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"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I Love

This may seem gay, (this is why you read me, isn't it?) but I think that, sometimes, you've got to step back from the grit and shit and unattractive tit of the world (yes, they exist) and express a little bit of appreciation for the things, or people, in life that you love.

Two nights ago, my wife stated emphatically that "People do not go around singing, 'O, my adored one!' and 'Beloved boy!' in real life, as they do in Gilbert & Sullivan operettas (The Sorcerer, to cite the exact quotations like the insufferable pedant that I am) and, while I am inclined to agree with her on that point, I only do so to an extent.

Sure, singing the praises of your new Woolrich coat whilst entering the post office in the morning or lustily informing passersby of your extreme fondness for banana and raspberry lowfat yogurt smoothies or your Aunt Velma might seem extreme or odd; I would posit that, should the proper occasion and venue arise where you can shed some light on a love of yours, then you'd be a dickslapper to not do so at once.

Jesus-- was that last paragraph really all one sentence? And I call myself a writer.


Woody Allen

If anyone's still reading, I'm going to take some heat on this one. I don't need to relate the rather unfortunate facts of Mr. Allen's personal life that make him a very undesirable character to those with morals; we all know the deal there. And it's gross. I won't pretend that it isn't. And I also won't pretend that I'm not a big hypocrite for liking him AHA* (*and his art) in spite of his nasty sexual proclivities. But every time my wife and I watch "Manhattan Murder Mystery" (and it's been a couple) we can't help snuggling into each other on the couch saying, "God, I hope we're like that when we're sixty" or however old he and Diane Keaton were supposed to be when that was filmed.

And I can't watch "Sleepers" or "Bananas" without cracking the hell up, and the scene in "Take the Money & Run" where they talk about how Woody Allen's character was in his high school band, briefly, and then they show a six second clip of him in full band-geek uniform, holding a cello, and attempting to play it while the band is marching, and he moves the goddamn chair two inches every two seconds... well, if that isn't poetry, then just shoot me in the face and we'll call it a day.

And, yes, I haven't seen a "new" Woody Allen film since I saw "Deconstructing Harry" in the movie theatre and thought it was a piece of shit. Before you shoot me in the face, you can say, "Die, Hypocrite." I won't mind.

Blogging Without Pictures

They'd just... get in the way, and end up coming between us, and I can't have that.

Big, Old American Cars

Most of you know that I drive a (used, eight-year-old) Volvo. It's small, and fast, and leather-swathed, and its steering is tight and nimble, and it's a wonderful automobile. Most of you also know that I'm incredibly self-conscious about it-- and I was never moreso than the one-and-a-half weeks where I wasn't working. We went out to dinner with a bunch of friends, and random people, and this girl visiting from Spain walked up to my car.

"Oh! I looove Volvos. They are so beautiful," she said, taking a rather sexual drag of her cigarette.

"Um," I said uncomfortably, "it's old."

I really like my Volvo, even though it makes me feel weird. But I don't LOVE it. I probably won't ever love it, because I love big, old American cars. I love crushed velvet seats, or velour, if crushed velvet isn't immediately available. I love doors that have elegant-looking, chrome-plated push-button handles on the outside. I love when the shifter is on the steering column, so there's that looooong, luxurious bench seat, perfect for napping, or cuddling, or.... more... um.... fornicatious...... activities.... I love V-8 engines, even though they're not P.C. or eco-friendly or economical or even sane, really. I love mobile sofas. I love faux wood on the dashboard and the door inserts. I love the smell of vinyl, and the springiness of seats that were created when people thought it was okay to wear plaid suits.

To work.

When I'm driving an old, American car, I know that it won't go three months without the muffler falling off or the electric window falling down into the depths of the door, but, when you mash your foot down on that pedal, if the sound of that burbling, gargantuan 351 cubic inch engine doesn't send your eyeballs rolling up into your head, well, I guess it's Prius time for you.

My wife

This hasn't been an easy time for us-- this whole job transition thing. Mrs. Apron and I both started new jobs on Monday, and that's challenging. She's accepted a school-based job with lavish vacations, and I have accepted a job at a psychiatric facility that is open 24 hours a day, all week, all year. My existence is rather blue-collar at the moment, and time off is rigidly structured, but it is a means to an end-- a stop on the way to, hopefully, a more permanent career. Through the course of this transition, we have had our struggles, but we support each other every day, and we rise to meet these challenges together.

Easily the most intelligent, thoughtful, and insightful person I have ever met, Mrs. Apron challenges me in ways I have never been challenged before, and that's sometimes scary, but it's always with the right motive-- the desire to exist side-by-side, to flourish, to create an environment comfortable and safe and fulfilling for a little Apron-face to exist in some fine day.

When we were dating, I bought my wife a gorgeous mirror, in the shape of a star, that is painted blue with little flowers on it, and, carved into the wood is the word, "GROW." Every day, I feel, we are inviting each other to grow. And, even though any plant or child will tell you that it's hard, I love that.

My Eyebrows

"Those can't possibly be real!" an elderly audience member said to me after a production of Patience. They are. And they're a comic actor's best friends.


I collect things. Old telephones, antique typewriters, old (and not quite so old) eyeglasses, hats from bygone decades, and sometimes centuries, but I am absolutely a bit crackers about watches. It used to be only pocketwatches in which I was interested. I bought one off of ebay for my wife, but, when it arrived, I saw it was about the size of my fist, and so I ended up wearing it, even though I had it engraved for her. Added it to my collection. I've belabored her with an antique tri-color gold pendant watch, an early American wristwatch, perhaps from 1910 or so, though I've given up (I think) on trying to find the exact replacement for an antique Hamilton that she lost in France years ago when it got caught on a sweater she had taken off and was never seen again. (There's still a drawing of that watch in my wallet-- just in case I start feeling ambitious again when antique-hunting...)

Now, I also collect wristwatches, apparently. I love automatic watches-- oh, I also bought her one of those-- it's orange. Automatic, or "self-winding" watches work on kinetic energy, or the movement of your wrist to keep them going. The technology is old, but they're becoming fashionable again, because they're suddenly eco-friendly, not requiring a battery. I bought myself a Bulova self-winder from 1954 a couple of years ago, and I decided that it brought up bad memories/associations for me, so I gave it to an old friend for his birthday. He has a habit of buying watches from drug stores, and I thought, "I have to put a stop to that." Of course, it was just a convenient excuse to buy myself a 1967 Seiko 5 Automatic.

What a dildo, right?

Fall Clothing

Square-bottomed knit neckties. Soft sweatervests. Vintage sportcoats. Corduroy trousers. Earthtones. Toggle coats. Plaid scarves.

God, let that barometer fall. I love you, Autumn.


Thanks for hanging around. You knew I'd get to you-- didn't you?


  1. That mirror sounds.... well... *sputters*... it sounds GODAWFUL. There. I said it. Blue? With flowers? And a star-shape?

    Was it made out of play-doh?

    Can we PLEASE see a picture?

    The rest of your post though, was enough to make me fall in love with Mrs. Apron (I may steal her away) and revise my opinion on watches.

  2. Oh, Harls-- harsh! It's actually a very pretty mirror, I just described it like a dunderdick.



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