Thank You Global Warming...

I'm sure most of you are wondering why I haven't blogged all week. This is partially due to the fact that it has been in the mid sixties or more this week, but mainly due to the fact I'm been with Superman for most of the week. This is good because I love hanging with this cat, but not so good as now I have so much to say and you only have so much attention to give. Am I right? So I've decided to break down my week into the Reader's Digest version.

I met SM's family out for his brother's last night in town before going back be with his lying skank of a wife (or so I'm told). They have me meet them out at a bar that was less than trendy shall we say. It looked like the Cheers bar if it were owned by the Clampetts. I'm talking deer heads on the wall and any kind of fried animal or vegetable you could imagine. The rest of the night was rather uneventful, but a good prelude to the next night when I met his father and stepmother.

His stepmother is hairdresser (need I say more), who I would describe as the hillbilly tanorexic version of Joan Rivers. His father who I've also met in passing only stumbles in the door half in the bag and stats telling stories of his childhood. Oh, and may I interject and say how I was referred to as SM's "friend," air quotes included, throughout the night. His father is that guy who's family has every senator, judge, and mayor in the tricounty area in their rolodex. So of course SM's father was that rich kid who was always getting fucked up at school and in trouble with the law. I heard one too many stories of watching his children after doing a few bong rips and a couple hits of LSD and we were out. Don't get me wrong, his dad is a cool guy to talk to but it's hard not to judge, eh?

After that we hit up some dinner and a very nice chat. We talked about all the things that went wrong before, how we've changed, and a few sore subjects for instance his ex boyfriend. I could not think worse of this guy and how he hurt SM every way you can. Not to mention the few times I've met the kid he was less than cordial so I may or may not have told him he should be doing my dry cleaning instead of being dry with me. Did I mention he is asian? Regardless there was no subject too messy for our discussion. It laid the track for the next few months of our relationship and as one who doesn't deal with surprises very well, I was pretty relieved.

On a completely separate note, I got to meet Mr. February. A restraining order could not have kept me from hugging that prepubescent kid and thanking him for all his charitable work. SM laughed while everyone else stood dumbfounded. I'm sure this kid is terrified of me, a feeling shared with Twinkie that will hopefully hold their sad "relationship" (again with the air quotes) together. YAY!!

Well I'm out for a few days, so Happy V Day to all my loyal readers and I will catch you later. Fin.

Bradley James

Goodbye My Lovers...

So things with Superman are going very well, well enough that I've reached a decision. We all have fuck buddies, or as Chocolate Snatch calls them distractions. These are the people that fill your sexual needs during droughts of actual relationships, like renter's insurance for your penis. But now I'm making an investment in a stable relationship, to continue the metaphor I'll call myself a first time home owner. It's nice and though it may need a little work it's still yours.

It's come that time that I've moved in and it's time to forget my renting days. I'm sure I've lost you all by now but the jist is it's time for me to delete my fuck buddy's numbers from my phone and life. I think if I'm willing to put my all into it I shouldn't have an escape route planned out. Whether Fritas knows or not, she asked me if I wanted to make this work and what I would do to keep it that way. When I realized offing Twinkie was not even a remote problem I realized it was that time.

So this is a farewell to all of the men that made my 30 day project, my "distractions," and a few good friends that just made some drunken decisions with me (actually these I'll keep, as they were not even friends with benefits). It doesn't count if the hangover outshines the sex, plus we actually have conversations. I will let you know among these are Johnny Angel and Big, and if you think it's a bad decision TOUGH SHIT.

So here's to my promise to put my all into a great thing I have going. Here's to Fritas who (unknowingly) gave me the push. And lastly, to the many great fucks I've had so many year through. May you all find a new cock to sit on.

**

Come to think of it Johnny Angel has met Superman too. It was while we were dating previously and he came down for some such reason and met me a Waffle House. They only met in passing though thank Allah. Life really is a Shannon Doherty sized bitch. Love her.

Bradley James

PS. Ask some friends to read my blog since you are sitting there at your desk while I do the footwork. I'll keep posting if you keep reading

The Mouth Breather...

Before meeting for lunch with Fritas and Superman I had to pay my monthly respects to one of the gods the gays must worship, hair salons. I walked in as I usually do and asked for my regular stylist. Seeing as it was a snow day I was sure to jump right in and be out in an hour, only to find my stylist moved back to Virginia. WTF? Is it me or do hair stylists have the life expectancy of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer?I had no time to do soul searching and interviews with other stylists So I asked for a recomendation. I didn't however have the time to specify my qualifications for said person such as keep chatting to a minimum unless I know you, and I don't. Bad idea.

I got sat down with a very large non descript salon gal. You know the type, 17 different shades of what I would call brown hair (though for them it's Swiss carmel and chocolate mouse) and enough product to keep a high rise from leveling during an eathquake. She was bubbly and seemed nice enough, so I told her what I'd like done and she seemed to get me pretty well. I got my shoulders rubbed and went on to the shampoo station. She then proceeded to talk with her salon friends instead of talking to me. Again good, I don't want to be fucking interviewed by some chick here to do me a service and leave, much like a hooker.

We sat down in the chair and she started shearing and chatting. Fuck, FUCK! Where do you work? How's the weather? Can I have a blood tpye and urine sample? I started getting shorter with my answers until she realized I'm sure that I was not in the mood. Then it happened, she leaned in closer when checking consistancy of length on either side of my head and I heard what I thought was the heating vents... only not. It took me seconds to realize she was a mouth breather, and a bad one at that. In case you are not sure what I mean by this is someone who is so large that the physical weight of their upper body is crushing their lungs to the point the are breathing like the wheezing kid in Hey Arnold or Darth Vader. How gross!!! I couldn't start up another conversation with her to save my life and couldn't hum descretly enough to drown our the sound. I had made my bed and now I had to lay in it with the mouth breather.

As soon as she finished I bounded out the door leaving enough for the cut and a tip. Here's a tip bitch, since you do nothing but stand around all day at work go out and take a jog or some laxitives after work. And now I'm stuck searching for a new stylist, fuck.

Bradley James

Masculinity Digresses...

Within the past few weeks or so I've become aware of certain traits of today's modern man. When I say modern man I'm referring to you liberal thinking, GQ reading, J Crew poster boys of the world. These are often called metrosexuals. This is the dawn of their new age and all of us are innocent bystanders. Calling a man Metro has even become a compliment in our culture. Well dressed and well mannered, great for them, but there are horrific side effects to this lifestyle... feelings.

Yes, in the past two weeks I have seen more men crying over such trivial nonsense it's almost nauseating. I grew up in a family where we were told to share our feelings and try to comfort others. That's understandable in elementary school, but when I reached middle school and first saw my dad cry when my grandfather passed I understood. Crying is reserved for those times when you cannot control a situation. Crying however should not be used to solve problems. Since this I can count on one hand how many times I've cried.

I hate to say this but (judgment free zone!!!), women are criers by nature. I get it! But to see a man cry over some girl not calling back or not having the right size Steve Madden loafer at the store is unacceptable. Lay the bitch out and order your shit online you boat footed freaks. Call me insensitive, but seeing a man cry will kick my Fight versus Flight mode into high gear. I get panicky and my eyes start darting for the nearest exit.

So this is my message to pass along to all of the men in your life, "Feeling are like treasure, they are meant to be buried."

Bradley James

Worst Movie EVER...

I've started to fall into a routine in the past few weeks or so of going out on Mondays to have a few beers and do crossword puzzles. I know how unbelievable dull that is, but it's my time get away from my soap opera of a life. I'm not sure why I choose the paper I do, or why it must be Monday. Then I'm stuck drinking at the bar drinking and doing the Sunday Times crossword. I have no problem making fun of attractive people that have the mental capacity soap, but "Hey Pot...This is Kettle. Um, you're black!"

Needless to say I was searching for a distraction, as this weeks puzzle was a tad bit in the difficult side. I saw my friend Turtle at the end of the bar and grabbed a seat. I'm actually not sure of Turtle's real name to be perfectly honest. Either way we got started talking about movies, which obviously led to Oscar noms, blah, blah, I'm over it. Then I jokingly mention The Day After Tomorrow as one of my favorite bad movies ever. This led to the discussion of the worst movie ever created. Though I heard some good runners up I nailed the worst of the worst, which I also own. Anything that brings Jean Claude Van Damme and Kylie Minogue together is just asking for trouble. I give you Street Fighter the Movie.



Enjoy, and if you can find a worse one let me know.

Bradley James