Archive for June, 2003

christmas in june

From the full opinion of Lawrence v. Texas:

Bowers‘ rationale does not withstand careful analysis. In his dissenting opinion in Bowers Justice Stevens concluded that (1) the fact a State’s governing majority has traditionally viewed a particular practice as immoral is not a sufficient reason for upholding a law prohibiting the practice, and (2) individual decisions concerning the intimacies of physical relationships, even when not intended to produce offspring, are a form of “liberty” protected by due process. That analysis should have controlled Bowers, and it controls here. Bowers was not correct when it was decided, is not correct today, and is hereby overruled. This case does not involve minors, persons who might be injured or coerced, those who might not easily refuse consent, or public conduct or prostitution. It does involve two adults who, with full and mutual consent, engaged in sexual practices common to a homosexual lifestyle. Petitioners’ right to liberty under the Due Process Clause gives them the full right to engage in private conduct without government intervention. The Texas statute furthers no legitimate state interest which can justify its intrusion into the individual’s personal and private life.

41 S. W. 3d 349, reversed and remanded, baby.
Okay, I added the “…baby” part.

You really, really need to read the full decision to appreciate it. It’s a little astonishing to see the Supreme Court of the US citing books I’ve had on my shelf for years in a major decision. And Scalia’s dissent is equally astounding in its own way: it’s like seeing the most groan-inducing bits of an old alt.politics.homosexuality flamewar enshrined as national canon. As below, so above, I guess.

I’m really glad that this decision came down between election seasons, and I’m morbidly curious to see what form the backlash will take. But in the meantime: FUCKINYAY!

I guess it was inevitable.

‘s LiveJournal Slut Stats
The below percentages indicate what has done with the 98 people on his friends list!



seen topless

seen naked

made out

oral sex



Okay, a little careful editing removed the gratuitous ad that’s tacked onto the end of this thing. If you’re curious, it was sponsored by I find this simultaneously a little amusing and a little worrisome.

I’ve been meaning for a while now to try to work out an essay on the whole lj/blogging phenomenon, and some of the more naive assumptions that I see working behind it. Dunno if I’ll ever actually get around to it, but this little bit of meme-sponsoring seems to be a perfect early manifestation of the problem, so I’ll cut to the chase and deliver the wrap-up summary: Any available commons space will inevitably be abused, and those who don’t remember Usenet are doomed to reimplement it — badly.

Corporate sponsorship of (occasionally) amusing toys like LJ quizzes isn’t a bad thing per se, but if realizes any revenue based on this stunt, it’s going to wake up a lot of people to the fact that LJ/blogdom, via their builtin comment/pingback systems, are an entirely unexploited medium for advertising. Writing a small program to spam advertisements as anonymous journal comments would be trivial, and it’s going to happen. LJ, at least, can simply disable anonymous commenting, and then pray that their account creation token system is cryptographically secure. The wider blog-world will have it much, much worse: the de-facto standardization of the Blogger XML-RPC API is going to be the rope with which the spammers will tie the blogosphere in knots: it’s completely insecure, it’s designed to let any random idiot add comments, trackbacks or pingbacks everywhere, and it’s so widespread that it could easily take years to migrate a substantial portion of the community to a secured replacement.

It’s gonna be a fun year.

Anyway, meta-issues about advertising, spamming and sponsorship aside, I confess I found this quiz pretty amusing. It needs a little work though: it lists community and pseudo-user memberships along with everyone else, so my scores are kinda dragged down by the fact that I’m not likely to ever see or naked. Conversely, my scores in some areas were personally inflated by , since Ms. Shakti has no less than four LJ ids in use, and while I don’t actually know her that well (hi!), it’s pretty hard to read her journal and not see her naked or topless at some point.

Hm, reminds me, speaking of inflating my scores, I need to add a few people I met this weekend. cough

at last the story can be told

Lemon-Lime Wasabi Sorbet

  1. Add 1.5 cups sugar to 2.0 cups water. Dissolve sugar over low heat, then raise heat until water boils. Boil for about a minute, and then remove from heat, setting aside.

  2. Juice 2 lemons and 2 limes, of good size: you’re aiming for about 3/4 cup of juice total. Add 2 tbsp salted yuzu (japanese citron) juice; set aside.

  3. Optionally: grate the zest from one of the lemons.

  4. In a large bowl, beat 1 egg white until foamy; about 10 seconds.

  5. Slowly add the warm sugar syrup to the egg whites while continuously beating. You’ll get a lot of foam on the top; this is expected.

  6. Add the fruit juice mixture (and zest, if any); continue beating.

  7. Add 1-2 tbsp (to taste) wasabi oil. Beat for about 10 second more. Pour into a glass or plastic jar and refridgerate overnight or at least until cold.

  8. Give the mixture a vigorous shake before freezing to make sure the wasabi oil is still emulsified. Freeze by whatever your favorite method is. Makes about a quart.

Some notes:

The prepared syrup may smell a little bit weird, especially if you’re freezing with LN2, which produces billowing clouds of whatever volatiles are in the mix. Ignore this: the finished product lacks this smell.

To the obvious question: Wasabi sorbet? Are you mad? I have two answers: One, the inspiration for this flavor was a Yuzu-Wasabi sorbet that is served as a between-courses treat on the omakase (tasting) menu at Morimotos in Philadelphia, and so far as I know is the original creation of Masaharu Morimoto, better known as the Iron Chef Japanese, and if you can’t trust him on food, who can you trust? Two, this was recently tested by a discerning group of 110 ice cream freaks, and it won the “best flavor” award running away, with twice as many votes as the nearest competitor. (My doctor informs me that my ego should be returning to normal size within about a week.)

Morimotos served it with a tiny wasabi beignet, which worked perfectly, and should be dead simple to make: just sprinkle a few drops of the wasabi oil into your favorite beignet recipe.

This recipe was originally intended to be a Yuzu-Wasabi sorbet, but the only yuzu juice I could find was heavily salted. If you can locate enough fresh yuzu to make 3/4 cups of yuzu juice, that would be The Best Thing of All: substitute it for the lemon and lime juice, and add a teaspoon of salt.

If you can’t locate wasabi oil, pre-made wasabi paste (the kind in a tube) can be substituted, although you’ll get a slightly odd aftertaste from the other ingredients in it. You’ll want to use about half as much paste as you would of the oil. Do NOT under any cirumstances use “wasabi powder” — in 99.9999% of all cases, there is no actual wasabi in the powder, but instead it will contain dried western horseradish, turmeric and mustard: take my word for it that the flavor this produces is UNSPEAKABLY NASTY.

The base for this recipe is the lemon sorbet recipe from Bruce Weinstein’s “The Ultimate Ice Cream Book.”


A day like many:

Them: Oh no! We can’t implement [massively overfeatured upgrade] to [non-revenue-generating project] until the next version of [flaky open-source package] ships, and that won’t be for another two weeks! You must implement [astoundingly ugly hack] immediately!

Me: Er, don’t we have [program that performs 95% the same task as the ugly hack which has already passed QA testing] in production already? And hasn’t it been running there for months now without a problem?

Them: Oh, um, yeah, I guess.

Me: Did it suddenly start breaking?

Them: Uh, I guess not…

Me: So why are we trying to fix it?

Them: …

Me: Do we really need to perpetuate (and qualify and test) [atrocious hack] just to implement a feature that we’re going to have to re-test, re-qualify and re-deploy in two weeks when we upgrade to the new version of [flaky open-source package]?

Them: …

Stopping stupid ideas is one of this job’s underrated pleasures.

adventures in cooking

The current score:


Please god, let this not require freshly grated wasabi rhizome, because I cannot seem to locate any in this city, and the only online source only takes orders on Mondays and Tuesdays.

What am I making, you ask?

Muah hah hah hah hah hah. They called me mad at the Sorbonne…MAD!

a few notes on a fabulous weekend

Okay, this is going to be perhaps completely loopy after that last bolus of self-indulgence. I’m tired and should probably should go to bed, but I know if I wait until tomorrow to write this up I’ll just never do it at all.

My weekend rocked, in a precise New York 4/4 time signature.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine who likes doing ridiculously extravagent things for his friends wrote and said that he’d rented a skybox at Madison Square Garden for the Coldplay concert, and would Miranda and I like to attend? My disassociation with current pop music had gotten bad enough that I only vaguely recognized that Coldplay was a brit-pop band, but I accepted happily on the grounds that how often would I get the chance to see an MSG concert from a skybox, and quickly went searching on Kazaa for Coldplay mp3s. I was happy to discover that their two albums were actually both extremely good (yes, I now know that I am two years late to this party, thanks), so I wasn’t going to spend the entire show waiting for the band to finish up so I could get back to socializing.

So on Friday night, Miranda and I met up in Penn Station and proceeded into the Garden. Now, the last time I’d been to a full-on Arena Stadium Rock Experience was getting on a decade ago: Metallica at the Philadelphia Spectrum, touring behind the black album. (I banged my head for four hours straight, and then couldn’t move my neck for about a week, much to the amusement of my girlfriend at the time.) That had been a bracing but borderline terrifying experience: my seats had been on the first row of bleachers before the floor seats, and I’d gotten to watch as the entire general admission area turned into an enormous most pit within seconds of the first song.

The skybox experience at MSG is…about as far from that as you could get. You enter via a side-door, get your ticket validated by a polite attendent, and then take an elevator all the way to the top. When you get off, there’s a catering table and bar in the lobby where the other people are milling, and you can make smalltalk or wander into your box, which is actually like a small hotel suite, with a private bathroom, an icemaker, and a smiling stadium employee who pops into the room every few minutes to cart away any excess trash and see if you’d like any more orders of sushi. This, apparently, is how the the other half lives.

There were about 15 people in the box, including John and Michael, my friend Glen from Boston, who I hadn’t known was going to be there, and whom I hadn’t seen in about 3 years, and his lovely friend Dafney, who instantly bonded with Miranda but who of course is just about to move to Berkeley. Everyone else seemed to be friends of Michael who were in town to celebrate the launch of their new magazine, which I think could safely be described as Vogue for Chelsea Clones, but they themselves were unpretentious and fun.

The opening acts were pretty much a loss. The first group was called Eisley, and appeared to be a trio of British women who were perhaps 16 years old. They actually had a fairly nice sound — a lot of ethereal harmonies a la Miranda Sex Garden — but…ah… actual quotes: “This is a song about treetops.” “This song is about a dragon.” Sadly, they were not talking about Trogdor. They were followed by Ron Sexsmith, who I’d heard good things about, but who was apparently having an awful night: he played only six songs and was consistantly offkey.

Coldplay’s set, happily, was uniformly good. They don’t have a deep back-catalogue to draw on, so the set was pretty much what you’d expect: the highlights of their two albums. I was really worried about how their pop-floydian introspection was going to play in an arena setting, but Chris Martin was more than up to the task: he wailed, he moaned, he pounded on the piano, he ran around the stage like a maniac, and pattered amusingly and disarmingly at the crowd. The band was tight and well-rehearsed, and the lightshow complemented the music without being overly show-offy. For my money, the best song of the evening was a heart-rendingly perfect rendition of “Everything’s Not Lost”, but the crowd seemed to get most into “In Your Place” and “Yellow.” For their second encore, they covered Echo and the Bunnymen’s “Lips Like Sugar”, which was a great treat for us Old Farts in the audience. We stumbled out at around midnight, tired, full and happy.

But wait, there’s more!

After spending Saturday first completely failing to get Miranda’s DSL working and then stranded at my office by a sudden downpour after we’d detoured there to pick up a box of lead I’d left there, we wandered into Prospect Park to hear a free concert by Blackalicious, who are only the best goddamn band to appear in the last five years in any genre and the authors of the best hip-hop album I have ever heard, period, so I was just a little excited to see them. We were going to meet up with and at their apartment first for dinner, but ended up running horribly late, and when we called them, they were already sitting at the bandshell…and snagged three seats for us. Perfect.

The opening act was Sekou Sundiata, a spoken-word/rap/poetry-over-jazz/hip-hop act who was…okay. Under other circumstances (ideally a smoky club where I was not waiting for Blackalicious to play) I probably would have liked him better, but some of his pieces dragged, and his set seemed to wear out its welcome about halfway through. And I was here to see Blackalicious, damnit.

Apparently Gift of Gab missed their last NYC concert because he was recovering from eye surgery — I’m happy to report that he was here, in good shape, and holy god, yes he can rap just like that live — and freestyle. I have now heard “A to G”, “Alphabet Aerobics”, “Paragraph President” and “Chemical Calesthenics” performed live, and I can pretty much die happy. The entire hipper-than-thou Brooklyn crowd was on their feet, cheering, dancing and waving their hands in the air the entire night. I’m feeling stupidly giddy just thinking about it. It was easily the best show I’ve seen in the last few years, and I’m going to run out of adjectives if I keep at this: just go see them when they come to your town, okay?

Afterward, invited us back to her apartment for an impromptou barbecue: was the grill master, and one of their friends produced this insane duck, turkey and fennel sausage that I am going to go to whatever lengths necessary to procure again. Michaela and Karen were, as usual, the perfect hosts, and plied us with food, wine and good music until we were all falling over.

And at this point, I’m going to have to go all Wachowski-ish and say: To Be Concluded, because it’s 3:17am and I should really turn in right fucking now. Coming tomorrow: Night of the Living Yentas.

change is the only constant

So a few people noticed, and asked. Here’s a long-winded answer, because I’m like that.

After I left college, I spent about six months in Boston doing the couch-surfing thing, wearing out my welcome with a small group of friends. I got to spend a few months in a semi-stable room in Sylvan‘s house in Mission Hill, but only because Caleb hadn’t gotten back from his most recent walkabout yet, and in the winter of 95 I found myself uncomfortably close to being actually without any real place to stay, but with just enough money finally saved up to take the first place I could get. Which I did, which worked out every bit as well as that always does.

There’s a short list of people in this world that have pissed me off enough that I’ll continue to Name their Name as a warning to others, and with that in mind let me just say that on the off chance that he didn’t follow through on his stated ambition to drive to Mexico and drink himself to death, I would strongly recommend against renting a room from a small troll by the name of David Millette. Unless, of course, you like having your possessions rifled through, your relatives abused when they call, and your other roomates sexually assaulted. Oh, and let’s not forget the joy of being eyefucked by his parolee boyfriend, listening to his amphetamine-fueled tirades and running into his underaged-and-overdrugged club tricks in the kitchen.

When, in the spring of 1996, I got my first Real Job (at the late, lamented BBN Planet) and the subsequent first Real Paycheck, I did three things, in exactly this order: cried, bought a new pair of jeans, and gave Mr. Millette his final rent check and a threat of bodily harm if he ever went into my room again…

…which was nice and dramatic, but I didn’t actually have any place to move into, so I roped Dave’s other tenant (who was enjoying his stay about as much as I was) into looking for a new place with me. I’d never done a proper apartment-hunt before, and found the whole process pretty intimidating: real estate agents would pick you up in a car, whisk you away to see three or four places in terrible shape that you probably couldn’t afford, and then drop you off when your head spinning. After about two weeks of this treatment, we finally found The Place: a 2-bedroom floor-through in a 6-unit duplex in Jamaica Plain, right on the subway. It was $750 a month! We could afford it! We passed the credit check! I was saved! And two days before we were due to have all the checks in…Dan called me at work and told me that he actually didn’t have the cash, sorry.

I remember walking around Davis Square in a fog of rage and desperation. There were two weeks left in the month, I did not have enough money to make the required first, last and deposit on my own. I would have sooner choked on my own tongue than ask Dave for an extension, and I had no place to store my stuff even if there were anyone left willing to let me couch surf. Then a stillness descended; the calm of knowing that you only have one option: I walked up to the nearest pay phone, called the rental agent’s office, and in my best Calm Corporate Drone voice, said I’m so sorry, spot of bother, my prospective roomate seems to have decided he would prefer other lodgings — it’s August in Boston, which means in a few weeks the city will be crawling with students looking for space, would the landlord mind greatly if I were the sole tenant for now? Oh, of course I can afford the deposit on my own!

And they bought it. Almost a decade later, I’m still amazed.

That taken care of, there only remained the matter of the money, which I did not have. Almost, but not quite: I was $350 short. With the brazenness of the completely desperate, I asked an unreasonable favor of a woman who barely knew me: Amy Chused, a co-worker at BBN who I’d traded emails with once or twice before starting the job. I outlined the situation, helpfully pointed out that she’d know where I lived and worked, and threw myself on her mercy. Two days later, I was standing in the kitchen of My First Real Apartment, handing a signed lease and an envelope of cash to an unctuous real estate agent who handed me in return a pair of keys and showed himself out.

I skipped — actually skipped — up and down the length of the apartment. I think I may have clapped my hands. I’m certain I said “my apartment!” at least two or three times. (Amy, thank you again.) That weekend, I spent 24 hours straight moving all of my worldly possessions in a borrowed Honda Civic with a failing clutch. The next sunday, in response to an ad I’d placed on a mailing list, knocked on my door and asked about the room. I had a place of my own, and a roomate I liked. We called it the house of the Purple Tub, and we lived there for three years.

In 1999, I took a job in NYC, Kriss found a better place, and we packed it up. When I left, sweeping up the last of the debris after the moving company had finished, I found to my surprise that I didn’t miss the place much at all. It had been a great First Apartment, it was infinitely preferable to what had preceeded it and we’d thrown some brilliant parties there, but it had also featured incredibly dodgy wiring, an electrical fire in the opposite unit, a brief infestation of junkies in the apartment above us (which caused a less-brief infestation of cockroaches), and a landlord with a charmingly old-world laxity about his assorted legal duties. It was wonderful at the time, and I have no nostalgia for it at all.

My place in here Brooklyn, however, I am going to miss a lot.

I found my current apartment on a long-weekend trip that I made for the sole purpose of flat-hunting. I came prepared for battle: a list of acceptable neighborhoods, a list of questions for the realtor, and a flashlight on my belt to inspect floorboards and closets with. I pulled up the New York Times and called about ten rental agents. I had five days to find a place, and had already told my job in Boston that I might have to take another five if nothing panned out this time…

…and I took the first apartment I saw. It was perfect. It was in the same neighborhood as Miranda then, about ten minutes walk away. It was two floors and a basement of a rowhouse. It had a washer and dryer. It had a back patio. The bedroom had a 12-foot ceiling and an enormous closet. There was an office. The kitchen was large enough to have an island in the middle. And somehow, impossibly, it was in my price range.

That was just about exactly five years ago, and I haven’t stopped loving this apartment for one second since then. (Not even the time I found a flying cockroach in the office.) I painted the bedroom lavender with purple accents. I hung things on the walls. For the first time in a decade, I was able to unpack all of my books. I cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner in the kitchen…twice. I listened to my upstairs neighbor break up with his boyfriend, play Cher for months on end, and then finally hook up again. I accidentally flashed the neighbors more than a few times. I slept friends over five at a time. I filled it, no, permeated it with books, papers, gizmos, tchotchkes and thingys. Each room bears my stamp. It’s horribly cluttered now, but it’s my mess and no one else’s. I love the neighborhood: I have favorite restaurants, delivery guys who know my name and number, booths at the local pub I prefer to sit at, and stores I go to when I need to buy people presents. I’ve made friends, lovers, enemies and food here. I could keep on doing it for another five years.

And I’m leaving it.

Sometime between July and September (pending some negotiations with the landlord), I’m moving in with Miranda, to Inwood, at the top of Manhattan. After nine years together, it’s time to give cohabitation a try, and no matter how much I try to rationalize it, her place just makes much more sense: she owns her apartment, and it will be less than a third as expensive as this one. If either one of us loses our jobs, we could hold out for a long while there on savings. (Not to mention that my rent is going up again this year while my salary is quite static.) Plus, her apartment has one thing mine doesn’t that I suspect will be helpful for successful living-together: doors.

This is the first time that I’ve ever left an apartment when I didn’t feel it was pretty much time to leave. It’s a strange sensation, like breaking up with a lover because you’ve taken a job overseas, or like stopping writing a story before the end. I’m excited by the idea of moving in with Miranda, jazzed by the idea of deliberately constructing a home with another person, intrigued by the possibilities of an apartment where it actually makes sense to spend money on interior work, and curious to see what it feels like to be a Manhattanite — but the idea of actually packing up my home and leaving it forever fills me with sadness and dread.

But I’m pretty sure that I’ll be back. In the next few years of my life, I want to spend some time living on the West Coast, and hopefully some time living abroad. But Brooklyn’s got it’s claws into me pretty well, and when it comes time to consider where I want to be as I’m getting older and less mobile, a house near Prospect Park will probably sound like just the thing.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do.

a small, but important reminder

Please take note:

The contracted, casual form of the verb-phrase “would have” is “would’ve.” It is not “would of.”


“I would’ve gone to the store, but it’d already closed.” <— correct
“I would, of late, leave work early to get to the store before it closed.” <— horribly pretentious, but more or less correct
“I would of gone to the store…” <— Stop right there. Please. Just stop.

Thank you. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

save my bacon

Anybody feel like playing a game of Diplomacy by email?

Specifically…right now?

A few weeks back, my good friend Sylvan asked me if I’d be interested in playing. I made some nodding “sure, maybe” assent, not really thinking much of it. A few weeks passed while he was trying to collect enough other players, and I completely forgot about it. Well, while I was away in DuPontia over the weekend, the game has apparently started, or at least is trying to.

There are two small problems: I have never played Diplomacy before in my life, and between my job, my imminent move and the fact that every weekend this summer has already been booked up with one thing or another, I don’t think this is going to be the time when I learn.

Surely among all of my friends here, there’s someone who’d like to take my place? I can happily guarantee that everyone involved save me is an enthusiastic and experienced player. Respond here or email me directly for details.

but enough about you


1. why purple?
Amusement, novelty and inertia. My hair was long and ill-kempt for most of my high school and college years, a fact for which I sadly cannot even blame drug and alcohol abuse. After my friend Sylvan was kind enough to shave it all off for me, I decided to color it on a lark, and choose purple because at the time Boston seemed to have a lot of people wandering around with pink and red hair, but I hadn’t seen a lot of people with a full purple `do, and I liked the color a lot. I liked how it looked on my a lot better than any of the other colors I later tried, and it became this odd self-fulfilling prophecy: people bought me purple stuff, so I bought more purple stuff to go with it, and so on.

2. you love food. Tell me where/what to eat in 100 words or less.

I don’t know if I have a good all-encompassing answer for that: for all of my pretentions of foodiedom, I seek out new foods far less often than I should, and am prone to subsisting on comfort food for weeks on end. So instead, I’ll just say that street vendor food is one of the world’s highly underrated pleasures: the best soup I’ve ever had in my life was made for me on a streetcorner propane wok in Shanghai, under a plastic tarp in a downpour. When in a strange city and in doubt, see what the guy with the sidewalk cart is selling.

(Er, one small caveat: do not attempt this with the hot-dog vendors in Manhattan.)

3. How has polyamory impacted your life?

I think that my default answer to this would generally be a pretty cynical one, but having just gotten back from an extremely traditional straight/monogamous wedding ceremony, I’m feeling impatient with my own knee-jerk crankiness: for whatever hurts this lifestyle has imposed on me, I wouldn’t have it any other way. This thing of ours has brought me together with some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met in my life, and it’s good even, perhaps especially when they’re kicking my ass.

4. How did the “Nathan says hi”/minions thing start?

Heh. Three of the four players have LJ accounts these days…

The short form: when I found out that my friend Tim Pierce was moving from Boston to Chicago, I told him to keep an eye out for my friend Abby Franquemont, who lived there, and to tell her I said hi if he ever ran across her. Likewise, I told Abby that if she ever ran into a newcomer named Tim Pierce, she should send him greetings on my behalf. (Although Chicago is a city of several million people, this was not entirely a long-shot effort: both Tim and Abby were techies and usenet addicts.) Several months later, they ran into each other at a party and pretty much immediately said to one another: “Nathan says hi!” Abby wrote me an email the next day saying something along the lines of “dude, your minions really are everywhere”. I liked the sound of that, and kinda…ran with it.

Seven years later, I’m still happily beating on the stained spot on the ground where the dead horse used to be.

For the full story, you’ll have to ask , who tells it better than me on account of she was actually there. In addition to the characters previously mentioned, Joel Furr was involved, which officially makes it a Classic Usenet Moment for whatever that’s worth.

5. Please apply the classic fortune cookie formula and answer each question again with the phrase “in bed” added to it.

That’s a brilliant way to sneak in an extra four questions. Well now…

Why purple…in bed?
It matches the walls. Also, it’s easier to get purple dye stains out of pillowcases that are, er, already purple.

you love food. Tell me where/what to eat in 100 words or less…in bed!
You know that old phrase, “I wouldn’t throw him out of bed for eating crackers?” I do not subscribe to that theory. There will be no crackers in my bed at any time, by any one. Crumby sheets == horror.

How has polyamory impacted your life…in bed?
Among other things, it’s shown that I eventually need to buy a king-sized one. In the meanwhile, I have a twin aerobed that I keep handy. Fun is fun, but I need to be able to stretch out when it’s all over. (The aerobed, to be clear, is for me: guests get to sleep on the real bed of course.)

Also: it’s easier than you’d think to crack a box spring.

How did the “Nathan says hi”/minions thing start…in bed?
I’m pretty sure I was in a chair when it started. IRCing from bed has never been my thing.

in lieu of actual content…

If you’re not reading Achewood, you really should. Here’s why:

no sleep til…

Brain, brain, where is my brain?

Sorry for the radio silence recently. I spent most of the last week wandering around San Francisco in the usual daze. It was a pretty laid-back trip: no clown strippers this time, just beautiful weather and some long-overdue visitations with dear friends.

I flew back in on Wednesday evening, and was viscerally reminded of just how desperately NYC needs to finish the JFK renovations and the express train service to it. As many flaws as SFO has, it’s still a mere 15m unobstructed freeway ride from just about anywhere in San Francisco, and once you get there, the buildings are clean, airy and well-lit. American Airlines’ baggage claim in JFK, in contrast, is almost but not quite as clean and pretty as Philadelphia’s Greyhound station…and things go from bad to worse once you step outside: the cab ride over Conduit Ave to Eastern Parkway is a long vista of abandoned factories and burnt-out warehouses, which was not helped at all by the pissing rain.

Who was it who said “You used to arrive in New York like a king; now you slink in like a rat?” They said it about Penn Station, but it goes double for basically all of our airports.

Anyway, I’ve just had enough time on the ground to catch my breath and reintroduce myself to my cats, and now I’m turning around to head into the heart of darkness Delaware to attend a wedding of one of Miranda’s cousins. Trapped for 2.5 days with a gaggle of Dupont executives and their familes. I can’t wait!

SF pictures and some non-suckass writing when I get back, I promise.