Showing posts with label go-go boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label go-go boys. Show all posts

Random Act equals a Major Award!

We are sitting street-side in a night club patio, tropical drinks in hand while the West Hollywood moon peeks through swaying palm trees. A Latin beat thumps in the background as I notice Paul’s gaze shift from me to somewhere in the middle distance. There is a look of wanton desire in his eyes as evidenced by his dark saucer-like pupils. It is reflexive, primal.

“See something you like?” I say bitterly.

“I’m sorry sweetie, I just couldn’t help myself.”

How could I blame him? We are surrounded by them as they parade down the street showing off their strong bodies, detailed impeccably. Here is a young sleek one. Here is a powerful muscular one that cruises like a predator decked out in leather. Every time they pass he checks out their rear end. It is a disgusting display of obsession.

“That one is a Rolls Royce Phantom, $400,000, forgive me I just can’t help myself.” He says.

“You might want to wipe up that drool.” I say while turning my head, marveling at the disparity between the haves and have-nots that exist within the space of one hundred feet here on Santa Monica Boulevard. While he salivates over Aston-Martins, and Bentley Continentals, I can’t take my eyes off of these poor boys that have spent all of their money on gym memberships and nutritional supplements, leaving scant resources for clothing. Indeed, some of them have only enough funds for one article of clothing, skimpy underwear. But they dance, God bless them, living in the now.

“He needs to eat, give him something.” Paul says knowing that it is not in my nature to ignore anyone in need.

“But he’ll only spend it on a nipple piercing, a strategically placed tattoo or steroids.” I offer up the oft-cited argument.

“Go ahead.”

I will do it dammit! I will ignore my doubts that he will spend the money foolishly and provide him with enough funds to buy a cheeseburger so that he may not be embarrassed by his six percent body fat that barely covers his rippling abdomen muscles. My heart is like the shining beacon of truth that is the Hollywood sign in the distance.

I pull out a few dollars, a pittance really, and walk up to one of the poor boys that dances on his sad little stage. As I get closer I realize that he has already spent money on nipple piercings and a tattoo that undulates down the side of his V shaped torso. I shake my head; at least this money will not be spent on those trivial things. But then I realize there is a flaw in my plan. He has no pockets! Where will he store the money? I experience an “A-ha moment” as I carefully tuck the bills inside the strap of his pitifully skimpy briefs. He is afraid that he will lose the money as he guides my hand deeper.

“There, there my good man, no one will take your money.” I say magnanimously.

He flashes a grateful smile, ridiculously perfect and white, hugs me and then sadly, flexes his biceps for me as if to say I will spend this money on more steroids. But I don’t care. I have selflessly practiced a random act of kindness. There was nothing in it for me. The universe will respond.


And the universe did respond! I have received a Major Award from Angie at Angie Uncovered. If you don’t read her blog, you should. It’s funny, heartfelt and thought provoking. I will practice another random act of kindness by passing this award on to three other great blogs I think you should read. But as a part of the award, I am required to tell you five random facts about me first. Consider it my awkward rambling award acceptance speech:

It's all about me

1. I was married to a woman for twenty two years and to a man, a wonderful, sexy, patient, car obsessed man for two years now. This makes me uniquely qualified to bestow my marital advice to anyone and everyone. And I'd like to start with Mr. Santorum.

2. The first time I gave a go-go boy some cheeseburger money, he fell off the bar and on top of me. I developed a rare but documented fear called Twink-a-fall-a-phobia. Paul's response? “Thank goodness it wasn’t a big ol’ bear bar.” I am happy to report that I am recovering through intense immersion therapy.

3. I have body issues. When you grow up hating what is on the inside, it’s only a matter of time before you project it to the outside. I am working through this and now I can say that I think my rack is pretty awesome. They’re real and they’re spectacular!

4. When I take a piece of clothing off of a hanger, I have to place the empty hanger in another spot with all of the other empty hangers. If they are mixed, Earth will explode.

5. Suck it Jesus! (That’s a Kathy Griffin reference, don’t get up in arms, all of my hoards of religious right readers)

When I was in California I had the pleasure to meet the following three blogger award winners. Come on down! Run down the aisle while the camera focuses on all of your jiggling awesomeness. The Price is right:

And the winner is award goes to

Becca at I’m Pretty Sure That: When Becca enters the room, she brings the sun with her. Her smile and laugh could warm Jack Frost’s heart. She is lovely. If I were single and straight, I would marry her. Her blog is snarky, tearful, personal and her recount of overheard conversations hilarious. .

Elizabeth at Flourish in Progress: When Elizabeth enters the room, she brings the moon; mysterious, beautiful beyond imagination she walks in beauty like the night. Her blog is wildly popular, hilarious and got it’s start from taking a year off from shopping. She was inspired by the Happiness Project and now she inspires countless minions weekly with her Monday Dares. Don’t drink anything when you read her blog, or it will come out of your nose when you guffaw.

Jim at A Southerner in San Francisco: Jim is a handsome star that seems to have discovered the fountain of youth. (Seriously Jim, give me your secret). Could it be his diet of southern fried delicacies like fried lasagna, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Cheerwine? Check out his blog to find out. His posts are near and dear to my heart because he hails from my hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina and lives in my adopted home town of San Francisco. He weaves the two together beautifully.

And so I have practiced yet another random act of kindness by giving you, my readers, the sun, the moon and the stars, with a generous side of go-go boys.

I bet the universe responds big time!


The big 5-0

I am going to be fifty.

There, I said it. It’s not happening today, this month or this year, probably next year. But, I’m not going to worry about that. OK, I might be worrying a little about it. I might actually be worrying a lot about that. But worry causes stress, and stress causes wrinkles, so I’m worried that my worrying is going to make me age pre-maturely. Although at pre-fifty, I think I’m holding up pretty well.

Recently, my daughters gave me a collection of pictures in which I am sixteen years younger. I held them up and remarked to Paul how black my hair used to be. I expected him to make a loving comment about how much better looking I have become.

“Yeah and look at how thin you were then, too.” He casually replied.

Paul really is of no help in this aging thing. And here’s why, he relishes being the younger one; the arm candy, the trophy husband. To hear him talk, you would think that there were multiple generations between us. When I talk about the pinnacle of TV programming in the 1970’s being the Friday night line up consisting of both The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family he stares at me as if I am speaking Chinese.

Oh, he tries to be empathetic. At a restaurant he’ll ask if I would like for him to read the menu to me. When I emphatically refuse, he’ll ask if he can hold the menu out even further for me to read. When I miss something that the waitress has said, he’ll shout out WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO ORDER exaggerating the words while pointing to his mouth.

“I’ll just have the strangled chicken with bourbon satay.” I say, ignoring his taunts.

He rolls his eyes and whispers to the waitress “He’ll have the seared chicken with barbecue sauce” and the waitress nods knowingly.

“I only need my glasses for reading, I’ll have you know.” I say, offended.

“And the hearing aid to hear.” He whispers.


“Oh nothing, you know, from the neck down, you could pass for a twenty year old.” He says attempting to throw me a bone. I wish I could just accept the second part of that statement and ignore the first.

“So, from the neck up, I might as well be eighty years old is what you’re really saying. What if I decide to let myself go, get fat, wrinkly, bald and smelly?” I ask him.

“Ha! That will never happen; you’re way too vain for that.”

“Damn right....wait, I don’t think you meant that as a compliment…” I say narrowing my eyes.

He laughs at all of my facial lotions, creams and lighteners; better living through chemistry is what I have always said. No, the real issue here is that Paul is afraid I am becoming a literal “Benjamin Button” progressively becoming younger. Then he won’t be the young, pretty one.

To illustrate that point, I told Paul about a recent conversation I had with some female co-workers regarding the upcoming milestone birthday. “Oh, forty must be a tough one.” They chimed in. If bodily contact in the office wasn’t such a touchy issue I would have kissed them both on the mouth. Paul’s take on it was a little different.

“Aren’t they in their twenties? Do you think they even see a difference between forty and fifty?”

But, as I said, I’m not going to worry about it. I am not going to be fifty years old, but fifty years YOUNG. And it will be a celebration. I expect a crowd of at least one hundred of my closest friends, a DJ, go-go boys and maybe a special appearance by Rihanna. I let Paul know that he should begin planning this.

“And maybe Willard Scott can announce your birthday on the Today show too.” Paul said.

“Hell yeah…wait, I don’t think you meant that as a positive thing…”

Its jealousy is what it is.

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