible. It's not like furniture doesn't exist. C'mon -- half the stepstools you see are like twelve inches high. They're not made for changing lightbulbs.
<br><p>
I thought about this long and hard, and I narrowed it down to two possibilities. One, they're concerned that while our genitals are busy, our faces are too far apart to express affection. Sure, I'm not thrilled that my mouth is closer to the Australian outback than my current companion, but as long as our middles meet I'm fine. It's like eating cookies on a roller coaster: I'm getting enough stimulation already, thanks -- let's save the Oreos until afterwards.
<br><p>
The other possibility is, they're worried that our genitals don't match up when we're standing. Yup, it's true: I have to bend my knees to do it doggy style, and sometimes I end up yowling like a chilly chihuahua. Apparently it's good exercise: my arms may look like sticks, but my thighs rub together when I walk.
<br><p>
Either way, I refuse to dignify this stupidity with an intelligent response. Usually I ignore it, but sometimes I get mad. I wonder why I have to put up with this. I wonder why these idiots think it's a question you can ask a stranger. "I do it the same way you do it," I announce. "Except I don't have any relatives in the room."RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-55837667039905345762020-10-21T04:58:00.006-04:002020-11-09T09:03:59.684-05:00Repeat Wednesday: What A DumpI met Trevor bar-hopping one night. He was a few years older than me -- heck, a few hundred years older -- so I tried to lose him, but he was incredibly persistent.
<br><p>
"Come home with me," he said.
<br><p>
"I couldn't," I replied.
<br><p>
"It's just a small penthouse. Ten thousand square feet in Chelsea, overlooking the Hudson."
<br><p>
"Just let me get my coat."
<br><p>
Almost instantly we became an item. My usual boring life vanished as I got swept up in a whirlwind of fast cars, expensive restaurants, and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. My mom always said it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one, but I thought it was easier to fall for a wealthy guy. He was cultured. He was refined. He didn't wear underwear twice. How could anybody resist?
<br><p>
A determined, confident lawyer, Trevor leapt into commitment headfirst. Waking up the morning after our first date I found myself alone in a bedroom the size of a football field, walls of glass on three sides. "Had to go to work," a note on the Noguchi coffee table read. "Make yourself at home. See you tonight. P. S. The alarm is on so you can't leave."
<br><p>
Naturally, I was horribly annoyed. I felt like a goldfish in a bowl, a bird in a cage, a Fabergé egg, though I'd only pleased a couple members of the Russian royal family. But as I wandered the endless hallways dotted with tasteful Italian statues, passing room after room stuffed with armoires, wet bars, and Renoirs, I felt my anger fade. By the time I counted bathroom number eight I never wanted to see real life again.
<br><p>
The kitchen was vast and industrial, with more chrome than a Cadillac dealership, and the fridge was stocked like Balducci's. I smeared a truffle with caviar and headed to the rec room, where a flat-screen TV covered the one non-glass wall. I'd never let myself be "kept," I decided as I watched a King Kong-sized Julia Child chop garlic larger than my head. But I could be cute and appreciative until chickens colonized Mars.
<br><p>
That first date lasted eight days, with just a quick pause for breath before the second: Trevor whisked me away to his home in the Hamptons. When he hosted a pool party, though, so I could meet his friends, it spiraled straight down the toilet. There were 50 of us: Trevor, me, and 48 other folks who, one by one, either congratulated me on my "catch" or suggested innovative ways to suck the poor sap dry.
<br><p>
"You know what you should do," one attractive man suggested, "is have an early birthday. That way you'll get a present whether or not he lasts until the real thing."
<br><p>
"Make up a sick aunt in Brooklyn," a thin young guy in Speedos advised, "so you can get out occasionally and sleep with someone attractive."
<br><p>
"Two words," a Leona Helmsley-type whispered. "Hot chocolate. It masks the taste of everything from Rohypnol to Beano."
<br><p>
I figured another intergenerational couple would understand, but once December wandered out of earshot May cut to the chase: "Getting him into bed was the easy part," he disclosed. "Now you've got to get into the will."
<br><p>
Eventually Trevor's sister sidled over and took my arm. "I can't believe the hateful things people are saying," she said. I felt like kissing her, but then she glanced over at Trevor, who was flipping burgers in his tiny swim trunks, and guffawed. "I mean, look at him. You'll earn every penny you get!"
<br><p>
I broke free of her grip and stormed into the house, Trevor toddling close behind. "I'm sick of these people," I said, tears welling in my eyes. "Every one of them thinks I'm after your money. It's like I have to be a gold digger just because I wear ugly clothes, cut my own hair, and buy my cologne from Rite Aid."
<br><p>
That last one froze Trevor in his tracks, so I continued to the bedroom alone. I changed into street clothes, threw my stuff in my suitcase, then cleared my toiletries out of the bathroom. I stumbled outside and got in the limo, but before I could tell the driver where to go Trevor had jumped in beside me, fully clothed.
<br><p>
"I hoped we could ignore the differences between us," I said, "but your friends don't seem willing to try. Why are they so suspicious? Why can't they see us as a couple, as two men in love, instead of old and rich paired with young and for sale?"
<br><p>
"Roman," he said, taking my hand in his, "it's nothing personal. Everybody makes assumptions, rich and poor alike. It's just the way people are."
<br><p>
"That's where you're wrong," I said. "It's the greedy who think we're all after money. It's the conniving who suspect us of plots. It's the backstabbers who think everyone's after them. I'll go hang out with poor, stupid, lazy people if that'll stop me from being insulted."
<br><p>
I don't know why this made me think of McDonald's, but it did. My stomach started growling, so I told the driver to head there, and we rode in silence until the golden arches appeared. "If you set one foot in there," Trevor warned, "it's over between us."
<br><p>
"I know," I said, nodding gravely, "but that's how it's got to be. This is my world. Here, I know I won't be judged."
<br><p>
Trevor followed me inside, resigned to my decision. "At least let me pay for you," he said, "as my farewell gift." I gave him a hug, for the last time inhaling the woodsy cologne that cost more than my education. When I let go, he stepped up to a register and bravely faced the geeky clerk. "I don't want anything, but I'd like to pay for him." The clerk looked to me for my order, punched it in, and read the total aloud, his pubescent voice cracking.
<br><p>
Trevor and I exchanged one final glance. I'd miss him, as strong feelings intermingled with my love of his wealth. But I knew what I was doing was right. Maybe these people weren't rich or fun or creative or smart, and maybe they had to move their fingers in the air to read the menu, but they wouldn't damn someone based on appearance. We were below pride, with our farts and flab and turquoise fannypacks. This Dorothy was back in his Kansas.
<br><p>
As Trevor fished the bills from his wallet the clerk looked at the two of us -- him in his tailored finery, me in my humble attire. His mouth twisted into a scabby pink smile and he scratched the top off a zit. "I love it when folks buy food for the homeless!" he said.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-51073689984875506082020-10-12T08:20:00.005-04:002020-11-09T09:08:29.833-05:00You get busy. You know how it is. You make a snack, do the laundry, take out the trash, and suddenly the thought hits you: Wait. No. Really? I haven't had sex in eight years?
<br><p>
I try to come up with an actual date but can't do it. It's not like people send you Hallmark cards after you screw. You can't run to the file cabinet and sort through the greetings for written evidence: from Grandma for my birthday, from my sister for Christmas, from Keith for the spit-roasted three-way. I wrack my brain but can't come up with any holidays that usually point towards sex, like an anniversary with an old beau, or a Valentine's Day with a new one, and I can't recall boyfriends that would indicate I was screwing around at the time. Mentally I peer at my penis like a forensic examiner: while there aren't any leeches or decomposition, just judging by its overall sadness I'd say it's been seven to ten years.
<br><p>
Emma acts like it's a positive thing. "You've got this zen calm to you," she declares. "Like you're post-hookup. Like sexual desire is a demon and after years of fighting you've finally wrestled it to the ground."
<br><p>
I'm not sure this is flattery. Fun, attractive people don't wrestle horniness to the ground: they tear their clothes off and dive right in. Frequently, in fact. Six or seven times a week. Me, though -- I've apparently dealt with it for so long I've become the first person in history to permanently win. I've looked into my pants and shouted, "BEGONE, SATAN!" so many times he's packed up all of his stuff and moved to some place where sin is still a vague possibility. He's probably hitchhiking to Betty White's place as we speak.
<br><p>
I decide to attack the problem logically, with a three-pronged approach. I answer an ad on Craigslist, I download Growlr, and I wander around the city pretending I'm a nice person so I can meet attractive people in the flesh.
<br><p>
Craigslist is the first option to crash and burn. I find a personals ad from a sixty-year-old man on the Upper West Side who likes the opera, the theatre, and travel, and wants to form a connection before taking it any farther. I email him expressing similar interests and his reply shoots back. "DO YOU HAVE A DICK PIC?" he asks. And he thoughtfully includes his.
<br><p>
I wrestle with it for a day or two. Times have changed, I say to myself. All the kids do it these days. Then I wake up one morning with one thought in my head: sixty-year-old men should NOT have dick pics. Nobody looks at a sixty-year-old man and thinks, "I'm on the fence about doing him. I think I'll hold out until I get details on girth."
<br><p>
It takes me a week to dismiss Growlr. The hot dudes are all masseurs or personal trainers, which means there's a price tag attached. The regular folks confuse me. I'm expecting come-hither poses that recall Denzel Washington but instead get smiles and berets and tons of excess flesh. I just can't see them as sexual. They remind me of Rerun from "What's Happening?" While the rest of the cast is struggling with dating he's buying striped socks and asking, "Who's ready to Pop & Lock?"
<br><p>
I don't actually communicate with anyone on Growlr: the Shouts -- paid messages to all subscribers -- scare me off. Most include words like "420-friendly" (weed) or "PNP" (crystal meth). "Looking for PARTY FAVORS," reads one Shout. "Anybody else LIKE TO SKI?" asks another. Are these people serious? I wonder. Like cops will read these and think, "I'm stumped! Guess I'll have to look elsewhere for illegal drug use."
<br><p>
One man whose profile name is Happy Times gives me existential despair. "I'm bored," he says one day. "Anybody want a blowjob?" The next day it's, "I'm super bored. Who wants to get sucked?" That's followed by, "Really bored. My lips were made for oral service" and then "Just bored sick. Cum to my glory hole!" Mentally I compose a reply, but "Holy Christ, dude -- GET A FUCKIN' JOB!" probably isn't what he's looking for.
<br><p>
Cruising hot dudes I see in the city gets me the furthest. Stephen, a sales clerk at a local store, is getting off work and asks me if I want to go to his place for coffee. I get butterflies. Should I? Could I? He's short -- maybe 5'4" -- but he's handsome and outgoing so I agree. We're walking down 14th Street as Too Much Information pours out. He's a recovering addict who's gone to AA meetings every day for 27 years. He's currently addicted to diet soda, which explains the plastic cup he's carrying that's the size of carry-on luggage. He's 59 and claims to like age-appropriate men but his last two boyfriends were 30. Unprompted, he shows me pictures of them. When he sees my look of displeasure he offers an excuse: "I didn't want to get involved with them," he says, "but they insisted."
<br><p>
"Shoot," I say, slapping my forehead. "I forgot I have to be somewhere." I grab his hand and shake it to a confused look. "Nice meeting you!" I say, and I run.
<br><p>
Then on Sunday I go to the Folsom Street East Fair. I see a bondage demonstration, watch some Furries share a carrot, and twenty minutes later I'm with another handsome man, this one maybe 5'3", walking to another apartment for more drinks. Yaakov looked great with his shirt off, but it's back on now and with each step that memory fades. He gets a phone call and takes it. For five minutes he argues with somebody in Hebrew. It's pretty much the opposite of sexy, since it reminds me of renegotiating my lease.
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We're four blocks away from his place when he tells me he's a rabbi. I feel like such an idiot; I thought it was just a bad haircut. Three blocks away he says his roommate stole his furniture so he has no place to sit down. Two blocks away he says he has no depth perception so he can't cross streets alone. "FASTER!" I implore. "LET'S WALK FASTER! I AM REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS!" One block away he tells me he was following me at the street fair. Just across the street I realize that every time he opens his mouth I get a whiff of a really bad stink.
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Which leaves Yaakov stranded at a crosswalk while I head home alone. I catch a glimpse of myself in a window and I start to understand Emma's comment. I've wrestled with the demon of desire so often it's like Godzilla fighting Rob Kardashian. Still, I add a mental note to my logical approach. "FIND A TALLER MAN," it reads. Not because he'll be closer to my height, but because the short ones can't walk fast enough.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-25004193063989354492020-09-14T04:12:00.002-04:002020-09-14T04:15:01.504-04:00Repeat Monday: Heather Has A Mommy And A Daddy, Part TwoOne night there’s a dance at Heather’s school and her parents offer to chaperone. While Heather is dancing with Danitra, she sees from the corner of her eye her mom and dad moving onto the dance floor. She watches in horror as her mom just sort of stands there swaying, her gingham granny dress limply hanging to the floor. She grimaces as her dad starts chopping at the air like Jackie Chan being attacked by locusts.
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Occasionally their movements coincide with the beat. Heather runs to the bathroom crying.
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“Heather, don’t feel so bad,” Danitra says. “Lots of kids have embarrassing parents.” She starts to lead Heather out of the bathroom, then stops. “Um, maybe we should stay in here a while longer. They just started doing the Twist.”
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One day the class projects are due. Heather brings in the model she’s made. It’s a lump of brown Play-Doh with ketchup poured over it and dotted with marshmellows stuck on with toothpicks. She sets it on the table as her teacher comes over to look.
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“Why, Heather! That’s . . . <b>nice</b>! Very <b>very</b> nice!”
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“What the <b>hell</b> is it?” Tommy asks.
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“TOMMY! Heather’s parents had me over for dinner once. This is what they call ‘chicken-fried steak.’”
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Heather bursts into tears. “NO IT’S NOT! It’s a VOLCANO! That’s lava, and that’s steam coming out.”
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Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez comforts Heather. Danitra enters and places her project next to Heather’s on the table.
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“Why, Danitra, what’s this?”
<br><p>
Danitra delicately removes the sheet protecting her project.
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“Versailles.”
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Heather takes one look at the tiny replica of Louis XIV’s summer home, constructed by Danitra and her two dads out of two hundred cubic yards of teak plank, thirty square feet of gold leaf, sixty pounds of Italian travertine marble from the same quarry Michelangelo used, tiny topiary and functional miniature fountains, and cries even harder.
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“Why did I have to have a mom and a dad?” Heather sobs. “Why can’t my family be like all the rest?”
<br><p>
Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez pulls Heather close. “Children,” she says,”every family is special, including those conforming to the rigid, stereotypical standard of male domination.” She starts to tell the class about her own family, including her hearing-impaired Hispanic mother, her height-challenged Israeli father, her recovering-substance-abusing brother-in-law and her Armenian sex-addict half-sister, but stops, realizing the school year is only 4,074 hours long.
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“Just because Heather’s parents are heterosexual doesn’t mean they’re slow-witted philistines, though there are strong correlations you don’t need a PhD in statistics to understand. But Heather is lucky to have a sweet mom and a wonderful dad and a dog named Molly and a hamster named Samson, and they all live together in a <b>lovely</b> house. They’ve got interesting avocado-colored appliances, carpet as long as your hair, and furniture that‘s by-and-large wood that must have taken them <b>hours</b> to assemble. There’s a big plastic sofa that turns into a bed, and a La-Z-Boy -- ”
<br><p>
“A <b>what</b>?” Keanu asks.
<br><p>
“A La-Z-Boy,” Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez repeats. “It’s a big vinyl chair that reclines.”
<br><p>
“Oh, man!” exclaims Keanu, covering his face with his hands. “And I thought our Herman Miller reproductions were embarrassing!”
<br><p>
Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez continues. “But the important thing is, they’re a family. They’re a group united for a common purpose, where each individual is given a sense of empowerment and their shared bonds are formalized in a ritualistic manner.”
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“Oh,” the students respond in unison.
<br><p>
Everybody hugs.
<center>
<b><font size=3>THE END</font></b>
<br><p>
<br><p>
If you enjoyed this story about Heather, ask your local bookseller for these titles:
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“Heather’s Mom is Narcoleptic”<br>
“Heather’s Dad Has Epstein-Barr”<br>
“Heather’s Sister’s Problem Still Puzzles Specialists”<br>
and the latest,<br>
“It’s No Picnic Being Related to Heather”<br>
</center>RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-24961305817777301162020-09-07T03:45:00.003-04:002020-09-07T03:45:53.155-04:00Repeat Monday: Heather Has A Mommy And A Daddy, Part OneI don't <b>believe</b> this. Apparently it's so fashionable to be gay, there are <b>support books</b> for children who have heterosexual parents.
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<center><b><font size=3>Heather Has a Mommy and a Daddy</font></b></center>
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Deep in the heart of Dullsville, at the end of a cul-de-sac, behind a lawn of scratchy brown grass dotted with giant plastic butterflies, three flaking cement deer, and a philodendron the size of Bob Hoskins though with fewer decorative parts, lives Heather Thompson.
<br><p>
Heather has a mommy and a daddy. Heather’s daddy is an accountant. Her mommy is a homemaker. Before Heather was born they met, fell in love, and got married.
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“I love you very much and I’m having your child,” Heather’s mom said.
<br><p>
Danitra is Heather’s best friend. One of Danitra’s dads is an empowerment facilitator. The other is an aura consultant. Danitra doesn’t know what they do at work, except they don’t need briefcases. Before Danitra was born her daddies met and fell in love, and after seventeen years spent discussing caring and support, handling acceptance, and negotiating intimacy, they had a commitment ceremony.
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“I love you very much and I’m designing the rings,” Danitra’s Daddy Mike said.
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One day in school Heather’s teacher, Mrs. Weinberg-Lopez, tells the class to draw pictures of their families.
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Danitra draws two men, Julio draws two women, and Heather draws a man and a woman.
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Keanu points at the woman Heather drew, with squiggly yellow hair, a crude red dress and simple brown shoes. “This dad here’s got some ugly drag going on,” he says.
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<br><p>
At lunchtime Danitra sits on the bench next to Heather and pulls a sandwich out of a brown paper bag.
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“Want to trade?” Danitra asks. “I’ve got grilled eggplant and goat cheese on marjoram foccacia.”
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“Um, I didn’t bring lunch,” Heather stammers, kicking her brown paper bag out of sight. “I’m . . . uh . . . on a diet.”
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“Diet?” Danitra asks. “Haven’t your dads told you not to buy into that patriarchal looks-based chauvinism? And anyway, what’s <b>this</b> then?” she asks, holding up the bag with “HAVE A SUPER DAY!” written in sparkle marker on it.
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Julio, who was listening nearby, runs up and grabs Heather’s lunch. “Yeah, what’s this? It’s <b>somebody’s</b> lunch!”
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Heather jumps at the bag but Julio holds it out of reach. “You give that back!” Heather yells.
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“Try and make me!” Julio chides. He pulls Heather’s sandwich apart and drops it like it was electrified. He wobbles away, holding his stomach.
<br><p>
“Oh my God!” he cries. “There’s like dead stuff in there!”
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Danitra looks at the sandwich lying on the cement. “Is that MEAT? Is that like SPAM?”
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Claudia, sitting quietly at the other end of the bench, bursts into tears. “Heather’s eating BAMBI!”
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“It’s friggin’ Wonder Bread!” Julio scoffs.
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Keanu walks toward the bread and peers at it. “And it’s got LUBE all over it!”
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“You idiot, that’s MAYONNAISE.”
<br><p>
“What’s mayonnaise?”
<br><p>
“It’s like goat cheese for heterosexuals.”
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“Heterosexuals?” Keanu asks. “Heather’s mommy and daddy are heterosexuals?”
<br><p>
Heather starts to yell. “No! I don’t have a mommy and a daddy. I’ve got two daddies!”
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“Hell-OOOO!” Danitra says, drawing the word out to twelve syllables. “We can see your <b>clothes</b>!”
<br><p>
“Um . . . “ Heather stalls, “then I’ve got two mommies.”
<br><p>
“And we’ve seen you play baseball,” Julio answers.
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Heather, unable to think of a response, sits on the bench and starts to cry. Danitra pulls a robin’s egg blue bandana from her pocket and dabs at Heather’s face.
<br><p>
“Maybe your mom’s not really a woman,” Danitra offers.
<br><p>
“Well,” Heather says, sniffing, “she cleans the house, and cooks, and does the laundry.”
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Danitra fumes. “We’re trying to establish that she’s <b>female,</b> not that she’s an <b>idiot.</b>”
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“Maybe your dad’s not really a man,” Julio suggests.
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“Well,” Heather answers, wiping her nose. “He’s big and strong and he’s got a moustache.”
<br><p>
Several of the children wonder what this proves but nobody says anything.
<br><p>
“So let’s say you’ve got a mom and a dad,” Keanu says. “Then where did <b>you</b> come from?”
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Heather thinks for a minute. “They went to bed together, and then I was born.” Some of her friends express further interest, but Heather doesn’t have a brochure. “Daddy put his thing in mommy -- “
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“Oh, man,” Keanu interjects. “Is that legal?”
<br><p>
“HelLLLLO!” sings Danitra, who gets the word up to eighteen syllables this time. “We’re in CaliFORnia!”
<br><p>
“And nine months later I came out of my mommy’s tummy,” Heather adds.
<br><p>
Several of the children wonder why they didn’t hire a surrogate with a vagina but nobody says anything.RomanHanshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07927151910841430306noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3367242841782618545.post-51205987415983589822020-09-01T04:59:00.005-04:002020-09-01T11:26:53.114-04:00Thanks for the great list of recommended songs, Spotify! They really fit well in my new playlist. The Andrews Sisters were all about fucking.
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