Date Archives December 2010

Stuffed with Wiener Art

The day after Christmas, Tom, Emily, Evan, and I took a daytrip to Leavenworth, a tiny psuedo-Bavarian tourist-trap town nestled on the other side of the Cascade mountains. We spent the trip there singing loudly and obnoxiously–there may, in fact, be video evidence of us singing/screaming “Paradise City” by Guns N Roses. I was still running really low on sleep, but high on caffeine from the mega-gulp-size Americano I chugged on the way over. By the time we got to Leavenworth, I had to pee really, really, really, really badly. I had mentioned it at one point in the car, and Emily snipped at me to “Hold it!” so I dutifully held it and fantasized about blasting over the snow-and-ice-covered landscape like some sort of urine-stuffed jetpack anime nightmare, cackling wildly and leaving a trail of yellow snow in my wake. I never claimed that my fantasy world was a good place. Regardless, by the time we got there, I was getting pretty desperate to find a restroom, so we barged into the first store we came upon after we parked, begging to use their facilities. After my moments of blessed relief, I came to and realized I was in the tackiest place I’d ever been in over the course of my life, and this includes Tijuana. I didn’t realize this last time I’d been here, as everything was closed, but the knowledge that I was now entering Tackyville, USA, settled about my shoulders like a bedazzled cloak. It really struck me when I looked up at the wall and saw a truly terrible painting of a nude woman. It was clear from this painting that the artist wanted to solely paint some breasts, based on the way they were carefully rendered and lighted, but ultimately decided he needed to add the rest of the body as well, the aspects of which he was obviously less familiar as the face resembled nothing so much as a melted candle. Nearly everything in the store was tagged “I love junk”, so I suppose at least they don’t believe they’re getting anything over on the visitors.


I wonder what sort of “goods” they “sell” here?

We hit the tacky tourism jackpot with a store dedicated solely to Christmas, which particularly specialized in a series of “life-size” elves ripped straight from my darkest nightmares. These elves did not grin jollily, they leered. They were not gesticulating merrily with their hands, they were groping. I’m certain their mouths were frozen in place while mouthing satanic curses. Their eyes follow you around the room, piercing you, letting you know they’re watching, always watching. I did not like these elves, and, in fact, wanted to set fire to the store in a bold act of heroism. 165691_481984423939_4683503_n






As I progressed through the store, flicking my bic, I discovered that just about anything can be turned Christmassy to turn a profit on this, the most profitable holiday of the year.



Really, nothing says Christmas like a fiber optic angel. Unless it’s a glittery boobed, hairy-chested army merman. 164716_481984728939_4581776_n



They also had a statuette of Santa praying over the baby Jesus’ manger, that moved and played music when you turned a key at the bottom. The problem was, the movement involved the baby Jesus’ cradle rocking back and forth into Santa’s lap in a terrible religious travesty blowjob. 167650_481984813939_1834773_n


Santa is always watching. Even from dark hallways, always watching.

More tourist trap tackiness under the cut

“That’s a ring of fire, not a crown of thorns, you moron!”

On Christmas Eve, I went over to Emily’s house already dressed in my pajamas, breaking a solemn vow I had made to myself years ago that I would never leave my home in PJS, unless of course, I was wearing them under other clothes.

We started drinking, did a Yankee Gift Swap where at least two of us ended up going home with the gifts we brought (apparently Anne and I are bad gift-pickers. I maintain that my gift, a trio of L’Occitane hand creams would have been awesome for anyone other than the solitary dude in our midst who almost burst into tears when he opened it and thereby almost made it a holiday), and then made a pilgrimage to the Peppermint Christmas House, where in the car, Rachel and I both grabbed Evan’s ass while reaching to put on our seatbelts and he socked me in the arm, the fading bruise a constant reminder to me about the price of safety.

Rachel got lube for Christmas, so I suppose remarks about her Sahara-like vaginal canal are no longer appropriate, if in fact they ever were.


The Peppermint Christmas House is one of those houses with the lights strung to sync with music, which you can listen to by tuning into a radio station. I felt the best way to demonstrate how festive the whole shebang made me feel was to get out and dance in front of the house. Emily joined me, Evan started shouting something indiscernable, and it was a Christmas Miracle the police weren’t called.

On our way back to the house, we noted that the RiteAid was open, and found ourselves with an opportunity to do…something.

This something involved buying Franzia in our pajamas. Franzia, swirly straws, and pop rocks.

166397_479973398939_2993986_n133022_479973078939_1977978_o I was kind of mesmerized by these bags. Do you really need a special storage bag for all of these things? Are all of these bags that different? All of my groceries go into The Forgotten Pit at the bottom of the refrigerator until they turn into science experiments.

We didn’t stay up much beyond that–I had to run home to let Napoleon out, so I missed out on about an hour of what everyone got up to, and when I got back, we watched A Christmas Story. Given the sounds that Evan was emitting upstairs (chainsaw followed by some sort of yelping whimper?!), I elected to sleep downstairs on the couch. Emily’s kitty, Luger, elected to also sleep downstairs on the couch, namely, on the part of the couch containing my face. I’d wake up every twenty minutes or so, choking and gasping, my mouth full of cat fur, and hear four cat paws hitting the carpet as Luger realized that yet another attempt to smother me to death was fruitless. 7am has never come so early in my life. And during all of that, somehow Santa still managed to sneak past me and do his Santa-ing business!


We had gifts not only from Santa, but also from Mrs Claus and Shaky the Elf at the Methadone Clinic. Some of these givers elected to wrap their gifts in glitter paper, which does not merely come off the paper when one unwraps a gift, but explodes off of it like it was a glitter bomb, a natural disaster of glitter. Glitter was everywhere–on our clothes, in our hair, on the carpet, on the couch, covering the cats and dog…I myself had so much glitter around my mouth in particular that it looked like I’d spent Christmas morning eating out a stripper named Sparkles.

After we’d ripped into our stockings and the gifts from the various citizens of the north pole, we exchanged the gifts we’d gotten for each other. There was so much gift-unwrapping going on that while I didn’t get to see everything that everyone got, I did watch carefully to see when people opened mine. Everyone seemed to really like what I got them, which thrills me as it’s such a disappointment to put thought into a gift and have it ill-received. Emily loved her scarf (and she’s worn it ever since, so I know she wasn’t bluffing), Anne loved the book I got her about the civil war (one she hadn’t read!), and Evan actually squealed in delight when he opened the box set of grindhouse movies I’d gotten him–“Oh my god! Kung fu death punch!?”. So far everything I’ve given has been well-received…there are three more sitting under my tree that have yet to meet their destined owners, but I can’t imagine that there’s a loser among that bunch, so I will go ahead and declare this a successful year of gift-giving!

Evan got me “Dragon Wars” on blu-ray, explaining that he and and friend had gone out to find me the absolute worst movie they could find–he started at one end, the friend started at the other, and somewhere in the middle, an angelic choir sang and a light shone down from heaven or some indoor spotlight, whichever fits more in tune with your personal religious beliefs, and lo, there was Dragon Wars.

We had breakfast, played with the dog for a while, and then I had to pack up my things and leave. First I went home, to feed Napoleon and let him out, and then I went to girlpirate‘s house, where I spent the rest of the day. We hung out, chatted, played about a million rounds of Angry Birds on her new ipad, watched Christmas Vacation, and she made me some gorgeous jewelry. She said she likes my eye for color and design, and we’re going to work together to make some new pieces for her store.

All in all, it was a very lovely Christmas with my chosen family.

It was Santarchy, I tell you!

Two Saturdays ago, I convinced my friends to join me in the booze-riddled, fur-covered, red tidal wave nightmare known as Santacon. Last year, I went by myself and had a smashing time. I also had a fantastic time this year, but it suffered a little from lack of organization, and the weather also blew, which made hanging outside the bars socializing with strangers, caroling, elf-tossing, etc, less appealing. If spending all day in a velvet suit with itchy fur is uncomfortable, spending all day in a sodden velvet suit is exponentially worse. Last year as a single Santa, it was easy for me to squeeze into the bars and do my thing–when you have to find spots for 4-6 other people, it gets a little more difficult. I’m not complaining, merely explaining why we ended up breaking off from the Santa horde and forging our own path, filled with slapfights and pizza slices the size of a toddler and handsy elves and shoving plastic penguins down strangers’ pants. Emily took some funny videos, but sadly, I cannot figure how to get those from facebook to embed here.

Everyone met at the Fremont Troll, where one of the organizers reminded everyone of the Four Fucks of Santacon: Santa does not fuck with cops, Santa does not fuck with children, Santa does not fuck with security, and Santa does not fuck with Santa (unless it’s consensual). After the Four Fucks were established, everyone made their way to the first bar, the Dubliner. Already, there were far too many Santas for everyone to get inside, so we hung around outside, passing out gifts, receiving condoms and pornography and swigs from random flasks and party invitations and clove cigarette drags and awkward kisses, all while dancing to such fine tunes as “Baby Got Back” by the inimitable Sir Mix-a-Lot.


Here comes a santa, there goes a santa, yet another santa