Live n' Learn.

I'm having a party tomorrow night. It's an old-people themed party, where the attendees are forced strongly encouraged to dress like geriatric nursing home patients. There will be hard candies, and Jessica Tandy movies playing on the projector.

Where do I come up with this stuff?

No clue.

But I digress.

I'm one of those morons who always cleans before a party (I know, I know!) but that's just because my pad is so kicky, I want people to see it clean.

Tonight, I decided to stay in. And clean. Mainly to tackle the ever-expanding pile of paper on the counter by my front door.

I've spent the last hour picking through receipts, and Bed Bath & Beyond coupons, American Spirit Cigarette flyers (Sheesh, you sign up for two packs during Art Basel when you're desperate for a smoke at Heist, and you get mail for life...) and the rest of the accumulated detritus that has built-up in that small corner of my home since the last time I cleaned it out... I don't remember when.

The lesson I've learned. Are you ready?

I do not like to open bills.

There. I said it. Bills, bank statements, credit card correspondence. I won't open it. I flatly refuse. Oh, sure, I pay my bills. I just don't open them. I have two stacks, seven inches high apiece, of unopened bills. That I neither intend to throw away, nor do I intend to open...

The other lesson I'm learning is maybe, just maybe, I should take everyone up on their offers to send me e-bills and cut down on paper...

But, eh. I'll just keep collecting the unopened bills and storing them in my filing cabinet... I mean, if FPL is going to charge me for electricity, the least I can do is get my money's worth out of postage... right?

I'm back. I guess.

Okay. I've been back for almost a week, but now I guess I can say, "I'm back."

Meh.

Going to Jackson was WONDERFUL. The weather was sunny and dry. I did lots of hiking and Alpine Sliding, and photographing Elk and Bison at Yellowstone and tame Chipmunks at Hidden Falls in Grand Teton National Park...

I managed not to fall through the thin crust at West Thumb in Yellowstone, and I managed only to get mildly scalded by the anemone geyser by Old Faithful.

I took pictures with stuffed bears, drunkenly made out with chicks at the Million Dollar Cowboy (and then promptly accidentally threw them down/dropped them during a particularly impassioned set of drunken dancing around other less-than-wasted Cowboys) managed not to get my northern-City-Boy-hipster ass kicked by said Cowboys as I fell into them and their wives, was only once threatened with death (which is usually a pretty good track record for a weekend for me) signed a Ketubah, watched my beautiful Best Friend get married to an awesome guy...

Spent lots of money, ate lots of barbecue (and no Elk or other game meats! HA!) went white water rafting on the Snake River, took pictures humping the sculptures at the National Museum of Wildlife Art, drove the Teton Pass and got a huckleberry milkshake in Victor, Idaho, while seeing one of my friends from High School, and overall,

had a pretty kick-ass time.

PEACE OUT!

I'm off to Jackson Hole, WY till the 9th. Have fun, sluts! Happy 4th!

Myopenbar Miami

Yes, ladies and germs, I've branched out.

My snarky brand of humor can be seen clashing with Vivek's at http://miami.myopenbar.com where I'm a contributor/collaborator/scout.

We're going to have a launch party soon. Keep yer eyes peeled.

Now if I can just convince Vivek he'll get stabbed if he edits he doesn't have to edit down my work...

An Excerpt:

David Sedaris' new book, "When You Are Engulfed in Flames," is available, autographed at no extra charge! at Books & Books on Lincoln Road.

Here's the passage that just made me snort with laughter:

"I don't know why it was, exactly, but nothing irritated my father quite like the sound of his children's happiness. Group crying he could stand, but group laughter was asking for it, especially at the dinner table.

The problem was that there was so much to laugh at, particularly during the years that our Greek grandmother lived with us. Had we been older, it might have been different. "The poor thing has gas," we might have said. For children, though, nothing beats a flatulent old lady. What made it all the crazier was that she wasn't embarrassed by it -- no more than our collie, Duchess, was. It sounded as if she were testing a chain saw, yet her face remained inexpressive and unchanging.

"Something funny?" our father would ask us, as if he hadn't heard, as if his chair, too, had not vibrated in the aftershock. "You think something's funny, do you?"

If keeping a straight face was difficult, saying no was so exacting that it caused pain.

"So you were laughing at nothing?"

"Yes," we would say. "At nothing."

Then would come another mighty rip, and what was once difficult would now be impossible. My father kept a heavy serving spoon next to his plate, and I can't remember how many times he brought it down on my head.

"You still think there's something to laugh about?"

Strange that being walloped with a heavy spoon made everything seem funnier, but there you have it. My sisters and I would be helpless, doubled over, milk spraying out of our mouths and noses, the force all the stronger for having been bottled up. There were nights when the spoon got blood on it, nights when hairs would stick to the blood, but still our grandmother farted, and still we laughed until the walls shook."

Old men and their gay hookers.

Carolina, Vivek and I just got back from a bikeride, and after a dip in the pool, they left (cuz it's gonna storm) and I was laying out towels on the balcony, when off in the distance I saw a tanned, furry-but-groomed set of pecs and a perfect swimmer's six-pack from halfway across the Belle Isle bridge... attached to a scruffy preppy guy in Aviators with sunstreaked hair...

And I dropped the Marimekko tray I was holding, and plastic cups rolled everywhere. (Not really).

And I stared. (Have you figured out my type if you want to match me up with someone?)

And when I finally remembered to breathe again, I looked at his companion.

Who at first, I thought was his aunt, resembling a large white bratwurst.

And then I realized it was a guy. Puffy -- zaftig... In large black sunglasses, lipstick-pink short-shorts, and a flowing linen shirt and...

Oh god, it pains me to write this...

A Sailor Cap. Or a sunhat. Some awful variation thereof.

::needle scratching off the record...::

Wait... him... and him... but... Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh...

I'm going to bring to your attention something you have probably never noticed before.

And as soon as I say this, you will start seeing them... Old men and their gay hookers. (Of course, that caveat is only to those of you who live in the Miami Beach or Los Angeles, California areas...)

Next time you're 'oot n' aboot, keep your eyes open. And then you'll see them. See what? Old men and their chiseled, beefy and/or JCrew-modelesque "escorts."

Because, it's super likely that the bald, overweight 63-year-old queen in the limp Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt, just happened to strike up a successful conversation among the frisee in Publix with a tall, tanned Adonis, that actually lead somewhere, and then they went on an awkward first date, and both of them would strategically answer the phone early in the relationship to keep the other person interested, even though it killed them not to answer every call, and now they have lazy brunches on Sunday mornings over the New York Times crossword puzzle, and right now they're on their Friday evening stroll down Lincoln. And also, they fuck. Voluntarily.

Seriously? Who do you think you're fooling?

Now, that said, I have nothing AGAINST hookers - I hope never to be driven into the arms of one as my only option for lovin', but hey, I could have a disfiguring accident (knock wood and spit between your fingers) so it's nice to know that I could pay someone hot to hang out with me if I needed to.

But like, if you have someone you're paying (doubtlessly a LOT of money) to hang out with you with a 95% probability of a bored acceptance of your sloppy groping at the end of the night, why not just cut to the chase and get your money's worth at the beginning of the night... and hey, stretch it out?

I mean, it just seems like a perfectly good waste of hooker to be dragging them around, when it's so obvious that you're PAYING AN "ESCORT" for company, that you're not really impressing anyone, so much as making them sad, and making their brick-oven pizza taste a little more bitter, the flavor poisoned by sympathy and pity...

Personally, I just think these guys are making a very poor economic decision: it's like making white sangria with Perrier Jouet, instead of $10.00 Cava from Costco...

It's a waste!

Instead of making other people who they think they're impressing, actually feel sad, they should just hold 'em at home, and drip candlewax on the hooker's waxed chest, or whatever the agreement is...

You'll see. Next time you're out, you'll see a set, and that entire thought process will flicker through your mind as you watch them stroll down the street, eventually disappearing into the crowd.

Now, go forth, and see Hookers!

Note to Self:

Perhaps going on a 20 mile bikeride shortly before going kayaking wasn't a great idea...

I's tired.