So I saw this article on the Gaily Grind that discussed the latest in sex gear:  full sized man sex dolls. Realistic sex dolls. 

Like, freakily real. 

Well, until you get to the faces, then you dip into the whole “uncanny valley” thing. 

And while I usually prefer something with a pulse, my recent track record would hint that perhaps I should look into this. 

Apparently you can choose from a variety of attachments: cut, uncut, flaccid, erect. Even size. 

Oh yeah– this would do nicely. Very nicely. 

Eat your heart out, Large Tony.ūüėČ

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Under the Olive Trees

We have now entered my favorite time of the year– the time when the Russian Olive trees are in bloom.

The days have gotten warm, the first humid weather is upon us, the first thunderstorms are brewing, I can bike without a jacket, and summer holidays are right around the corner. 

I can tell all of this by the smell of the air. 

Actually, quite a bit is in bloom right now (some lilac still, the linden trees are starting?, and some other random stuff) which makes the air is so wonderfully fragrant.  Riding my bike home from rehearsal on Tuesday evening was glorious; the air warm, thick, and redolent.

But it’s the Russian Olive scent that I notice most… And dearly love.

Such tiny, delicate little flowers that all but disappear against the silvery green. 

I know they are viewed as kind of a scrub tree, but I think they’re pretty. I love the silvery leaves and the wicked thorns. And the smell most of all. 

With car windows down or when I’m just walking, I notice the fragrance immediately and it makes me happy. It reminds me of the end of the school year and the start of summer, the promise of warm days, late sunsets, and grilling and fun!

Yup, I love this time of year. 

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Woofy Wednesday

After a “dry” visit to San Francisco, I need these. I need ALL of these:

 Mr Sydney Leather again. Le sigh…..

That’ll do, pig. That’ll do. 

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Beach Blanket Babylon to be precise.

If you go to San Francisco, you really need to see this show. Splurge for the cafe table seats and sit up close. 

It’s a musical review-cum-showcase-cum-extravaganza. With outlandish wigs. 

The loose plot thread is that Glinda the good witch is helping Snow White find a husband. So they travel around the globe and musical numbers ensue. 

They hit Rome, Paris, and there is even some Spain/Latin America tossed in.
But the show is deliberately kept loose enough to allow for the insertion of current pop cultural references and new songs. The show we saw had a musical number featuring Adele, Sia, and Kim Lardassian. 

There was also a moment where Bill Cosby made an appearance and sang Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit”.  The whole “one pill makes you….”, lemme tell you, I lost my shit. 

Laughed myself hoarse, I did. 

Of course, political humor is in there too– with a lovely drag moment of Michele Bachmann singing “Can’t take my eyes off of you”.  And naturally Hillary, Donald, Cruz, and Bernie all made appearances.

Oh, and a Sarah Palin moment with a gun, her going all “bang bang!” Brilliant.

Seriously, you must see this show. It’s really too good to pass up. 

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View to a Thrill

Some pics from San Francisco:


His name is Tim Ball, and he was in SF at the Eagle before making his way to IML. So. Nice. I wanted to put his smile on my smile. 



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Woofy Wednesday

Pre San Francisco edition:

 Um, pretty much everything about this one is a major turn on for me. 

 And then there’s this–


Dat package tho’. 

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Clothing crisis, that is. 

In a few days time, I’ll be winging my way to San Francisco– and I don’t know what to wear!!

I pack light– like, if I can’t carry it on, it ain’t happening. Since this is just a longer weekend, I’m only bringing a large backpack. 

I mean, how much do I need, really?  I can wear the same pair of jeans for 4 days. I can wear a jacket on the plane. One pair of decent shoes that I wear (along with a belt).  So all that really remains is the sundry things. 

So what’s the issue?  San Francisco’s fucking weather. 

The temps are supposed to be mid 50’s to mid 60’s. But there is the marine layer. And the micro-climes throughout the city. And ocean breezes. And chilly evenings.

So I need useable layers. 

Which need to fit in a back pack. 

Erick says “hoodies are your friend”, but I’m not sure I want to wear a hoodie. I do own a couple and could wear one on the plane. But what about my 1/4 zip wool pullover?

And then do I bring my Cubs baseball cap for the baseball game?  And should I pack a polo shirt for a nicer, tucked in look– sort of just in case?  And of course sunglasses.  And Erick said to being a swimsuit because his building had a pool….


Clothing crisis.

Any tips from the peanut gallery?

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British slang: very pleased.

“I’m dead chuffed to have won”

After this past week and weekend I am feeling pretty fucking chuffed. My schedule was relentless and everything went really well.
Work last week was busy, but productive. I got quite a bit done, in spite of the lengthy meetings. And there weren’t any major problems, which was nice. 

In addition to my regular work schedule, I had the following: rehearsals on Sunday, Monday & Tuesday evenings, 4-hour recording sessions (from 6-10pm) on Thursday and Friday, another 4-hour recording session on Saturday from 1-5, then my last concert band concert of the season Saturday evening at 7.  Then a karaoke/sushi birthday party to attend on Sunday afternoon. 

The recording sessions were grueling. We only got one 15 minute break and it was a fuckton of standing stock still on creaky risers. So… Many… Takes… Needed. I still ache. 

A picture of one of the sessions. I swear you could hear a mouse fart in that space!  Supposedly this particular hall has the lowest “sound floor” in the cities.  When we were quiet before takes, if someone even touched their music, you could hear it. 

But I also managed to clean my place (before my trip to SF this week), and I cut my hair and whitened my teeth a little. And hit the gym. 

And rode my bike to work today!

  (I’m still a bit sweaty from my ride)

It’s supposed to be nice all week, so I hope to ride my bike each day. Gotta burn the lbs before flying to Cali!

Speaking of– part of the timing for my San Francisco trip was because of this past week. I knew that once I made it past Saturday, I would be ready for a mini-vacay. 

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Testing 1… 2…

This is a crazy time for the twin cities gay men’s chorus. Not only is it our 35th anniversary, but we are preparing a brand new commissioned work for our spring concert and GALA chorus events.

As I’ve mentioned before, the commissioned operetta is based on the book Two Boys Kissing by David Levithan. It’s a young adult novel with several intersecting storylines, narrated by a generation of gay men who have died from AIDS. 

Anyway, as part of this whole shebang, we are recording the work, which will be available on CD at the GALA festival as well as at our concert. The first recording session was last night. 

It didn’t go so well. 

First of all, the piece has some orchestration for string quartet, trumpet, piano, and percussion. We’ve only ever heard the piano so there was a learning curve with that. Secondly, you have a chorus made up of amateur singers. Who are gay men.

And noisy AF. 

You would seriously think these guys had zero common sense.  We are RECORDING people. You have to be absolutely still and quiet. No page rustling. No whispered comments. Absolutely no movement on the choral risers because they creak.

And for fucks sake– TURN OFF YOUE GODDAMN PHONES. 

After the first phone rang and ruined a take, you would think that everyone would make sure their phones were silenced. But no. 

And one guy brought his kids. His KIDS!  And they were late and walked in right in the middle of a take. Um, this one may have been a time to use a baby sitter. Or better yet, maybe you just don’t come.

All that aside, things were going fairly decently– until the sound engineer’s equipment blew up. 

Yup. During a take, all of a sudden there was this pop and the clattering of metal on the stage. We all thought the percussionist had dropped something. 

Turns out the power supply on the equipment blew and took the recording heads with it.  

So we lost like 2.5 hours of scheduled recording time last night.  Which means we are gonna have to work like rented mules during tonight’s four hour session to lay some serious tracks!

It will be cool once it’s all done- but man is it a lot of work. And stressful! I am so paranoid about moving or making extraneous noise that I don’t even breathe after every take. 

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At least there was Thai food…

So, last evening after work I met up with the 22 year old for dinner. ¬†Let’s just say it could have gone better.

I walked into the restaurant and he was already seated (promptness, a good sign!).  And he was every bit as handsome as his pictures.

And that was the high point of the date. ¬†I’m not joking.

We introduced ourselves and I shook his hand. ¬†And as I took a seat he said, “And as you can tell by my accent, I’m from the country ‘who gives a shit’.” ¬†So I asked where that was, to which he replied, “Who gives a shit?” It took a few more promptings for me to discover that he was originally from Russia and had emigrated to the US when he was 14– so like 7 years ago.

Then we started the obligatory small talk, and it was a bit like pulling teeth. ¬†I kept asking questions and he was very twitchy, and also full of bravado about his life so far and his accomplishments to date in his young life. ¬†It came across as a bit forced. ¬†But I mean, he graduated college in 3.5 years in software engineering, had a job while in school and has already paid off his student loans so….

Anyway, this is the point where things take a turn. ¬†Downward. ¬†I complimented him by saying that he seems very smart and it appears he did very well in school. ¬†“Did you go to the U on scholarship then?” I asked.

“On scholarship?” he scoffed. ¬†“Why would I get a scholarship– I’m white.”

Ah.  Vaguely bitter, racist comment.  Strike one.

The appetizers come and we have some more random small talk, when suddenly he complimented me on my hair. ¬†He liked the silver, but also the haircut. ¬†“We have the same hair, I think,” he says.

“Well thank you. ¬†Since I cut my own hair, I take that as a compliment.” ¬†He looked at me rather shocked. ¬†“You cut your own hair? ¬†How??” ¬†So I replied rather drolly¬†“With scissors and clippers, actually.”

“Ah, so you’re your own ‘gay’ then!” he says rather blithely.

“I’m my ‘own gay’…..???” I asked, confused.

“Yeah, you do the gay job of cutting your own hair. ¬†So are you your own jew too?” he asks as he shoves some more appetizer into his mouth.

“Ummmm…. I’m not Jewish,” I replied (again, not quite following).

“Who does your taxes?” he asks bluntly.

“I do,” I stated right before he says with a smile “So you are your own Jew too!”

Strike two, three and 12 million.

That was about the time the dinners came.  I dug into mine with alacrity, trying to finish quickly while also trying to steer the conversation to benign topics.  Things about the house he just bought and plans for his future, etc.

As he continues to talk with big hand gestures and this exaggerated bravado, it suddenly hits me. ¬†He is a stereotype. ¬†He is the “driven, first gen Russian immigrant kid” who’s out to “make eet beeeg in Ahmereeeeka”. ¬†If you can picture all of the Russian characters you’ve seen on TV or in movies that are loud and brash and egotistical (with possible mob ties)– that’s him. ¬†I just keep thinking he needs to be on Law and Order or something.

Anyway, dinner progresses and Even with my best tap dancing, some additional topics came up that were just as uncomfortable. ¬†Like when he told me about his other dating experiences on “Ok Cupid”. ¬†Most of which were disastrous in his opinion. ¬†Although he said, “But there has been one really good one– the best one.” ¬†And he looked at me with a little moue.

I played coy and said, “Really? ¬†Do tell!” ¬†To which he replied, “It’s you!….. Nah, just kidding. ¬†It was this guy in January. ¬†We dated until recently.”

He then expounded on the virtues of dating this older guy and how he wasn’t feminine at all because he couldn’t really stand the really femmy gays (like Todd at his work who was SUCH a GIRL!). ¬†He liked the manly gays who did manly things like sports and such.

And oddly enough, this wasn’t even the most awkward and uncomfortable point of the evening. ¬†I’m not even going to go into that. ¬†Suffice it to say, I was done by the Jew comment and couldn’t wolf my food fast enough.

We paid the bill fairly quickly after we finished dinner (him complaining that his was too salty), and we walked to our cars. ¬†Which were most unfortunately parked right by each other. ¬†To end the evening, he insisted on a “football hug”. ¬†You know, bro-style. ¬†This evidently meant first grasping our hands together at chest height, then pulling in for a quick chest bump and back pat.

As I watched him drive off, I thought to myself “Well, at least there was Thai food.”

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