cat Bean Tails

archives: 11/02, 12/02, 1/03, 2/03, 3/03, 4/03, 5/03, 6/03, 7/03, 8/03, 9/03, 10/03
other stuff: cubby, ff, jnym, pj, sg, sf, sfw, twop

Friday, November 28, 2003

Well, after many sleepless nights, painful fits of hair-pulling, and compulsive hand-wringing; Bean and I have decided it's time to call it quits with Bean Tails. We are, to say, no more. We've had fun, and hope you have too -- and, really, how couldn't you? -- but it's time to bid you farewell before it's too late, to exit gracefully during our prime, to die recklessly at the height of our red-hot fame.

Sure, there could be ill-advised reunion episodes, like The Fact of Life Girls Get Fat or Mary & Rhoda, in the future; however, we doubt that will happen unless we're paid with treasures of gold, rubies, and priceless strands of pearls. Anyway, best wishes and keep your feet on the ground while always reaching for the stars, you delusional losers.

On a semi-serious note, though: We love you all, and thanks for reading. Bye.



Tuesday, November 11, 2003

How embarrassing. Even the gentleman in the clip art sports the very same complex shade of red hair, too. Great, now I'm like all of my other loser-ass friends: parodies of Onion articles.

Dude -- something very funny-comma-disturbing Alissa sent to me. Hee. (She's not a loser, though.)


Thursday, November 6, 2003

Okay, you do know that the growing number of celebrity hero or rescue news items are, in fact, fabricated heaps of bullshit, right? That Tom Cruise, Rosie O'Donnell, and other famous "heroes" have their PR people push these piping-hot loads of crap out of there assholes, yes? Most of the stories go something a little something like this. I mean, yeah, I'm so sure -- a purse snatcher. Right. Did the villain with the long, curly, black moustache also try tying a blonde maiden to the railroad tracks? Jesus Christ.

Sorry, I'm supposed to be making Bean Tails more palatable, more balanced. I'll start tomorrow.

Also, I have't the foggiest idea what the November 2nd entry was all about. Hmm. I was under the influence of, um, some pretty strong cough medicine while writing it. Heh. Yep. Sigh.


Monday, November 3, 2003

I would use online dating services, but everyone on there seems to hate television.


Sunday, November 2, 2003

Whoa. I've met a most interesting and possible-friendship-for-sometime man - so rare these days - who's just the most. And he doesn't mind the gays. In my opinion, he seems like the perfect player, but not like your craptacular, leathery playa on Elimidate or your sundry of assorted Marina cockwalking associate salesmen pricks; they're scared bichon fries, while he's an aerodynamic (and very attractive, if I might add) Doberman; a sight so rare due to the emasculating fog that devours our bay and weakens our eggshell-thin XY chromosomes.

Anyway, his name's Jefey, and I hope he can make a blog entry on the cubby site, regularly; and I'm going to call him every five minutes and chat him dry the way I tended to do with people I liked in high schol. Wee! Just kidding. Sort of.

But I am and have always been used to having a horde of male friends. Sure, I have some females, but I crave the XY aspect in my life, too, sans any beating to death and tying to fence posts in Colorado. I mean, I lived in the same small room with an older smelly brother for 15 goddamn years, had pals (and by "pals" I mean to say dirty, rich neighborhood friends cloaked in Osh Gosh B'Gosh overalls, with slingshots sprouting from their back pockets; making me catch fly balls; calling me, when appropriate, "fag", et al.) and never was bothered too much by other male influences. Eh. I mean, Dad was good to me, so how can I complain?

(And with all due respect to my female readers out there, who I love like air-light cotton-ball cream puffs, the gays -- well, let's make this as easy on you gals as possible: we think the sooner you realize this, the sooner we can go back to sipping our soy chais. We're not multi-layered like the ripe, complex shallot of the female, with so many layers, so, please, stop trying to peel us, searching for more. There's nothing there. It's impossible. And, yes, although we know which leave-in conditioner to use and when to boil pasta to al dente, we's dumb as poop, too. So deal. [I just need to be free to say that, yes, a thinner Linda Evagelista is a better LInda Evangelista.]) Naturally, I'm excited to learn more about the craft -- no, the art!! -- of seduction. Anyway, my mind is swimming. And I banish you all to the conservatory.

So, we had a great male-male bonding night at Vertigo - where my attempts at flirting at the bartender, Yuri, were mistakes made left and right -- culminating in our appreciation of both OC, strange though similar sexual encounters, and good seasonal organic cooking. (Oh, shut up. Fresh food philosophy, if we're lucky, will save us all.) The love of musical theater, though, seemed weighted more on my side. Alas.

And how's the Prozac, you ask? Wait, is that you penis? I can't find you. In the distance, there... is that you, dear friend libido? [weep, weep]

Tomorrow Jefey and I are off to El Rio ($1 beer night. Oh dear.) to see what the fuss is about these pointy-nipples-and-pink-bubble-gum women. And I be all undercover, yo. And the best part: I get to be a wingman, and words fail me. I'll be the cool guy on the right flipping a quarter in the air, awesome with insouciance ala Chloe Sevigny, but minus the couture and envious fame. Whatever.

Tomorrow: I'll discuss the magical surrealism of my march on Dia De Los Muertos holding a candle in honor of my recently dead cousin, Kathy. It was, in a word, deep. OK, in three words: deep and rainy. People kept saying she was lighting the candle, blocking it from the downpour, because (as one crunchy women said) she was a Gemini and I, an Aquarian, her most compatibe sign -- two air sign. O San Francisco! Well, I've been dreaming images about her for the last week, so why she wouldn't be keeping guard over my candle is beyond me. But more on that later.


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