I typically don’t have much of a sweet tooth; if anything, I’m addicted to salty things (get your mind outta the gutter, Betty). So why is it that I’m suddenly craving king cake? It’s not even in season (Epiphany through Fat Tuesday). Of course thanks to the tourism industry, Gambino’s makes ’em year-round, and since they’ve got a shop Uptown, I could swing by and get one on my way to class tonight, but, well, it’d kinda be like having a yule log at a 4th of July picnic: a total turn-off. I feel the same way about cereal for supper. (Sorry, Jonno, but I do.)

Over the course of my life, I’ve had to come out several times. There was the homo coming-out–I enjoyed that one so much I did it several times: once when I was 14 (to a junior high pal and his older sister’s homo friends), then again when I was 19 (to a new group of homo buddies), and then the big one when I hit 20 (I was about to be outed to my then-girlfriend and chose to do it myself before things got nasty). Of course, I’m of the mind that if you’re a homo, you’re sorta coming out every day, so I guess I’m still in the process.

I’ve also come out in other ways: as a bear-lover (and I don’t mean Smokey), a social smoker (which makes me like a bisexual–neither camp wants me in their ranks), and here, on this website, I came out as a former D&D player (I could link to the archive file, but I’m not quite that masochistic). I only wish I could have come out as a deb–though now that I think about it, I look kinda crappy in white. Maybe it’s best I skipped that one.

As some of you might have guessed, today I must come out again. No, I don’t get into scat–despite some rude accusations from certain email correspondents who shall remain nameless. And I’m not crossing back over into heteroland anytime soon…. Any guesses?

None?

Okay. I’m a gamer. A pretty avid one at that.

Now, I don’t get into the mindless sort of shoot-em-up kickboxing stuff, and I don’t even look twice at the sports games, but give me a good Tombraider, and you’ll have just managed to shut me up for the next eight months.

My latest obession is Thief 2: The Metal Age. It’s got all the things that really get me going, notably good graphics and a low-kill/high-puzzle factor. But I gotta tell ya: the controls SUCK. They’re all over the map. My poor qwerty keyboard can’t handle it. But of course, that’s how I know I’m really hooked: my fingers are tied in knots, yet I still keep playing.

Why did I choose today to come out? Well, the office is really quiet right now–just a few people passing up and down the hall–and the only noises are the sort of sniffling and scuffling you hear in the game while you’re waiting for someone to turn their back so’s you can sneak into someone’s bedroom. Everyday sounds I’d normally overlook now have me pressing ALT-W and holding my breath. If it’s that engrossing, it must be pretty good, huh?

I’m okay with my game-lust, I guess. Just don’t tell my mom. She still remembers the happy day I finally gave up the Atari and the Intellivision (am I dating myself?). She’d be so disappointed.

So. Seven hours after I began redesigning our company’s website, I decided I’m really kinda fond of the original. So I trashed it. All of it. (Well, I’m not that impulsive. It’s sitting around in a junque folder if I should ever feel the urge to tackle it again.)

Must…avert…gaze…from…monitor….

Naked Killer: better than Office Killer (sorry Goddess Cindy) and way better than Killer Klowns from Outer Space, but not nearly as entertaining as Return of the Killer Tomatoes (“They are gardeners and carpenters. They are not tomato men.”) or a rousing rendition of “Psychokiller”. Nor is it as enjoyable as Heroic Trio, the best of the supadupafly-kung-fu-fashion-lady as highly-seasoned-killer genre goes (if there is such a thing–and I think there is). But of course, when I’m looking for fashion and murder in the same place, I prefer the oh-so-rare Modesty Blaise (Whither Monica Vitti? Whither?) or the 1990s PVC-totin’ equivalent, Aeon Flux.

[Editorial query: Why do fags feel drawn to strong, deadly, wacko women? It’s like Ab Fab‘s Edina says to her gay ex-husband when he and his partner get excited at the impending arrival of Patsy’s supposedly fierce sister: “You boys are so predictable. Give you a well-dressed woman with a drug habit and you’re falling all over yourselves to get to her.” (Or something like that. I paraphrase.)]

I did, however, see a very real, very admirable woman this evening in a documentary on PBS. Edith Heap is a Londoner who worked for the Royal Air Force during WWII. She served as a “positioner,” which basically meant that she stood around a large map of the countryside listening to Air Force radio and moving little markers about to denote planes’ positions in the sky. One day during a battle skirmish, she heard her finance shot down. There were no screams from his cockpit or anything, just another pilot describing the plane plummeting toward the ground. Without knowing the plane’s call letters or anything, she knew it was him–just knew.

When the modern-day Edith spoke about that feeling of intuition and the mourning she went through, even though the ordeal took place more than 50 years ago she quickly choked with tears. Couldn’t speak. And she was furious at herself for getting so worked up about it. Such a strong, common sensical woman. She reminded me of my grandmother, a farm-running, gun-toting, fish hook-baiting woman whom I miss very much. If I ever find myself in such a trying situation, I hope I’ve got the chutzpah to pull through it level-headed.

Ouch. Early night, but still…. Ouch.

Every Saturday at 6:00pm, I’m reminded that this is the embodiment of evil in America. But they’re so gosh-darned cute and campy, how could you ever destroy them? Well, short of jerryrigging a flamethrower, locking the entire cast in the basement of an abandoned building, and toasting their overwrought vocal cords. I guess that would work.

In other news, my buddy Lesley finally made it to town. I should probably go ahead and position the Advil bottle close to my side of the bed. It’ll just make tomorrow morning more a little more bearable. (Funny how those sommelliers like to drink a lot.)

And somebody finally washed the dishes and put the new roll of toilet paper on the dispenser. Frat points: -20.

So, I’m no tech-head–not by a longshot–but this uTOK thing looks kinda interesting. At least, I think it does. As I understand it, it’s sort of a freestanding guestbook for every webpage on the planet. Anyone out there given it a test drive?

Truth be told, cookiepuss, I have a habit of lusting after unlikely TV personalities, too. Luckily, I’m not alone.

Storms in New Orleans are sudden and violent and intensely beautiful. I can’t imagine living without them.

Um, why hasn’t anyone told me about this before? Surely a couple of my porndog pals must have known about it…. I mean, eBay conceptual art? Woo hoo!