If you ever come across one of these delicious buildings, I highly recommend you bite, and go inside. Upon seeing the Toll House store whilst wandering Albuquerque Uptown with my friend Dr. Vina, it was all I could do to not lick the bricks of the building right then and there.

The overpowering smell of cookies was enough to make us decide to spoil our impending lunch a little bit by ordering what looked like harmless little snacks of mini chocolate chip cookies with white stuff and mini M&Ms surrounding them. And at a mere 99 cents each, said truffles seemed easily as harmless as a stick of celery. Maybe I'm exaggerating.

We probably really should have ordered celery, or at least that weird grass drink stuff some of those smoothie places sell. Despite my fairly sweet tooth, I bit into my little cookie sandwich and was met with a whipped cream that was so sugary it nearly killed all my taste buds upon contact. So while a ten-year-old might relish the intense feeling that is whipped cream instantly turning to butter in your mouth, it was way too much for me to handle. I think that spike in my glucose level should be my last such spike, preferably for the rest of my life.

The lesson to learn here: when you do go, don't do what I did. Stick to a regular cookie or maybe some ice cream. You can thank me later.

I've always been something of a night owl. This generally isn't too much of a problem, though, as I've somehow managed to finagle my schedule so that the earliest I ever have to be at work or school is 9am. Of course, I've been bitten by the Olympic bug this year, and while it hasn't had me training like mad, I have been flopped down on the couch in front of the television every single night, unable to move from the screen. This week, Robert has returned to work. My philosophy for work is that even if I'm tardy, at least I'm there. Read: mornings are my mortal enemy. Conversely, Robert likes to arrive to work nice and early. And, he likes to have plenty of time each morning to get ready. This is what my schedule has been like so far this week:

8pm: Watch Olympics 11:30pm: Finish watching Olympics and think about going to bed. 12-12:30am: Go to bed.

Sleep

5:30am: Feel a hand reach out and shake me around, and voice say "Phil, it's time to get up."

And then it takes me half an hour to drag my near-lifeless ass out of bed, staggering around and moving with Lego-man precision as I stumble through my morning routine.

After I dropped Robert off at work just before 7am, I headed home with an urgency that only the sheer desire to crawl back under the covers and sleep can muster. Naturally, it took me an hour to fall asleep again. I had to set my alarm, as I wanted to get up by 8:45 so I could get some things done at home and then meet some old work supervisors for lunch.

This is where cell phones come in handy: they have alarm clocks. I set my cell phone alarm, and opted for a random ringtone to wake me up. One I hadn't yet listened to. One that started off with an odd little bass riff, followed by a few guitar notes and some drums. A tune that, even to my sleepy ears, struck me as more than a little suitable for a porno film. I didn't realize this at first; it wasn't until after I'd hit the snooze, five minutes had lapsed, and then it thumped again, that it hit me. Talk about a weird thought to wake up to. Oy vay.

During this election year, I'm finding that I'm learning a great deal about the rest of the world. Aside from traveling, I think one of the best ways in which to accomplish this is through stories. In my case, I've been hankering after memoirs. A while back, I picked up a travel memoir by the inimitable J. Maarten Troost. His time spent in the South Pacific resulted in two books, The Sex Lives of Cannibals and Getting Stoned With Savages. I picked up the latter after randomly finding it in a bookstore and reading a few sentences.

Sometimes when I find odd books in stores, or books of which I've not yet heard, I forgo reading the back cover in favor of reading a few paragraphs or pages from the first chapter, in order to get a feel for it and see if it draws me in. Getting Stoned With Savages succeeded, big time, and as I'm now in the middle of it, I'm getting more cultured by the second.

Aside from the joys of reading how the residents of Vanuatu handle government coups and general political upheaval by getting stoned, there's also the joy of the "savages" part of Vanuatu. In order to encourage you, dear reader, to drop everything immediately and go read this book, I offer a few favorite parts that had me in fits of laughter.

First, there's the part where Troost tries to figure out exactly how cannibalism in the area was not out of spite or necessity, but out of custom, or enjoyment:

Typically, the men of a particular village ambushed the men of another village. The goal was to capture one man, who would then be triumphantly carried back to the attackers' village, clubbed, and chopped into pieces. Good manners dictated that an arm or a leg be sent off to a friendly village. Again, here I sputter in disbelief. Imagine receiving such a package. "Oh, look, honey. Bob and Erma over in Brooklyn have sent us a thigh. So thoughtful." Of course, now you are obliged to reciprocate, and so you gather your friends and off you go, hunting for a man, and when you capture one, you will thoughtfully hack an arm off and send it along to Bob and Erma, together with a note--Thinking of you.

As if that wasn't enough, Troost expounds on some of the history of the islands:

When Westerners began to arrive in some numbers in the nineteenth century, they too found themselves participating in Vanuatu's exciting culinary world. John Williams, the very first missionary to arrive in Vanuatu, landed on the island of Erromango on November 18, 1839. Sponsored by the London Missionary Society, which had considerable success in converting much of Polynesia to Christianity, Williams stepped ashore, no doubt confident that very soon he would be breaking bread with the islanders. Within minutes, he was dead, killed by a fusillade of arrows. And then he became lunch.

Perhaps it's morbid fascination on my part, but with every page I turn, I become increasingly more fascinated. It's certainly nice to read a book in which the author draws you in to the point that you may as well be living next door. So what are you waiting for? Get started on your vicarious trip out to the South Pacific. I'm going to keep enjoying mine.

My friend bFlat tagged me with a rather daunting challenge: to share seven weird and/or random facts about myself. Here goes nothing. 1. In the summer of 2004, I worked for the first time ever as a camp counselor in the grand state of Minnesota. While there, I came across a pair of suspenders in the costume shop that I decided would be fun to wear. I ended up keeping them. A few months later, I found some suspenders for sale at J.C. Penny and bought them. Even now, four years later, I wear suspenders nearly every day. Not out of necessity to hold up my pants, really. They're just extremely comfortable, and feel like a part of me.

2. Upon first impression, I rarely come across as the type of guy who would be really into punk rock. Some high school buddies got me into the scene, and I've been into it ever since. But just because I don't spike my hair, and I'm incompetent on a skateboard, doesn't mean I can't rock out with the best of them.

3. I'm one of the few people my age who's never once taken a computer course. Somehow, I escaped ever taking even a basic class in middle school or high school. I didn't even take a typing course. A very early Mavis Beacon taught me how to type when I was 14, and I gradually became a self-taught computer nerd. I never saw that one coming.

4. At one very misguided point in my life, I wanted to be a cartoonist. I say 'misguided' not because I lacked a sense of humor or at least some creative drawing talent, but because I had no direction other than I wanted to be a funny cartoonist. At the time, it took me two panels of nothingness to figure this out.

5. Most of the people I grew up with hated Albuquerque and hated New Mexico. I was born and raised here, went to college here, and only just recently moved away for grad school. It's been so nice to be back for the summer, though, as I love it here. I love my desert, my mountains, and my green chile.

6. Bizarre as it sounds, one of the most liberating things I've done in my lifetime was going skinny dipping. It's all Minnesota's fault. It was a beautiful night, the lake was inviting, and I was in the company of friends and we'd all been, um, drinking. 'Nuf said.

7. I started blogging completely by accident. At first, I was part of an online discussion group, and I later started a blog that ended up being an outlet to vent and to keep my thoughts organized. About a month after I started community blogging, I abandoned the discussion group. Then, almost two years later, I created this website. Oh, the things we end up doing without ever planning to. But boy, is it worth it.

What do a guy eating a lighted cigarette, a guy playing a piano with his butt, and a guy climbing to the second story of a theater before swinging across the rafters and then dropping two stories from that point have in common? They were all sights witnessed by yours truly at a concert Monday night.

The first two guys were both of Foxy Shazam fame. The former is the lead singer, who, besides singing, also danced, did push-ups, jumped on the guitarist's shoulders, did handstands (see above photo), did The Worm and a number of other odd dance moves, and more. The latter was the keyboardist, who appeared to have a beard similar to Chasidic Jews, only with the hair on his chin trimmed much shorter than his chops. I could barely make sense of any of the band's music, but they were quite the sight to see. Figures I'd love them, and highly recommend that if you ever have the chance to see them, GO. They're one of a kind.

My primary reason to go to the show was to see Scary Kids Scaring Kids, one of my current favorite bands. As of last night, I've now seen them live three times, and they get better every time. The keyboardist is the third character mentioned above. Towards the end of their set, he climbed to the rafters, swung around a bit, then dropped two stores into the waiting crowd below. Yes, he's insane. Yes, the band is crazy. And holy crap, do I love them.

The only downside to the show, as usual, is that it's kind of a drag to love punk rock when you're 24. That in itself isn't bad; what sucks is that there's 13-16 year olds EVERYWHERE. They like to stand around outside and smoke cigarettes and wear black and hate the world. And sometimes, you encounter kids who double-date and make out with their dates RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU, for the entire duration of the last band's hour-long set. Which is why I Twittered the following at 10:08pm, in the middle of the show:

"Very tempted to throw the people sucking face next to me into the mosh pit."

Fortunately, shortly afterward, the mosh pit came our way and took care of that little problem for me. Who would have thought relief would come in the form of an angry circle of morons pushing each other around?

I have an interesting threshold for things I find terrifying or disgusting. For instance, when I arrived home Saturday night after being out for dinner, I noticed a grotesque-looking arachnid. It had a big black body and four giant, hairy-looking legs. The fact that it was hanging out right where I wanted to put my foot on the stairs made its menace that much more impressive. While my first reaction upon seeing the beast was to sprint away as fast as possible, the fact that it wasn't indoors somehow reduced the overall threat. Hence, I stood over it and stared, deer-in-headlights style, fascinated.

Since the camera on my phone proved useless to take a picture thanks to its lack of flash, I headed inside and snagged my digital camera. Bravely, I returned to the infamous stair in the hopes that a good clear picture would reveal the true nature of the creature. I was hoping it was a tarantula, or maybe a vinegaroon.

My incredible 8.1 megapixel camera, with the bonus of me standing directly above the monster, took a great picture. Only when I zoomed in on said picture, the face smiling back at me was not that of a toothy arthropod, but rather of a cricket. Next to a dead and curled up cockroach. What the fuck. All that adrenaline, over a stupid chirping insect? There I was, thinking that my life was hanging in the balance, and instead of it being a venomous and therefore dangerous thing, the worst it would do would to chew some upholstery.

Unfortunately, my pictures did not even begin to capture the initial sense of creepiness I felt. If you happen to be more savvy when it comes to digital photography than I am (and I suspect you are), tips will be much appreciated. I was so disappointed that it was a damn cricket that I didn't even try to go for a cool shadow picture to try to capture it. Lame.

Today was my youngest brother's birthday. As a consequence, I joined the family, as well as some of their cronies, for dinner. Every family visit is unique these days, and I never know what to expect when I'm in their presence. Tonight was interesting, to say the least. Just for kicks, I decided to throw the word gay into as many conversations as possible.

Brother: I think I'm going to get fetuccini alfredo. Phil: I went to a gay bar-slash-restaurant in LA that had great fetuccini.

Brother: That bar gives me the creeps. Phil: That's because it's not a gay bar.

Because I was the last person to arrive, I had prime seating at the very end of the table. I say "prime" because I was lucky enough to sit next to the birthday boy's friend's girlfriend. At the tender age of 19, she was very sweet and very innocent. Which made me want to corrupt her as much as I could in the two hours I was there.

Corrupting her was much more difficult than I had expected, however, as Girlfriend lacked the mental capacity to take a compliment.

Girlfriend: It's so hard to get out of this chair with the pillar behind me. Phil: At least you can sit there. My figure isn't nearly as good as yours, so I have to sit here at the end of the table. Girlfriend: Stop it! Phil: ... Girlfriend: Don't say that. Phil: ...

I have to say I was somewhat disappointed. I thought for sure that this girl, who managed to drag her macho boyfriend into the new lingerie store next door to a local bowling alley shortly after it opened, would be a little more savvy. I'm wondering if she'll talk up the others about what a total jerk I am. Here's hoping!

While catching up on some news this evening, I stumbled upon this great story from Bakersfield, a mere 100 miles from my little corner of Los Angeles. Evidently, Mommy placed a little too much trust in little Johnny, who presumably decided to take matters into his own hands by getting his mother arrested for counterfeiting.

The news fails to expound on how the boy contacted said authorities. For instance, I imagine a 911 call might not have been taken seriously, so I like to think that the kid had no intention of giving his mom away. Rather, he was probably like, "My mommy doesn't have a job, but it's okay because she's got a computer so she just prints some money anytime she needs to buy something." And while he thought it was Mommy's special friend he was sharing this with, it turned out it was a real policeman. Oopsy.

Remember Arthur? He's the sexually ambiguous aardvark who has all sorts of weird growing up experiences in the form of children's books. The one that, as a young child, I had an impossibly difficult time relating to him as a character because, well, he doesn't look all that much like a real aardvark. And maybe the fact that my diet does not include termites. I blame Trader Joe's for reminding me about Arthur because of this spicy character I noticed on the cereal shelves.

Her face sort of reminds me of the chimp-ish character Francine. Only since she's made from coconuts and is sporting a fabulous lei and a polka dot bra, she's like ten billion times more real to me. Seriously, this Kashi Coconut Babe is bringing sexy back.

I'm still in Albuquerque, as I've noted previously, and thus I missed out on what could have been my first ever experience of an earthquake. I called up a good friend of mine there when I heard about it, and she was like, "Ho hum, the ground shook a bit, but it wasn't anything to write home about. Good times." I'm sure had I been there myself, I would have completely exaggerated the whole event in my head, and convinced myself that the ground shook so much it knocked me on my ass. But I wasn't there, and so am still left without ever experiencing such a natural phenomenon. What I did get to do today, though, was go out to lunch. Robert and I met up with a friend of ours neither of us had seen in far too long. When you meet up at 11:30 and don't leave until 2:30, you know you've had a nice time.

At some point during the meal, I had to excuse myself to use the restroom. And, awkward as it is to admit this, I couldn't resist taking a picture of something that caught my eye while there. Ever heard of Johnny Boards? (If not, it's because they're an Albuquerque company. I'm sure the concept can be seen elsewhere.) Basically, the concept is that an ideal placement for advertisements is in a place people always have to go: the John.

Normally, I don't think much of it, but today was a different story. It pretty much speaks for itself.

And I think it definitely merited taking a picture in the restroom. Just saying.

Here's a couple of things I've learned from my time visiting Albuquerque this second time around. 1.) In June, I fully expected to stay here for two and a half weeks, and thus I completely stuffed my suitcase with clothes in preparation. During my stay, I managed to buy even more clothes, which is completely awesome.

This current trip was intended to last only eleven days, and thus I packed considerably lighter. I ended up staying longer, and it's now almost been three weeks. While I confess that this makes me happy, I must also disclose that having such a limited wardrobe is extremely difficulty. Sure, I've done laundry, but my gay sensibilities get offended when one shirt is FORCED to be worn three times within less than two weeks.

Which leads me to the following: thank heaven for Target. Oh my word*, but Target is a lifesaver. I finally caved and decided to invest in some new clothing. It's pretty much the best decision I've made all week, not in the least because I got the most amazing royal purple shirt of all time.

2.) Just because you bring along certain books to read while on a trip doesn't mean you end up wanting to read them. I snagged a random two or three books from my shelf and stuffed them in my bag. But, even though I've been wanting to read them for some time, I haven't much felt like reading them at this point in time.

While channel surfing the other day, I stumbled across the movie version of Roald Dahl's Matilda. It reminded me that I hadn't read the book in years, and I wanted to change that. We wound up at one of my favorite local used book stores, and this morning, and I found myself a copy. And, over the course of the day, I read the entire thing, cover to cover. All 240 pages. I loved it when I first read it at the tender age of nine, and I loved it when I read it for the fourth? fifth? (I don't know how many times I've read the thing.) tenth? time, over fifteen years later. Talk about some serious staying power. Roald Dahl kicks ass.

*I ran into the parents of an old babysitter of mine while having lunch with my dad last week. The father of said babysitter kept saying "oh my word" to everything I said. Age? Oh my word. Height? Oh my word. Where I'm living? Oh my word. What I'm doing? Oh my word. That shit was crazy.

It feels like a good time to do a list of “All Things Disjointed.” And what better way to follow up a Saturday night rant than by a random Sunday list?

• I’m currently sitting on the couch typing this while watching Hook. I haven’t seen this movie in years, and I’m finding it very refreshing. I do have beef with the casting director for having Julia Roberts play Tinkerbell, but considering she’s way better than she is in, say, Ocean’s 11, I’ll let it slide.

• I guess it’s been a week now, since I took a stab at revamping this website with a fresh, new look. I was really excited about it at the time, only I encountered some problems and nearly lost my website completely. I rescued it, only to find out that amidst the switch and then the switch back, my RSS feed was cut off and thus axed all my readers. If someone more tech-savvy than I happens to read this and has any suggestions about restoring the feed for those who lost it, shoot me an email. Otherwise, I guess the only thing I can suggest anyone can do is resubscribe.

• When we were at the grocery store today, Robert and I had to walk past quite a rude married couple taking up an entire aisle in the frozen food section. More specifically, the ice cream-slash-frozen dessert section. Here’s a bit of the fascinating conversation I heard, centered around one of the sale specials:

  Husband: If we get enough of this, it’ll be completely free. Wife: But we didn’t even want it. Husband: I don’t think you get it. Let me explain. Wife: You still have to pay for it. Husband: No, no, it’s free. Look, it works like this.

  I’m assuming he went on for some time, and it no doubt turned into a huge argument which, if all works as it should in the world, his wife won. I guess we’ll never know, though, as I lost interest as we walked off in search of cheese.

It seems that Michael Savage, the Imminent Asshole himself, is once again all over the news on account of his usual misinformed yet angry opinions. This doesn't surprise me, as I remember when, five years ago, the man was "attacked by the liberal media," to use his terms, for saying the following to a gay man who called in to his television show on MSNBC:

"Oh, you're one of the sodomites. You should only get AIDS and die, you pig. How's that? Why don't you see if you can sue me, you pig. You got nothing better than to put me down, you piece of garbage. You have got nothing to do today, go eat a sausage and choke on it."

Savage was fired from MSNBC, as well he should have been. So what does he do? He "writes" a book about it. A book that, as it turns out, my own father purchased, read, and loved. That sad fact aside, the reason I put the word write in quotes is because, out of sheer curiosity, I read that poor excuse for literature myself. What struck me most, I suppose, was that I was amazed that a man who regularly touts his two Master's degrees and his Ph.D. never once bothered to define any terms of his book. I could be wrong, but that may not be the best way to show how educated you are.

Michael Savage, Imminent Asshole, is now under fire for stating that he believes Autism is being over-diagnosed.

"Now, the illness du jour is autism. You know what autism is? I'll tell you what autism is. In 99 percent of the cases, it's a brat who hasn't been told to cut the act out."

But wait, he goes further.

"What do you mean they scream and they're silent? They don't have a father around to tell them, 'Don't act like a moron. You'll get nowhere in life. Stop acting like a putz. Straighten up. Act like a man. Don't sit there crying and screaming, idiot.'"

And further...

"Stop with the sensitivity training. You're turning your son into a girl, and you're turning your nation into a nation of losers and beaten men."

Am I understanding this correctly? Could it be that Michael Savage is subtly hinting that he perceives autism to consist of symptoms that, for my part growing up, were considered 'sissy'? I got that all the time growing up with my family, "Dr." Savage, but I guess I turned into a big, wimpy Sodomite anyway. I suggest that "Dr." Savage check his references. Last time I checked, autism is more than simply bad behavior, but involves a litany of tests. The reason genetics can't explain the condition is that it's pretty damn hard to find out what causes someone's brain to have difficulty processing the idea that other people share your experiences and feelings.

But I suppose I shouldn't expect someone who doesn't now work in the schools to understand exactly what is going on. I suppose he's never gotten to know a child who simply does not understand why his friend is crying, or who laughs along with kids who are teasing him because he doesn't understand that they're being cruel. But according to "Dr." Savage, this is evidence that boys like this are turning into girls. But what of the girls, "Dr." Savage? I'll use your logic, which leads me to conclude that if you told them to "be a man," you'd be encouraging them to be lesbians.

What makes this whole drama even better is all the people who are actually supporting the Imminent Asshole. There are those who simply repeat exactly what the man says, and those who write very intelligent comments on US News, like this gem from "Gypsy Nick of AZ":

"Michael Savage is right, the liberal, sensitive, politically correct don't spank you chiuld bunch calls a lot of spoiled brats by some receently invented disease that requires "Treatment" instead of correction. However there may be some legitimate cases of autism or ADD, but since all misbehavior is swept under the psycological rug, we may never know for sure. It's spspect when those offering the "treatments" for money, concoct and diagnose nebulous desieases which only they cab fix if you or the government will just pay the price. Kind of sounds like what the old fashioned fortune tellers and quck faith healers used to do, only now with a college degree to back it up, they are legit.

Gyps Nick"

Wow, Nick. I'm amazed that, amid all the horrible grammar and spelling, you actually managed to spell nebulous correctly, and use it properly, too. I suggest you go find out who Michael Savage's publisher is because I'm sure they'd love to make you the next asshole star. I'm willing to bet Micheal Savage would even make out with you. I hear he's into that.

I've so far spent six months in Los Angeles, taking in all the newness of the landscape. And I've ended up back home in Albuquerque for most of the summer. I was talking to my friend Heather yesterday and we had the following conversation:

Heather: I really love Albuquerque, but there's no beach. Phil: We may not have water, but we do have dirt. Heather: There's a lot that. Phil: And dammit, when I'm away from it, I miss my dirt. Every time I fly home I get so excited to see the brown.

There's a running joke that I fear only native Albuquerquians understand. It's sort of a joke about our special desert vegetation, which in its most natural state lacks many popular flowering plants. The joke goes something like this, starting first with a surprisingly common, yet innocuous, question:

Outsider: Does New Mexico have a state flower? Albuquerquian: Sure. It's the Orange Barrel.

Being away from the city for as long as I'd been, I completely forgot just how much roadwork can hit this place. First, spring hits in early April, and trees start to bloom. Next comes the inevitable "unforeseen" winter storm that freezes all the buds on the trees and drops a few inches of snow. And then it jumps right into summer, which means that it's prime time to work on the roads. Construction springs up, simultaneously, on every other major road in the city. Sort of to the point that whenever you discover new roadblocks, you can rest assured that whatever alternative route you find offers a 95% probability of road construction of its own.

I was out driving today and was fortunate enough to have my camera handy when I discovered a classic setup of construction materials. Given that it's the height of summer, the orange and white beauties are in full bloom. See below.

I'm not entirely sure what the proper term is for these puppies, but they're obviously a close cousin to the classic orange barrel New Mexico State Flower, and they're all over the place here. Cheers to summer!

In order to be fabulously gay, you must, as a general rule, love shopping. Over the past week or so, I've noticed a pretty huge change in my shopping addictions. I realized the other day that my favorite shopping, at this very moment in time, is grocery shopping. And I was kinda taken by surprise. Robert pointed out the other day, after we got home from the grocery, that the refrigerator was so full that we hardly had room for anything we had just bought. When I opened the refrigerator door just ten minutes ago, it was all I could do to keep things from falling out. There's just no way for me to express how happy this makes me.

In part, I think our newfound love of shopping for food comes from our recent hospital visits. During those visits, we had to wander around and raid refrigerators in the hopes of finding something to snack on. There's generally very little to choose from. There's only so many times you can make a meal of a turkey sandwich and jello. And by so many times, I mean once. Other than that, there's the hospital meals, which while not bad, are not exactly offered to you via an expansive menu. No, you get that chopped meatloaf and by golly you will love it!

Hence, I've felt compelled to make sure we have maximum variety in the house. And I've been cooking up a storm. Sort of to the point that as soon as we're done with one meal, I'm already thinking about what to make for the next one. This is a domestic side of myself that I've only every before seen when it's exam time in grad school, because avoiding studying is amazing motivation for cooking something massively complicated.

I've also taken to convincing Robert that a trip to the grocery is, among other things, good exercise, especially because it promotes healing via normal activity. And because we both love food, a trip to get milk usually turns into a trip to also get tortillas, Gatorade, green chile, hash browns, eggs, and maybe some cookies. If you're New Mexican and just read that short list, you'll probably note that I've totally been making my own breakfast burritos (a.k.a. the New Mexican version of heaven, in a tortilla). Seriously. Breakfast time is approximately eight hours away from this very moment, and I'm already salivating over the yumminess that awaits me.

Could it be that someone finally recognized that right-wing groups, mainly run by unattractive people who clearly have unhappy sex lives, are but a few people sending out a huge number of complaints on "behalf" of their "followers" who don't actually care enough to be bothered to make the complaint themselves? So it would seem. It's been more than four years since the Super Bowl-watching world was scarred not so much by Janet Jackson's less-than-attractive boob, but by the awful sun pendant nipple decoration she was sporting when she and Justin Timberlake decided they'd start the foreplay of their spicy romance in front of millions of people instead of the privacy of their hotel room.

CNN reports the following:

In court filing, the FCC said the network received more than 542,000 complaints -- an "unprecedented" number. But CBS disputed the number of and significance of complaints, claiming that 85 percent of them came from form letters generated by well-organized single-interest groups.

All those undersexed conservatives worked really hard together, as a team, and got the FCC to slap a fine onto CBS to the tune of about $1.00 per complaint. Then it took the court four years to determine that, wait, CBS wasn't responsible for the on-stage fetishes of two pop singers. Or at least, it can't be proven. And besides, if all the complaint letters look the same, it's maybe a little suspicious. Like, maybe only FIVE people cared. And so the case gets thrown out and CBS gets to keep their money.

I doubt any of the big conservative groups will even make the slightest fuss. They had their "victory" when they wanted it, and now they have bigger fish to fry. The current battle is to keep us homosexuals from getting legal recognition for the partnerships we already form anyway.

I keep waiting for the day the term "sodomy" gets used more regularly by these whacko groups, mostly because it's also got a heterosexual counterpart. Let's just say I just want to see the look on James Dobson's face when a ballsy reporter asks him if his wife has ever given him a blowjob.

It started out as one of those occasional catches of the eye. The kind where you make eye contact and some sense of familiarity is sparked, but usually as just a reminder of someone you knew in the past, nothing absolute. It's meant to end there. Except in rare cases in which the opposing party decides to say "hey stranger" and move in for the kill. At the time, I had no idea where I knew her from, and I was more than happy to keep it that way. After all, I wasn't the one who went rushing up to hug me. I knew enough to know that if I only barely recognized the face, there was little point in trying to figure out where we knew each other from, much less try to catch up on the six or eight years it's been since we'd last seen each other. My thought: if I don't remember you well, I probably never knew you well.

Relief swept over me when her name was called to go into the clinic. Only she clawed viciously against the poor nurse and shouted her phone number to me and told me to call her. "I can't hear you" was what I said as the door closed, and peace resumed in my little world once again.

Five minutes passed. A door opened and a nurse approached me. She handed me a piece of paper, upon which was scrawled a name and a phone number. Meghann.

As the day has drawn onward, the events have replayed themselves in my head. Images of high school have flashed before my eyes. Remembering events and faces I'd long ago put behind me, perfectly content to let them lie. And with all these memories, the face from the doctor's office returns. Ah yes, I remember her well. Walking along the hallways before math class, and hearing her blather on about stories about her ROTC buddies and her girlfriends.

So much of my life has changed since those days, and suddenly I'm reminded of just how little I miss that time in my life. The phone number will remain on that paper, in all likelihood never to be dialed. So good to see you, but our brief contact will suffice. I'm very happy to let chance dictate our next encounter, rather than voluntarily make that happen. Until next time...

Murphy's Law states that if something can go wrong, it will go wrong. I would like to create a variation of this law that states, "If you take a trip home and don't tell your folks, you will see them everywhere you go." I think I'll call it something catchy like Phil's Law. During my last trip here, I had a chance to visit my folks. During said visit, I was greeted with excitement, followed immediately by accusation (in very large quantities, mostly about the gay thing "changing me" somehow). Having spent a good deal of my life fielding disparaging commentary from them, I've generally decided that opting out of their company is a good thing.

Hence, because this trip was so last-minute and for a purpose they could never understand because it wasn't on account of them that I returned, I accidentally failed to inform them that I'd be in town. And lo and behold, the first day after I'd flown in, who do I see walking right in front of us as we're driving through the grocery parking lot? Hi, mom. And then, when we make a quick trip to the hospital pharmacy yesterday... Hi, brother.

Thus far it's been entirely visual contact, and only on my behalf. It's interesting because I know if a point of contact is actually made, I'll be forever branded a criminal in their eyes. And who doesn't want to have a little more diversity added to their résumé?

I've been in Albuquerque since Thursday. Having been back in LA for a week, which was basically enough time for me to move and sort of reestablish myself, I decided I still needed more time away. That, and my partner had to go back in for surgery again. Friday was the big day. In other words, the beginning of a whole lot of sitting on my ass. There's the waiting before, then the waiting during, followed by the waiting after (during recovery), and of course the waiting to leave. It's taken a few days, but my ass is rebelling considerably less now than it was on Saturday. I guess that's what I get for sleeping in a chair Friday night, but there's no question that it was worth it.

One of the best parts of our one-night stay in the hospital was watching Robert wander the ward in search of chocolate. During our last stay in June, we managed to score chocolate ice cream. Riding on the wings of that success, as soon as the man was able to, he was up to walk around and on a mission to find the chocolate. Only to learn, though, that the nurses of our little realm scorned chocolate as bad for you, and instead encouraged patients to stick to vanilla or strawberry as they are more "healthy." BULLSHIT, I SAY. Chocolate is every bit as fabulous for you, if not more. And besides, it's ice cream, people. Oh, and just for the record, dark chocolate really can be good for you, even beyond the obvious psychological benefits.

We never did find that elusive chocolate ice cream, but fortunately the vanilla was crazy outstanding. Oh, all right; so was the strawberry. And, we did manage to find Carnation chocolate instant breakfast drinks. And since it was chocolate over breakfast, it fit the bill. Which leads me to the conclusion that chocolate, be it the act of devouring it or just searching desperately for it, is quite possibly the key to a speedy recovery and a better overall hospital stay. Trust me.

*Evidently I misspelled "chocolate" in the title originally. I'd spelled it "choLOClate." Obviously the result of not getting enough chocolate in my diet.

The not-so-fun part of moving out of a place you hate is that you still have to deal with clinically psychotic people even after you're gone. Since moving into my new place a little over a week ago, I feel like a completely different person. I didn't realize the depth of the loathing I felt for the previous house, and I notice now that for the first time in my life, I know what it's like to truly detest another human being. In order to find out if I would be getting my deposit money back this week, I took it upon myself to call my former landlord on Monday. She didn't return my call, so I called her again on Tuesday. Still no answer. So I proceeded to call her once or twice every hour or so for the rest of the day. She didn't call me back until Wednesday afternoon. The good news: she sent the check in the mail yesterday (even though I offered to go to the house and pick it up in person, to save her the hassle of mailing it). The lame news: she knocked off $150 from the deposit. In the six months I lived there, I apparently necessitated a steam cleaning of the carpet, a few spots on the wall that needed repainting, and a "deep cleaning" of the bathroom. I had cleaned everything completely when I moved out, but I was sort of expecting the cleaning issue from the bitch; I knew that no matter how clean I felt the place was, she would use her microscopic vision declare that there were air molecules all over the place.

I'm occasionally told that I'm way too nice, and that I need to take a stand during a time such as this. I nearly did, but I stopped myself before I got started. Here's why:

• My former landlord is insane. And evil. When I tried to use reason and intelligence to explain the concept of homophobia to my folks, I failed to get very far. From that, I learned that trying to rationalize with anyone who is irrational is pretty much a waste of breath. I concluded that, were I to argue my case, evil landlady would stop payment on the check and offer me even less money back. Hence, I concluded that I should take the money and run.

• Arguing my case would have meant talking to her more. I discovered that when you hate someone that much, the sooner you stop talking to that someone, the better off you are. I'm burning inside to just verbally rip her to shreds, but if I did, that might force me to have to deal with her more in the future, which is the last thing I want. At least now I know what crazy looks like, I'll be better able to avoid it in the future.

And in the unlikely event that I ever happen to run into her at some point in the future, I'll do the only sensible thing I can do: punch her in the face. But in the meantime, I'm far too busy basking in the glory that is freedom to live. As soon as that check arrives and I've got it in the bank, I'm declaring 'case closed' to this roommate nightmare. Ahhhh....

My temperature is now solidly above 98.6. I have a fever. Of Olympic proportions. A mere month from now, the 2008 Olympics will begin in Beijing. Even four years ago, I didn't realize the Olympics were even happening until they were more than half-way over. Not so this year. Here I am, practically counting down the days until they begin, because I fully intend to at least try following a few favorite events. I'm currently lacking a television, but fortunately, technology is fabulous. There's an amazing website called www.nbcolympics.com. I say that it's amazing because it has videos* posted from pretty much every event imaginable.

The two events I'm following closely: swimming and diving. I follow these two mostly because I grew up swimming on a local summer league my whole life. Which you can take to mean that they're pretty much the only two events that I really understand. As in, it's not work for me to follow it. Sure, I marvel at how well the commentators notice the subtleties of those damn entries from the dives WHILE the dive is happening, but I suppose since I'm not one of the guys doing the talking, it doesn't much matter.

*I'm staunchly anti- anything Microsoft. Especially if the words "media" and "player" are followed by the "microsoft." But, I do have to give them props for a plug-in called Silverlight, which works ten million times better than Media Player ever did. So, much as I hate to admit it, kudos to the big MS for that one.

I broke down and bought a new phone today. One with extravagant features, of which I'm fairly positive I'll use only 10% or so. My old phone had finally had it. Both little screens were suddenly shorting out on me, and there's only so many times you can bitch-slap a phone and get it to come back to life for you. I hadn't realized beforehand that this event would itself be an epic tale to behold. Sure I dragged my feet and held off for as long as possible, but when my phone finally went belly up and flipped me the finger on its little digital display, I figured it was time to move on.

I did a bit of research beforehand just to make sure I knew what I wanted before anyone tried to sell me anything. To which I'm now saying, 'Great, Phil. You spent an hour learning about this shit at home only to go to the store and have to wait two hours before you could actually go through with it. Now that's time well spent.'

And all the while I had to deal with this crazy Verizon welcome woman, probably in her 40s, who had gotten it into her head that a low-cut spaghetti strap black top covered in white polka dots was perfectly acceptable attire for work, so long as it was covered by a see-through outer top of similarly disgusting fabric that, even as a second layer, failed to conceal her bra. Then there was the punk 10-year-old who accidentally jumped into the family pool with his phone in his pocket, so as a reward his dad bought him a brand new Voyager. Sure, I got the same phone, but I'm not the one hasn't even started sixth grade. Oh, and the jerk kid wore his faux-kleys inside the store the whole time. Bitch, you're not fifteen yet.

I spent the better part of this evening attempting to further organize my new residence in an effort to make it more homey. I don't pretend to understand the complex ecosystem that is my little house, but it's become apparent to me that I am anything but living alone here. Good thing I'm good at sharing. What I'm not good at sharing, however, is kitchen cabinet space. Especially when that which wants to go in halfsies on the space is an eight-legged monster with a cigarette butt in its mouth and a gun holstered to its hips. Blame for this nefarious roommate lies with the former tenant, who preferred to grow illegal plants in the house rather than ever actually bothering to clean the place.

Even after my awesome new landlord had come in and completely redone the place, I've been having to clean and re-clean various areas. Today I attacked the lower cabinets underneath the kitchen counter. While innocently scrubbing away dirt and filth from one lowermost shelf, the hand doing all the scrubbing encountered something light and fluffy. "Oh, cobwebs," I thought to myself. Only when I looked down I saw not a single strand of web. Oh no, I saw a fucking Six Flags amusement park. With only one guy around to ride any of the attractions.

Spider webs are fine and good, unless they're where you want to put your dishes. Luckily for me, Renee has been recounting her new camp experiences, and I was able to harken back to my own. That is to say, I realized that a very effective way to rid yourself of cobwebs is to use a broom. And as luck would have it, I only just purchased a new broom this afternoon! So out came the broom, in it went into the cabinet, and after a few swishy swishies, out came the spider web.

The spider, unfortunately, remained. But now it was all alone, and it was nothing a little sneaker action couldn't handle. Luckily, it was a lone ranger spider (I could tell because of it was light brown with a single dark stripe on its body), and after that all seemed fine and dandy.

Lest I be leading you on with how macho this sounds, this whole debacle by no means butch. Unless butch consists of yelping in surprise and leaping backwards onto the floor as soon as I felt the spiderweb touch the hairs on my arm. Because if that's the case, then I was fucking Superman.

I'm thinking that it may be about time I consider spraying this place for bugs. After the mess it went through before, it certainly couldn't hurt anything. Until then, at least Superman has his broom.

This picture is about a month old, but since I took it right before I jumped on a plane and headed back to Albuquerque, I feel justified in its taking a while to surface and for me to post it. It seems that the east coast and the west coast have churches that are in cahoots. This sign hails from Northridge, California, on Balboa Street.

Happy 4th of July from All Things Phil!

As you can see, I'm celebrating my own newfound freedom for this July 4th. I'm free from my psycho bitch roommate from Hell. And the freedom feels damn good.