Buzz Kill, Douche Bags and Buttroys

One of my favorite stories about Road Rage occurred in Houston, maybe last year. I may have a few details wrong because I got the story from my mother and don't have enough information to find the original news article in the paper's archives, but really, what's a few details?

Not long ago, a grandma aged woman was driving on the freeway in Houston and some asshole to exception took her driving. Maybe she cut him off; maybe she was too slow. Who knows? But he was so pissed off about her driving that when she got off the freeway, he followed her down the exit ramp, down the feeder road to the stop light where he got out of his car and proceeded to bang on her window and holler at her.

She shot him. I don't know if she shot him graveyard dead, but she shot him fair and square. While most everyone was outraged when Mr. Horn of Pasadena, Texas shot the unarmed Latinos in his yard, no one questioned this grandma at all because the bastard was out of control and needed shooting.

This attitude of justifiable homicide is pervasive in Texas. I believe it's why there are fewer garden variety douche bags. The douche bags are colossal douche bags like George W. Bush or the uncles and grandpas who think it's okay to fuck their relatives because, as white men, everything in their homes is their property to use as they choose. Most of the time, when a kid acts like a douche bag, somebody at school kicks the shit out of him and doesn't get in trouble.

I am aware that plenty of colossal assholes bully and beat up on innocent kids - like those football players in Dazed and Confused, and that behavior is so socially acceptable that it leads to reprehensible behavior like hazing deaths. Again, I would argue that those frat boys and sorority girls are colossal assholes not garden variety assholes. And some people are CFC (DSM-VI diagnosis Completely Fucking Crazy) like that woman who killed the little girl who was competing against her daughter in cheer leading.

The reason I'm on this topic today is that Buzz Kill is on my last nerve. Coincidentally, one of Velvet's friends has proved to be such a dumb ass that Velvet won't even smoke the kid's weed anymore. When a high school kid won't smoke free weed because somebody is a douche bag, that's a big douche bag. I'm proud that Velvet came to this conclusion on his own and it just goes to prove my theory that if you allow your child a certain amount of freedom in a controlled environment, s/he will likely be able to make better choices in the dorm at college where everything is completely beyond your control.

To be continued . . .

Bobby Jindal as Bizarro Barack

Does anyone else find it strikingly stupid of Bobby Jindal to use a story about the government's response after Hurricane Katrina to prove we can't depend on the government when that government was The Republicans?

Oh Good - Rachel Maddow is stunned speechless, and Chris Matthew is so outraged the words are spitting out of his mouth. I can rest easy tonight knowing all's right with the world for the moment.

It's kind of funny, though, that the Republicans trotted out a dark skinned man with big ears who is just as stupid as George W. Bush as if Jindal is Bizarro Barack. If Jindal's speech tonight is any indication of what we can expect from the Republicans as we approach 2012, then we will see new and absurd heights reached in Synapse Lapse.

Hopefully, by 2011 America will be safely on a new path when we watch Sarah Palin debate Bobby Jindal to determine who will be the Republican presidential candidate. I wonder if Bobby Jindal believes dinosaurs and humans lived together like on The Flinstones too.

One particular thing did occur to me during Obama's address to Congress when he said America will not torture:

A rousing speech before Congress and The World is all well and good, but if we are to really demand accountibility then a serious investigation into Dick Cheney is in order. Several Wall Streeters and Bankers need to go to jail as well. Andrew Cuomo was supposed to be working on that.

I still cry tears of joy when listening to Obama speak because it's a relief to be saved from our certain descent into Idiocracy in this country. I have faith, hope and all that. Nevertheless, accountibility can't simply apply from this day forward. If this day is truly a reckoning, then prosecutors need to get busy.

Blowing Kisses

Yesterday I received my very first blog award.

The Criteria:

These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award.

Since I'm someone who still gets my validation from external sources, this is tremendously exciting. Passing it on to eight friends in blogland is a challenge because I'm not sure that I know eight blogs that meet the criteria who haven't already gotten the same award from Utah Savage or Comrade Kevin. Take Liberality, for example. She's truly a friendly and supportive blogger which is probably why she got this award twice in one day. Hey! So did I! Pretty cool. I'm humbled, honored, tickled pink, blushing and late to work again because I'm blogging instead of getting my ass out the door.

I figure I'll start with a few and add to the list until there are eight.

Yellowdog Granny
Know Your "It's"
Pushing Fifty Gently
She Shoots to Conquer

I'd pass it on to that bartender who philosophizes over at The Great Triad except I'm counting on Gail to give it to him. He likes to keep a bit of a distance, I suspect, and makes friends despite himself.

Follow Up:

Kitty, of Kitty's Bloggy Bits, mentioned in the comments that she could swear she'd given me an award too. She did. I must have been so traumatized by Sarah Palin that I couldn't think of anything else since Kitty bestowed this honor upon me in late October. Kitty describes herself, "An ordinary woman, living an ordinary life. I'm a domestic engineer/goddess living in the Central South area of the UK, and have two kids, two computers, a cat, a hamster, and a car, in my charge." She is filled with love and wisdom and takes lovely photos of the world surrounding her. As it happens, she's a crafty woman with lots of bits of yarn and fabric taking over her closets. Like many things, this award is simple but meaningful. It's for an Entertaining and Enjoyable blog.

A Dick with Ears

There is a distinct possibility that I ran into another narcissist this week. It's hard to say. Perhaps he was merely a walking dick with ears.

After a very entertaining evening at KGB on Thursday, I met Dick With Ears for a cup of tea since, according to his profile, he doesn't drink alcohol. Just your basic "coffee date," to see if we're interested in each other. I didn't know much about him since we hadn't had time to talk on the phone that afternoon. The computer at Match dot com, in its wisdom, had left him in my Daily Five Matches on Wednesday. I clicked Interested; he sent me a message saying he'd like to meet. I said I was busy that night but could talk about it around 10:00. When he emailed suggesting coffee around 10:00, I figured, "Why not?" I knew I'd go out for coffee after talking on the phone. Might as well get on with it. Besides, he was cute in a scruffy sort of way.

One of the photos from the Match profile of Dick With Ears

We met at a small, Middle Eastern restaurant for tea and baklava. Now, the scenario around paying the bill can provide insight into a potential boyfriend. It's my policy to keep my portion of the check around $5.00 because I don't ever reach for my wallet. It's not that I think men should always pay for everything. If I invited the man somewhere, I would naturally pay. But when he's asked me to meet him, that first bill is a test.

In this particular case, the man himself was nice enough, although he was stuck on the topic of his time in the Israeli army roughly 30 years earlier. He mentioned getting together on Sunday. I had plans with Gigi (Pink Panties, Stonerdate 10.25.08) , but I could manage two outings in one day if I wanted, so I said, "Maybe." Then he left a 65 cent tip on a check that was $9.35. In my view, a generous person who recognizes that the server has worked even though we didn't run up a big tab would have left a couple of bucks. I nearly tossed $2.00 on the table as we were leaving, but he was moving too fast.

In the future, I will be quicker when something like that occurs because anyone who acts like that should be shamed by his/her companion. As it was, Dick With Ears thought his behavior was fine. Before I reached the corner to catch a cab, he pulled me toward him with one arm around my waist. He wrapped his fingers in my hair and planted a major kiss on me. All in all, I was stunned. Being from the South, I pulled free and said, "Mercy!"

In reality, the kissing wasn't unpleasant. It was like the heroes kiss in the Bodice Rippers my Granny loved to read. If I had been divorced only about ten minutes, I would have been impressed. Since that stingy tip hovered in my mind, I went back to finding a taxi. He kept pace with me, took my elbow and steered me gently yet purposefully against the wall of a building for a more thorough kissing. At this point, I offered up some resistance, but he found that spot on my neck so I played along for a while longer. When his hand went up my skirt, however, I had to draw the line. I told him that I certainly was not participating in that sort of activity on the street with a man I just met. He grabbed my ass, pronounced it fine, and tried to kiss me into silence.

One good thing about New York City is the availability of Yellow Taxis. One was stopped at the light. I broke free, turned and walked toward the curb with my arm outstretched. He followed, asking about Sunday. I told him he was as bad as a teenage boy. He said he'd take that as the highest compliment and tried to kiss me again as I got in the car.

I won't deny that it's nice to be admired, and as I said, I might have been captivated if I'd been recently divorced. Actually, if he would have left a decent tip, I may not have minded him grabbing my ass.

By the morning, however, I had concluded there was no way in Hell I was going out with a cheap tipper - especially one who put his hand up every skirt that came his way. So I sent him the following email:

Dick With Ears,
I was so distracted on the sidewalk last night that I forgot I already have plans for Sunday. I'm thinking it's just as well I'm busy, and you will find a suitable female very soon. It was nice meeting you,
Tricia

He replied:

Trish
That was very polite, but not necessary. You had no plans for Sunday. You got very sexually excited that you scared yourself. You'd love to have sex with me Sunday. very soon ? I already have a suitable female for Sunday. and yes, it is larger than average. perfect for a 49 yr old. It was nice meeting you.
Dick With Ears

If it didn't make such a good story, I would wish I were making it up. Narcissistic? Pathetic? Both? In any case, I've blocked him from further communication.

Saturday night, The Nice Accountant from Brooklyn took me to The Film Forum down in the Village to see Jean-Luc Godard's Made in the USA (1966). I brought a big box of Junior Mints. The movie itself was sort of like a glorious exercise in using color in a film as an excuse to loosely sting together a plot on which to hang Existential Socialist philosophy. Decidedly French. Then he and I went out for cappuccino and talked about our kids. He even rode the subway uptown with me to make sure I got home safely. We exchanged very promising, pleasant kisses and he got back on the subway to go back to Brooklyn.

This morning I sent The Nice Accountant a Thank You note via email with the link to one of my favorite stories currently in the news. George W. Bush's grandfather Prescott Bush allegedly swiped Geronimo's skull and femurs from the grave at Ft. Still, Oklahoma and installed them at the Skull and Bones Society up at Yale (Geronimo's Heirs Sue Secret Yale Society over his Skull, NYTimes, February 20, 2009). Apparently, there are lots of Dicks With Ears walking around, and some of them are Bushes.

Prescott Bush, another Walking Dick with Ears

Labels

Last night, I met KWW down on the lower east side for a reading at The Slipper which is a performance venue where they do a classic burlesque show at 10:30 on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Last night, Opium magazine, which I've never read and didn't buy since I knew I never would, hosted an event called the Literary Death Match. It was entertaining, and I would attend another of their events even though the crowd seemed a bit cliquish or incestuous. Maybe that's just part of any scene in New York or anywhere. We were sort of like that when we were New Wave/Punks in Austin, Texas back in the late seventies.

I'd hate to tell the hipsters on the lower east side and in the East and West Villages, but I've always thought Austin was much hipper than New York. It's because the people in Austin are more relaxed about everything in the world you can possibly imagine. And while that may have to do with smoking more marijuana, I don't think that's the only explanation.

Despite the fact that I don't really smoke marijuana all that much, I had a couple of hits before I left home to fortify myself for the subway. I easily found my way to The Slipper Lounge and was looking around while I was getting a drink at the bar when it occurred to me that this year could be my last in New York City and I should definitely make the most of it. Back at our table, I had a hot flash. Which brings me to the term, "Menopausal Stoner."

Before I decided to call myself/the blog Menopausal Stoners, I toyed with the title Post-Feminist Pothead Floosy. Even though it's a mouth full, I liked it until I saw a bumper sticker:

Damn right. No post-feminists here. However, I'm still not so sure Menopausal Stoner accurately describes me personally - although it's a good title for the blog since I have complete confidence that folks stumble over here on account of the name.

I'd say I was a peri-menopausal pot head floosy except I'm not exactly a pot head. I do like to get high every now and then, but I'm no more a pot head than someone who has a glass of wine with dinner occasionally is a lush. I will confess that I like to wake and bake. Sadly, ever since Velvet quit spending weekend nights with Buzz Kill, I can't get up, get high and spend half the morning trying to solve the puzzle of the Tupperware Drawer. I know all that shit fits in there.

While I have been very reluctant to date ever since I broke up with That Narcissist, there's no denying I'm a floosy. And I do think it's important to stand up and proudly declare I smoke weed because:

1. Weed is not just for "Hippies." Grown Ups with mortgages, jobs and kids in college smoke weed too.
   
2. Laws about weed should be the same as laws about liquor.
   
3. If the government says you're old enough to vote and get your ass shot at in some damn war (that's the Selective Service), then you're old enough to drink a beer.

I understand that weed is not going to get the same legal treatment as liquor because then growing hemp would be legalized which would threaten the profits of large corporations that make money off cotton or vegetable oil, for example. Many, many economic ramifications of legalizing hemp as a competitive crop, and everyone knows that an idea that could negatively impact the bottom line in the existing corporate structure is going no fucking where.

But I digress - the issue is my last year in New York City and how I want to spend it. Readings in the East Village are good. In fact, I'm going to my favorite humor series tonight. Drunken!Careening! Writers! at KGB Bar on E. 4th Street. Third Thursdays.

I'm single, relatively hot, relatively privileged as long as my alimony holds out, fairly young (AARP asserts that 50 is the new 30, and I suppose it is since we're all going to have to work until we're 85), with no kids living at home. And home is a nice apartment with a parking spot and a terrace that has a side view of Central Park. It's not a bad way to spend your time. It also happens to be a good set up for a sitcom, and if nothing else, I'd like my last year in New York City to be wonderfully entertaining.

An Existential Valentine

I was afraid I might disappear like dandelion seeds in the breeze since this was the first Valentines' Day that I didn't have a boyfriend in 34 years.

I know, intellectually, that Valentines' Day is a Hallmark Holiday. Years ago, when I was working in public relations, one of my accounts was the Chocolate Manufacturers of America. I learned exactly how much candy was purchased per cubic inch of shelf space in America's grocery, variety and convenience stores during this annual sales bonanza.

I also know, intellectually, that I don't need other people to prove I exist. Validation is too small of a word for the phenomenon because in order for something to have value, it must first exist. I'm pretty sure this trouble can be traced back to my emotional gestalt being fucked up. Throw in societal conditioning and marketing trends and voila! The damage is done.

We can throw in media images of beauty if you want to really seal the coffin - but you still have to exist before you need a coffin. If I'm not mistaken, you can exist without being beautiful but it sucks. Ask Carole King.

This existential dilemma cannot be purely a feminine phenomenon given that Dean Martin sang, "You're nobody til somebody loves you," and he is certainly a man. Some man can explore that territory, however, because I'm celebrating my own existential victory here.

Recently, it's become clear that I'm single by choice. I'd still be hanging out with That Narcissist if he weren't such an unpleasant individual. Since I needed someone to authorize my existence, being a narcissistic supply source was a perfect gig except that once Narcissists know you care about them, they start treating you like shit. He may have spent a lot of time with me which he says showed how much he enjoyed my company, but his attitude was so tacky that being around him got to be a drag -- especially in Austin. That Narcissist gave advice to a comic at The Velveeta Room as if watching Seinfeld made him an expert on comedy. It was mortifying. Somehow it's more socially acceptable to be a complete asshole in New York City.

Since my identity has been defined all these years by being in one relationship or another - needing your mother's approval is another example of the external validation - and since The Universe sends us harsher teachers when we won't learn our lessons, a narcissist was necessary to my process. What set That Narcissist apart from other boyfriends is that he is such a cartoon in real life that I could finally say, "hold on a dang minute," to the entire process and break the pattern.

What good is having your existence authenticated by another person if that person is a complete asshole? I don't need some asshole to tell me I exist. In fact, I never really needed anyone to confirm my existence - none of us do. But plenty of people rely on external sources to quantify their worth.

As my fiftieth birthday approaches, I'm enjoying a bit of solitary peace and quiet for a change. With Velvet leaving the nest soon, I can finally discover what it means to exist outside of a relationship. I'll always be a daughter and a mother, a friend, a teacher and even an ex-wife. I want to exist independently too. I suppose I already do. When he's describing Sowelu in The Book of Runes, Ralph Blum says, ". . .what you are striving to become in actuality is what, by nature, you already are."

Some rune masters think Ralph Blum is full of shit, but I always liked this idea.

Zombie Alert Triggers NYC Burnout

The Summer Boyfriend Reality Show is apparently going to have to be cancelled this year due to the boredom of the main character - namely me. Mr. Montauk, whom I met last night, was okay. On another day, I might have even found him kind of cute. I was my usual effervescent self and my hair looked great. Nevertheless, I think both of us were Just Not That Into You.

There is something about dating at 50 that gets in the way of being into anyone. Or maybe it's just me at the moment. I confess that I'm skeptical of people these days and I never used to be. All sorts of behaviors that, in the past, I would have overlooked or excused under the "benefit of the doubt" category I now suspect are red flags flying around the head of a potential asshole.

Naturally I understand that everyone can be an asshole sometimes. It's just that when someone continually interrupts me, for example, I begin to think he is only interested in hearing his own self talking. Maybe he's incapable of sustaining a human connection. Maybe that's why his wife divorced him. Or maybe the wife was CFC (completely fucking crazy). Who knows why people get divorced?

Right after Buzz Kill moved in with his mother, I was much more interested in the men I met. Perhaps the equation was substantially different then because I was hot to trot. Rhet said I was trying on men like I was at Loehmann's. No more. I miss being part of a couple, but as I've recently stated, anyone who enters the picture these days has to contribute something interesting to the story line in the Sitcom of Life at Menopausal Stoners World Headquarters.

Mr. Montauk was not going to contribute a damn thing to the story line, and besides, he was short. So short that my brain said, "My goodness, he's short," when I saw him for the first time and when we stood up from the table to leave the Chinese restaurant.

I'm beginning to think that I look for reasons not to get involved. That's why my Match profile is currently hidden. The only reason I wanted to date in the first place was because I thought the best way to get over That Narcissist was another boyfriend. Apparently that wasn't the case at all. I simply needed to have drinks with him and his ego. Apparently what I need right now is the Peace and Quiet of my own space. I never had my own space before.

There is also a Truth looming on the Horizon: I want to go home to Austin. I know I said I'd never go back to Texas after spending a week in Houston on account of the Conservative Christian Right Wing Republicans. The troublesome nature of Bible Thumpers cannot be overstated, but the fact is that being in New York City does not guarantee the company of like minded individuals - particularly when the subjects like Gaza are being discussed. I have enough sense to avoid that topic because I don't know enough about the situation to offer an informed opinion - and if your opinion on Israel isn't well informed and factually supported when you're on the Upper West Side of New York City, you better keep your mouth shut. If you're within earshot of anyone at all, there is a strong possibility that total strangers will shout you down. So don't even go there unless you're ready to argue.

Then there are the investment bankers (who are now somewhat more contrite since they have less cash on hand) and litigators who think they know more about teaching than their children's teachers. Actually, there are a lot of people who are full of themselves here. And many more people who believe it's perfectly fine to butt into your personal business. There are Nosy Parkers in Texas, for sure, but they tend to be less intrusive. Maybe it's because in Texas, you never know if your neighbor is packing a pistol in her handbag.

Most importantly, however, is the profound difference in the sense of humor between New Yorkers and Texans. I've been thinking a lot about the Zombies Ahead sign in Austin which has gotten so much publicity. Nobody in New York would ever hack into a traffic sign solely for entertainment purposes. The only time I ever laugh until I ready to pee in my pants here in New York is (a) when I'm high or (b) when in the company of another Texan like the Rebbe Mohammed McCrory or Gayle the Hillbilly Hustler.

That sign was very near the house where The Man from San Antone lived when we had that legendary Halloween Party in 1979. Actually, the First Annual Bluebonnet Cotillion was also in that house as was the Quaalude and Mescal party - for which I stayed relatively sober because it seemed likely there would be trouble if someone on Quaaludes ate the worm. It may have been 1980. I can't remember if he lived in the Tarrytown Duplex before or after this place - which caught on fire a few hours before the Halloween party on account of one of the rusty legs of the Weber Smoker busted causing the grill to fall over and spill hot coals all over the wooden deck. I had been to the grocery store to get the food for the party and drove up about the time the fire trucks were leaving. The Man from San Antone figured that if he could have the fire department and over 100 University of Texas students, many of whom were on LSD, over at the apartment in the same evening - he had found the landlord of his dreams.

He moved to a better house a year or so later, though, across the street from Barton Springs. During the last major party we had at that house, the cops knocked on the door simply because they'd never seen the parking lot to Barton Springs completely full at midnight and wanted to meet the host of the party. The Man from San Antone was always good in situations like that no matter how much his consciousness had been altered.

Austin has changed a lot since those days. It's become more homogenized with Starbucks and Barnes & Nobles just like everywhere else. But the spirit remains strong and true in backyards, living rooms, hot tubs, sail boats and beer bars all around town.

Running off to New York City to marry Buzz Kill, have Velvet and find my voice was the right thing to do. I'm not quite done here, but it's like Mr. Peabody says, "Twizzle, Twazzle, Twozzle, Tome. Time for this one to come home."

**Update** I have recently learned that Mr. Peabody did not say "Twizzle Twazzle" etc. It was Mr. Wizard and Tooter Turtle. Similar concept, entirely different show.

Kellogg - Phelps = Bull Shit

Menopausal Stoners has always taken the position that smoking weed should not be any more illegal than having a couple of cocktails. To me, it's bullshit for anyone who drinks to condemn marijuana since smoking weed doesn't cause near the trouble that alcohol does.

Ergo: it's wrong for Kellogg to gladly sponsor Michael Phelps, who served 18 months probation for drunk driving in 2004, to drop him for blowing dope. Nobody asked them to put his picture on a Frosted Flakes box toking on a joint saying, "It's Grrrrreat!" But if he was good enough to go on a Corn Flakes box with a DUI conviction, he's good enough to stay there with a skunky cloud around his head.

I'm going to stop eating Special K right now.

Yesterday, I had only seen the brief internet article on MSN when I logged in saying a photo had been released of Michael Phelps smoking pot from a pipe at a party near a university in South Carolina (I think). The article went on to say Michael Phelps apologized for his regrettable, youthful mistake. No surprise there since America is still uptight about a lot of things.

I was a bit surprised to find that Michael Phelps smokes weed at a professional level if this photo of him is any indication.

When a person is caught on camera smoking a bong like that, he should stop trying to apologize. He should be saying, "Hell Yeah, I Smoke Weed."

I was glad to hear Michael Phelps gets high because weed might explain why he acted like such a dope on Stephen Colbert. I'm sorry to say the man was definitely slow on the uptake and couldn't keep up with Stephen at all. Doubtless, Stephen Colbert couldn't keep up with Michael Phelps in a swimming pool, but Michael Phelps was promoting a book. You would think that someone who had just written a book would be more entertaining.

The only conclusion one could logically make is that either (a) the book was ghostwritten or (b) the book is as boring as Michael Phelps himself.

Michael Phelps has stopped himself from boring everyone into a coma by hitting a big, ol' bong - but it would be infinitely more interesting if he'd stop apologizing and say he likes to smoke weed responsibly.

Many heavy-duty, serious problems face America today so it's no time to call for a Million Stoners March on Washington. In a couple of years, though, it will be HIGH TIME to stop this War on Drugs foolishness. Maybe by then, Michael Phelps can stand proudly at the front of the parade.

There's a good, reality based piece over at Huffington by Sen. John V. Santore: Michael Phelps, Hypocricy and American Drug Policy

Stoners of the World, Unite!

*Note* My dyslexic son, Velvet, has a T-Shirt that says Dyslexics of the World Untie!
I love that joke.

The Summer Boyfriend Reality Show continues

Velvet and I have been watching TV together again. Nothing as chronic as True Blood but just as much fun.

Yesterday we watched some Star Trek Next Generation episodes with Q - who is one of my all time favorite characters anywhere - and the season premier of Heroes. Velvet loves Heroes. I'm having a bit of trouble following it since there are lots and lots of characters, all of whom have strange eyebrows. Another problem is that the storyline swerves into territory so familiar it seems to be morphing into a different show. First I could have sworn the new season would be X-men all over again, but now it's looking like they may be Lost since their airplane crashed before it could reach the Guantanamo like internment camp for mutants with superpowers.

I know about Lost since we saw several episodes last week on Monday night and a couple more tonight. I could get into Lost, actually, since it's completely implausible with a sprinkling of magic and a couple of hotties.

After Lost tonight, I watched Rachel Maddow as she compared Blagojevich to a Zombie who feeds on air time. Rachel is more than camera talent for sure - not like William Hurt in Broadcast News who was an ignorant, posturing dip shit - and she clearly has a lot of fun doing her show.

Watching the news and reading the paper are going to become a bit more important in my life these days since a new round of dating is about to begin. At the moment, there are two competitors: One fellow is quick and irreverent, and his work has something to do with videos which are posted onto the internet. He is very interested in the relationship between Oil and 9/11, although we've merely grazed the subject. He's on his way to Houston to spend a week documenting an energy conference. When he gets back, we're supposed to go out. At that time, we can determine if he's fascinating or Completely Fucking Crazy (CFC).

CFC is a useful term. It's not in the DSM-V, but we all run across individuals who are CFC every day. CFC and Fascinating are not mutually exclusive. However, CFC is not among the criteria for a successful Summer Boyfriend.

Friday night, I have a date with a former Wall Street lawyer who built and sold a business which left him with enough money to get a new Masters degree in something I forget - but it's like Public Policy - which led to an encore career working with NGO's on anti-corruption cases. Interesting segue. He's got a quick wit, an apartment in the city and a house on Montauk. He's divorced with two daughters in college and one the same age as Velvet who lives in Connecticut with her mother. So there are a few key elements in this guy's world that could potentially make for a decent sitcom material - which is, if the truth must be told, what I look for in a relationship. What good is romance if the individual doesn't make for an entertaining story line?

Velvet and I have a good thing going on over here at Menopausal Stoners World Headquarters. I need a romantic interest, for sure, but when it comes to introducing a Boyfriend into the action, I much prefer a recurring character like Eldon on Murphy Brown instead of going out with the goofball of the week which would be more like her string of short lived secretaries.

Robert Pastorelli aka Eldon, 1954 - 2004

And to tell another truth, I've got one foot back in Austin again, anyway. I've got miles to go before I sleep, but every time I begin a conversation with someone about moving back to Texas, I wind up talking about moving home.

Fortunately, I don't have to rush into a decision because Buzz Kill has agreed to postpone selling the apartment. Under the terms of our divorce, the apartment should have gone on the market within the next couple of months because Velvet is graduating from High School. I had already convinced Buzz Kill that it was a bad idea to sell this year for a few reasons, then the financial crisis worked in my favor. So I've got a year or two to figure out where I want to live when we eventually sell. It's kind of a drag to own property jointly with Buzz Kill, but it's not nearly as bad as when he still lived here.

Blog Amnesty Day

On Blog Amnesty Day, Big Bloggers are supposed to link to little ones.
Menopausal Stoners is a tiny spec in the blogosphere, but it's very exciting for me to be included in such an insightful, interesting community. I'm going to copy Liberality's idea and post links to a couple I always read even though they are in the sidebar all the time anyway.
What the hell. I've done a meme so I ought to participate in B.A.D.

She Shoots To Conquer
Know Your "Its"
Bruce M. Hood
FadingAd
Cannabis Chronicles