The Barbara Walters Special–Vinyl Villager Edition

14 01 2009

It’s time for a little Barbara Walter’s Special! The guest tonight is…well, it’s me. And since Barbara has been too busy trying to keep everyone from killing Elizabeth Hasselback, Jason and the (Sometimes) Serendipitous Girl have kindly stepped in to ask the questions. (I beg their forgiveness if I’ve taken some liberties with a few.)


1)  I love your blog name, especially since I too live in a vinyl village.  How did you come to buy the plastic palace and would you do anything differently?

Well…the honey and I were looking to shack up together. We worked about 45 minutes apart from each other, so were trying to find something to rent in a suburb between our jobs. There was nothing acceptable to rent, so we started looking at a few new neighborhoods and found our Vinyl Village.  There were, I think, 5 houses available at the time and we picked this one because it had the nicest kitchen and bathroom but also happened to be the cheapest. I’m not sure that I would have done anything differently, but I might have looked at more established neighborhoods more…and if I had foreseen the tough times we are in now, maybe not bought at all.

2)  If you could be any super hero who would you be and why?

 Well, Superman of course. He can fly. He can look good in a skintight bodysuit and a cape. He has that whole x-ray vision thing going which I promise I could make very good use of several times a day. The only thing that can hurt him is Kryptonite–and really, when was the last time you saw a piece of that laying around?

3)  Tonight you get home to your favorite meal waiting for you.  What would it be?  And what would you be drinking with said meal?  (Is TOO one question.)

This is tough! I love food…and it’s hard to narrow this down to just ONE meal. Since childhood, there is nothing I like more than a good salad–one filled with so much meat, cheese, and croutons that it couldn’t possibly pass for healthy. So, that. And a bowl of cold peach soup. (I had that once at a wedding and it was incredible!) And a nice fillet mignon, maybe with a little bleu cheese or bernaise. Or a chicken breast stuffed with cheese and prosciutto or a really good bragioli.  And steamed asparagus sprinkled with a bit of oil and garlic. And wonderful bread with garlic or honey butter. I’m suddenly starving! All washed down with a bottle glass of wine or a gin and tonic.

4)  What is one thing about you that would surprise your readers?

 If they’ve read all the stuff here in the “My Life” category, nothing should surprise them. But I’m not sure what people’s impression of me is, so I couldn’t say for sure.

5)  What has surprised you most about writing?  Or if nothing has surprised you, what is the biggest lesson you take away from the writing process?

I didn’t really have any expectations for this blog. I guess I’m surprised that nearly a year after starting it,and 200 plus posts, I still think of and find things to write about. And I’ve been quite surprised at the sense of community in the blog world. I totally wasn’t expecting that.

6) How old are you?

I have the sex drive of an 18 year old. The short term memory of an 80 year old. The attention span of an 8 year old. And the hair of a 45 year old (though thankfully it doesn’t look that way in pictures YET. (As Anderson Cooper once said: Going gray is like ejaculating. You know it can happen early, but it’s a shock when it happens to you.) But my birth certificate will reveal that I am, as of this writing, 31.

7)You’ve joked that you were a perfect child, give us an example of a time you weren’t so perfect.

I’ve only the vaguest recollection of this, but I am told that I was batshit crazy about my appearance when I was young. Class photos from that time do NOT support this. (I mean, turquoise Miami-Vice pants and a yellow shirt–really??) But, apparently there were times I would not get out of the car because there was a stain on my clothes. Then there is the famous story that usually gets told when a few bottles of wine come out: I was about six and spending the weekend with my dad and stepmother. We were planning to go see a movie, or go to a birthday party, or whatever. And. They. Were. Out. Of. Mousse. A tantrum followed and I refused to go. Refused! In fairness to my young self, my hair is thick and course and does absolutely require “product” if it’s not to look like I’ve recently electrocuted myself. But, what six year old even knows what mousse is??

8)What is your most embarassing habit?

I have a habit that probably SHOULD embarass me, but really doesn’t. I sing in the car. Very badly. And I keep singing if I’m placing a phone call until I hear the person answer. IF I hear the person answer, that is. Far too often, the person on the other end of the line is treated to a chorus of  “I’ve Got the Magic Stick” or a shreiking rendition of “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia”.

9)How would you describe a perfect day?

Well it would have to happen at some fun locale–the beach or San Francisco come to mind. I’ d sleep in for sure. Get up, have breakfast in bed. (eggs benedict maybe?) Have toe curling sex. Go get a massage. Do some siteseeing/shopping. Have a nice lunch. Take a nap. Laze around with a good book til time for dinner. Have a long, relaxing dinner at a nice restaurant (the meal outlined above would be fine). Maybe go to a nice night spot for a few drinks. Then some hair raising (or maybe hair pulling) sex. Yup, that sounds ideal to me.

10)What is your biggest nightmare?

I abhor roaches. I can not even stand the site of one in picture form. My skin crawls. Other than that–being burned or winding up as one of those old people who dies poor and alone and no one even notices until the stench wafts down the street.

Would YOU like to sit a spell on Barbara Walter’s sofa? Well, she isn’t available. But anyone who would like me to interview THEM need just follow these rules:

The rules for anyone else who wants to be interviewed.
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. (I get to pick the questions).
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.


Strange Things I’ve Done to my Penis

29 04 2008

Let me start out saying that if you know me in real life, stop now. You probably don’t want to read further. But if you already stomached my narrative on the horrors of being a man at the doctors office, you’ll be fine.

If you made it this far, I’ll continue by saying that I could just as easily write about “Strange things Ive done to my finger” or “weird happenings with my feet” but that would be boring, which is something I try not to be.

From time to time, I have visited tanning beds. I did it in high school to have a nice color for prom. Throughout college and my early career years, I would get a few sessions in before taking a beach trip to get a nice base tan in an attempt to save myself from a sunburn while on vacation. And this month, I’m taking advantage of a month of tanning that was offered by my new gym. Typically speaking, though, I gave up tanning a long time ago. Having the Vinyl Village pool means that I usually get a little sun before any trips, and having the roof open on the car keeps me slightly tanned year round.

I never was, and never will be, one of those people who tans so much that they turn orange. I saw such a creature this past weekend at a fundraiser. The poor thing must have slept in a sunbed every night…she was literally the color of a basketball, and had almost the same texture. I have also never been one for naked tanning, or clever little “press on tattoos” that leave a pasty white image of a Playboy bunny or something equally tacky on the netherregions. I simply hop into the tanning bed with whatever underwear I have on and leave it at that.

Now, before I learned the supportive benefits of boxer briefs, a nice trunk, or a classic tighty whitie, I pretty much stuck to boxers. And that’s what I had on one day when I got into the tanning bed. I’d already had several sessions, so had a good base, and was up to the point where I tanned for about 10 or 12 minutes a session.  So I got down to my boxers, slapped on those goofy looking glasses, and got in.

All seemed well until later that night. My penis was very tender…the slightest bit of friction from walking or moving about was terribly uncomfortable. And it itched slightly. When I got into the shower I noticed the cause–I’d sunburned my dick! The baggy boxers I had been wearing had apparently gaped open at the fly just enough to expose a lemon-shaped wedge of pasty white shaft skin. Well, at least it had been pasty white. Now it was bright red. The shower water hitting me burned. Rubbing against clothes caused almost nauseating pain for at least two days. And then it itched like crazy. A week later, it peeled! And for weeks I had what appeared to be a lemon-shaped liver spot midway up my wang.

But that isn’t all my poor weiner has had to endure. Skip ahead a few years. My roommate in college got a new computer and for the first time, we had the internet in our home. She and I were surfing ebay one night, trying to find something that we actually needed, though I can’t recall what it was.

We came across an auction for one of those penis enlarging “pumps”. The current price was around $2. Jokingly, J, the roomie, put a bid in on it. Now, since she and I were both new to eBay, we had no idea that what we had just bid on was a dutch auction. (Meaning that there are several of the item up for bids, and there’s a good chance all who bid will end up with one.) But that’s what we had done. Bid two dollars on an instrument guaranteed to add inches to your manhood. A few days later, we got the dreaded email :”Congratulations! The auction has ended and you are the winner of the Long Dong Vacuum Schlong” (or whatever it was called). Not wanting to harm our fresh eBay reputation, we ponied up the two dollars and just paid for the damned thing. Within a week, the pump arrived at our door step. It looked like a combination between a test tube on steroids and a blood pressure cuff. We had a laugh, and it got tossed into my closet.

A few weeks later, I went to bed, and for whatever reason, my mind turned to the device in the closet.

“What the heck?” I figured, “Let’s see if this thing works.” So I squeezed through the rubber gasket at the end, and pumped up the little valve. A few moments later, I was the proud owner of a penis that, while not appreciably larger, was a bit more girthy. But it looked like someone was choking it. It was reddish purple, and the pump was not at all comfortable. Fun over, I released the valve and pulled at the pump.

Only, it wouldn’t move. A few painful yanks, and it hadn’t budged. I walked around my room, giant plastic object hanging from my johnson, and found some lotion–hoping that would provide just enough lubricant to extract myself from the pump.

Half a bottle later, I was still stuck and starting to panic. My mind raced. I thought of ugly lesbians, naked old women, and read a passage or two from the Bible, all in an attempt to wither my weinie. None of it worked.

“I could find a hammer to break the plastic!” I thought. It didn’t occur to me that I would also break my wang. The only thing that swayed me from that solution was the realization that the hammer was in the kitchen, two floors beneath me, and I would have to walk past J to get to it. There was no way in hell I was going to explain the predicament to her.

I wrapped myself, and the giant mass  of plastic and rubber at my groin, in a robe and waddled down the hall to my study. Finding a pair of scissors, I reasoned that I could cut the rubber gasket away to free myself. Then I realized there was nothing but skin on the other side and one false move and I’d have to join a support group founded by John Wayne Bobbitt.

By this point, some amount of time had passed and I was having a major panic attack. I was beginning to think the only way I was getting out of that pump was to go to the hospital and have it removed.

“How will I explain that bill to my parents when they get it?”

“What if I get pulled over by the police on the way to the hospital?”

“How can I even face them at the hospital? This is some urban legend shit right here!”

Too mortified to even think of having to share what I was going through with anyone, I decided to try once more to get it off. The throbbing had subsided some, and I figured that either my dick had fallen asleep or it had shrank a bit and the pressure had relieved itself somewhat. I put on a slathering of lotion and pulled hard at the base of the pump. Miraculously, it flew off and landed on the carpet a few feet away.

My unit was dark red, veins bulging as if they might burst any moment. I was so relieved that a visit to the hospital had been averted that I didn’t even care. Over the next few days, a nasty bruise developed at the base of my penis. Dark purple, then fading away over the next few weeks to varying shades of green and yellow. I guess that’s what I got for wondering if the pump worked…


Doin’ The Catwalk Crawl

9 04 2008

I don’t know why, but I just laugh my ass off whenever someone wipes out on the catwalk. Maybe it’s because just plain funny to see ANYONE fall, ANYWHERE. But add to it that these are people who normally strut around in a state of unattainable perfection, and it becomes just fucking hilarious.

So I bring to you some side splitting catwalk crashes:

She totally disappeared!


She needs to wear flats!

And this bitch practically dives on her face: