for my wife If bagels grew on trees, my dear, I’d pluck you a nice fresh poppy and onion and smear it with cream-      cheese           and                chives. But since bagels have never grown on trees, can I maybe trouble you to fix me a delicious Spanish omelet —      easy           on the                potatoes? —Sunday, July 2, 9:33 AM

Were I a 1981 Chevy Celebrity, I’d embrace my high mileage — the scuffed sidewalls and tiny tears in my tartan cloth upholstery the scars of a life well traveled, and of roads well chosen, though often at speeds that defied law. Like a redwood embracing its rings — or Clint Eastwood running his thumb along the crows feet that now punctuate an aging silver squint, I’d spend what time

Remember spreading yourself across my toast…? Like lovers, our tongues met…

So much cancer-fighting green tea goodness!—in such a family-friendly plastic jug!  Imbibe!  It is to cheer! In fact, it is almost enough to make one forget that Scottie McClellan has resigned — or that he is (if you believe the tolerant left) a closet homo who will now resume cruising gay bars, only this time without John Aravosis sniffing around him like a super- bitchy Sam Spade, hoping to catch

for Senator Russ Feingold (D-WI) Sometimes, when I touch myself just so, I feel like King of ALL the beasts!* **** (h/t Sister Toldjah, PM update)

One should never take for granted the strange magic of indoor plumbing.

Being a hermit rules! (Until you run out of freakin’ mayonnaise…)

Sometimes, when I succumb to laziness (and to the promise of a comforting, cheek-ringed respite), I sit down to do my pee pee. But — After, I feel the fillup of guilt and shame, knowing in my heart that somewhere, a gimpy man who wishes to pee proudly upright simply cannot.

You know something? When Journey wanted to rock, they really kicked ass, man!

As spring arrives, the need to touch myself grows. And Lord! I’m so damn hard! *