Am I off my nut for thinking that by legalizing gay marriage (and therefore charging homo couples the same pricing as het couples for marriage licenses and name-change crap and all the other legal doo-dah that goes along with a “real”, “sanctified” marriage) and legalizing marijuana (and taxing the hell out of it like cigarettes) would create not just a huge metric fuck-ton of tax revenue for this country but a huge increase in both the marriage industry and the pot industry?  Seriously.  What was one of the big ways we got out of the First Depression?  Oh, that’s right — repealing Prohibition.  Mayhaps we should look at our history a little more.

Duh.

Happy Anniversary to the Stonewall Riots!  Evidently, the Fort Worth cops decided it was time to re-create them!  Seriously?  What the hell?  How is this even remotely okay?

Hat-tip to Kyros for the heads-up on that.

Dear Repugnicant Party,

How’s that “family values” platform looking these days?  Still got that log in your eye?

Rot in your own hell, you hypocritical ass-monkey.

Smugly yours,

A Raging Homo

For your daily dose of OMG BATSHIT TUBA-JUMPING CRAZY, I present to you Time Cube.  You’re welcome

We need another Harvey Milk.  Real soon now.  It’s time for him to resurface.

So Mote It Be.

Tonight, Rocco DiSpirito made us dinner.  Okay, he didn’t, but he published the recipe we used.   And that doesn’t stop me from wishing he did.  And shirtless.

Anyone who’s ever watched Top Chef with me knows that Rocco DiSpirito is my favorite celebrity chef.  He’s personable, he’s a great chef, and he’s OMFG GORGEOUS.  Gay?  Who knows?  Who cares?  In my head, yes.

So, he came out with a book called Rocco’s Real Life Recipes. We got it out of the library about a year ago, and looking through it, it just felt very much higher than my skillset in the kitchen.  So we took it back.  We got it again this week, and when we were looking through it, either my skillset has changed, or I’ve gained more confidence.  So we tried a recipe: Grilled Tuna Steaks with Sweet & Sour Mangoes.

We didn’t read it closely enough, and made FAR too much of the sweet-and-sour mangoes, but it was a great recipe.  We got a couple of beautiful yellowfin tuna steaks from (of all places) Kroger, and they grilled up very nicely to medium (the recipe calls for medium rare, but Leon’s not a fan of raw or nearly-raw tuna, so we grilled them a little longer).  Toss them on a bed of the sweet-and-sour mango/onion/basil mixture, and voila! Lovely dinner for two.

Next time we make it, we’ll probably cut the mango mixture in half, cut back a little more on the white wine vinegar and possibly season the tuna a little more (we just used salt and pepper tonight, but maybe a little garlic would help).

I just finished my review copy of Laced With Magic, Barbara Bretton’s upcoming sequel to Casting Spells. I adore this series. What’s not to love? Knitting, supernatural creatures, fun dialogue. If you haven’t read Casting Spells, get it from the library, or go buy it. Laced with Magic comes out in August. Barbara ROCKS in a hardcore way.

There will be a bigger, more comprehensive review coming by the end of the weekend. So much with the awesome. And please note, it’s 4:15. I just finished it.

Dear ghetto-ass fuckbags,

Thank you so much for welcoming me to this part of the neighborhood by slicing open a box (that our retard of a mail carrier was stupid enough to leave on the front porch) addressed to me and stealing something that I’ve wanted for months. I’m surprised you didn’t take the review copy of the book that was sent to me, too. Oh, but you’d have to have more than a third grade education in order to read a book that doesn’t have pictures in it.

Fuck you VERY fucking much.

—–

Dear retarded mail carrier,

There is a sign on the front door of this house that says NOT TO LEAVE PACKAGES ON THE FRONT STEP. It says to leave a goddamned notice that we have a package waiting at the fucking post office. This neighborhood is full of people who don’t give two motherfucking shits about anyone but themselves, and by leaving a package on the front step, you’re an accomplice in the theft of the item that was in there. Wise the fuck up. Your supervisor will be getting a phone call in the morning, and I will probably not be all sunshine and light.

Fuck you very much, too.

—–

Dear Barbara,

You rock more than I can even say. The book is here, the magnets made it okay, and the bookmarks and note, although crumpled, are intact. The Knit Kit, however, was stolen by complete assholes who have no respect for anyone but themselves.

Loving the you!
– J –

Go here and vote for Clay! You have to sign up for the site, but they send you NOTHING. The default is to get no spam. Use as many email addresses as you can. He’s in 3rd place right now, but 4th is right behind him. Please? Please please?

It seems that my whole world lately is summed up lately by this simple phrase: I don’t give a fuck.  No, nothing happened.  I’m just not finding any joy in life at all lately.  And I’m more and more often finding myself pulling myself back from destroying joy for other people, too.

I have no motivtion at all.  There are things I’d love to do, but I don’t have the slightest idea how to make those things come to life.

I want to open a metaphysical shop with a coffee bar and teaching rooms in it, one that’s friendly to everyone who walks in the door, not just women (sorry, <i>womyn</i>) and/or people who the owners have known for years.  I’m severely tired of being looked at with great suspicion when I walk into either store, just because I have a penis.

I want to go back to school, but I have no idea what for, or where, or how I’m going to be able to afford to do so.  Comparitive Studies in Religion would be awesome, and get me on track for my M.Div, but OSU is prohibitively expensive and they’re the only ones with the course.  That’s really the only thing that I feel passionately enough about to do anything with.

I’m really tired of moving, and I’m tired of feeling like I’m relying on other peoples’ charity and good faith.  I want a house of our own, one that I can do with what I want.

I don’t know what to do anymore.  I feel helpless and, most times, I also feel hopeless.  I’m sick to death of being dirt poor.  I grew up dirt poor, and it seems that there’s no way to break that cycle.  Living paycheck-to-paycheck, barely able to pay bills let alone have some “spreadin’ around money”, is wearing me out faster than anything else.  I just don’t …  I don’t know what I don’t know anymore.