I'm now blogging here. You better move. You're stepping on my heart.

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With apologies to the great George Carlin, I present my latest sh*tty comic review for the Queer Eye on Comics series over at the Prism Comics website.

Now in our second year, our editor David Stanley recently posted a fun retrospective where one of my favorite articles, a review of Rob Liefeld's Avengers #1 was singled out for it's qualities of cleverness. I did enjoy writing that one, but I have to say, I'm much more partial to the Wonder Woman #207. But what do I know. I just work here.

Those of you in the SF Bay Area are cordially invited to visit the Prism Comics booth at this weekend's Alternative Press Expo (APE) in the Concorse Exhibition Center, SoMa/Potrero/almost-Mission. Amazing comics, cute boys, and an incredible greasy spoon diner right across 7th Street... what more could a guy want from a weekend?

OK... maybe cake.

Our President is speaking today very very very close to my hometown in West Virginia. News service reporter Helen Thomas, an arch enemy of Mr. Bush, and who once actually described him as the subject of this post suggests, had this exchange with him yesterday in Washington.

THOMAS: I'd like to ask you, Mr. President — your decision to invade Iraq has caused the deaths of thousands of Americans and Iraqis, wounds of Americans and Iraqis for a lifetime.

Every reason given, publicly at least, has turned out not to be true. My question is: Why did you really want to go to war? From the moment you stepped into the White House, your Cabinet officers, former Cabinet officers, intelligence people and so forth — but what's your real reason? You have said it wasn't oil, the quest for oil. It hasn't been Israel or anything else. What was it?

BUSH: I think your premise, in all due respect to your question and to you as a lifelong journalist — that I didn't want war. To assume I wanted war is just flat wrong, Helen, in all due respect.

THOMAS: And ...

BUSH: Hold on for a second, please. Excuse me. Excuse me.

No president wants war. Everything you may have heard is that, but it's just simply not true.

This guy is fucking exhausting he's so awful. How can he look these soldiers and their families in the eye and talk like this? He didn't want war? You've got to be kidding.

This just in: Osama bin Laden is STILL on the loose. Way to go after those terrorists.

I fancy myself a rather sophisticated consumer of advertising. Time was, I would take ads at face value. I actually got excited for the Olympics. Spots for the next episode of the Cosby Show, where nothing interesting EVER happened, would keep me riveted. And I'm actually embarassed to tell you how many hours of my youth I wasted by watching the Miss Universe Pageant. They went on about how it was the one time of the year that the most beautiful woman in the world was crowned, so there I was making my predictions and keeping score -- yes you heard me-- with mom. To think I could have been binge drinking or having indiscriminate gay sex. Ah well... wasted youth.

When I saw the new ad campaign for Southern Comfort, touting not only a new drink mixing the insipidly sweet spirit with lime juice, but the fact (repeated over and over and over again), that we're now supposed to call it "So Co." "Riiiiight," says I. "So Co. Riiiiiight." I am so smart and smug and no marketer is going to get me to call it "So Co," even though the song from the commerical is a little fun and the graphics are pretty neat.

Then I was at a party on Saturda, when PETE -- a grade-A, gen-u-wine young person who invents slang and listens to indy rock and is so cool he openly dissed Von Dutch hats months before anyone esle did -- ACtually in ACtual conversation... ACtually called it "So Co." He even said it more than once.

To preserve my superior self-image, picture me, rolling my eyes and sighing audibly at PETE's naivete. Thanks. In reality, PETE is still cooler than me by a factor of, like, twenty. Ugh.

Happy first day of new job to Pete, now with 100% more Los Angeles!

HO-kay. Just because I haven't been posting doesn't mean I haven't been writing, right? This is our busiest time of the year at work, and since my evenings are mostly spoken for, my blogging time has been seriously curtailed these past several weeks.

Nevertheless, I have started and not completed many posts, and my Idea Bank is always full to bursting. So watch this space as I complete and post several of these, which may or may not be post-dated. Those of you who use Bloglines will know when new stuff gets posted, but the rest will just have to troll along.

I am spurred to these actions since I've recently heard from no fewer than two old friends who have somehow stumbled across my little corner of cyber-vanity.

My cousin Bryan back in West Virginia, who works for a Catholic university, actually attended one, posted the funniest comment to the most recent Found Porn entry, saying:

...since I still work for the Holy Roman Empire, I'd say 98% of my fund raising job is to apologize for things I have no clue about.

Bryan, while it's nice to hear someone involved with the Church of Rome ask for forgiveness of the rest of us once in a while, you don't have to apologize. I'm glad, though, that you are backing up my theory of Customer Service. Plus, you remind me how much Found Porn I have collected. That's a good thing.

Meanwhile, the ever-lovely Kari found this site via another college friend. Trish, Kari and all my favorite Alpha Gams... what great memories have been brought up knowing you guys have read my ramblings. Doesn't Wesleyan's new president look like someone's Mom or fifth grade teacher?

Thanks for the nice compliments on how I look, but you'll notice that my hair is very different. Above, I am seen in my Reese Witherspoon wig, which I wear on special occasions, like Laundry Day.

Just kidding of course. I'm going bald bald bald. I think it's God's punishment for making fun of Catholics so much.

As many of my regular readers no doubt already know, February is a rather important month around the Minor-Myers household. On the 1st Saturday of the month, Christopher and I celebrate the anniversary of our first date. This year it fell on the actual day of our first date 11 years ago, February 4th, 1995. It is from this point that we really mark the beginning of our relationship.

Once we moved to San Francisco, we took advantage of the wonderful opportunity to register as Domestic Partners, first in the city and then shortly after with the State of California. Both required a little paperwork with a lot of very serious commitments... including, for the SF registry, declaring under penalty of perjury that if one of us owes someone money, that person could collect from either one of us. Even more interesting is the very first declaration:

"We have an intimate, committed relationship of mutual caring"

Do marriage licenses even say that? Anyway, that seriously impressed us. How could we ever live in a Red State or even a slightly Purple State after that? We did the SF registry when our friend Nank was visiting once -- in February. Anniversary #2.

Then, two years ago in 2004, crazy ol' Gavin Newsom (who still needs a hair-do makeover. Seriously.) went off his meds and decided he'd start letting same-sex couples get marriage licenses and have civil ceremonies. It was a phenomenal experience even to walk through, let alone get to join in on. For us, the ceremony happened two years ago today, on February 27, 2004. I’ll never forget the feeling around City Hall those days – everyone was just so freaking happy! Bouquets of flowers sent from across the nation piled up in every corner, and everyone from civil servants to ordinary citizens spent hundreds of hours volunteering to see that everything went well. It was spectacular.

C and I spent this past weekend in San Diego where his parents were visiting again, and after dinner one night, his mother trotted out a cake and a wee giftie to mark our anniversary. Everyone should be lucky to have in-laws like mine!

This got me to thinking about what different people in our lives consider when they decide how, and more importantly when, to congratulate us on the fact that our clothes, books and music are too mixed in together to separate after all these years.

My sister, Erin, was the first in my family to recognize our anniversary as a real thing, since she started seeing her now-husband right around the same time, and before they got married, they would mark time from those early dates, too. She would call and say, "I know I should know this, but don't you have an anniversary coming up?" I reminded her that we always celebrated on the first Saturday in February, and that it was sweet of her to remember at all. Not long after that, my mother, no doubt hearing that Erin had sent us a card (she's unfailingly good about things like that, quite unlike me), would call and say "Oh, now tell me again. when is your anniversary?" I reminded her many times over, but it never seemed to stick in her mind or on her calendar, though she's sent us many cards and generous gifts over the years.

After the big City Hall wedding two years ago, Mom seemed to take special notice. That "wedding date" seemed to be something she could finally wrap her mind around, so she decided to recognize that one. About a year afterward, I was having the inevitable "when is your anniversary, anyway" conversations with her, and again I went into the whole thing about our first date, Domestic Partnership and the City Hall officiated wedding. She said something to the effect of, "Well, the one you had at City Hall... that's the one I think is official." Her emphasis -- not mine.

It was then I realized that mom and I had grown so apart politically. She takes the Government (capital G intended) and trusts whatever it says. Especially since the presidential election of 2000, I have trained myself to look at the real-world implications of government actions and try to figure out who is really being served. And more often than not, it's whomever has the most money or power.

Instead of pointing this out to Mom right then and there, I reminded her that, just six months after our official wedding -- on my birthday, no less, the Supreme Court of California declared all those same sex unions null and void. She had no reaction whatsoever. You could practically see the "Does Not Compute" scroll past her eyes.

Mom still recognizes our City Hall wedding as our anniversary, and I feel badly even casting her in this light. She's a wonderful parent and loves Christopher like she loves my sister's husband. He's part of our family because she knows he's MY family, and so many other people in my situation don't have that.

Shouldn't I be happy with that?

…especially if it’s carbonated.

Christopher and I celebrated eleven years of putting up with each other with another lovely meal two weeks back. Because we just spent a good deal of money at Christmas and since we’re ordering some new furniture, we decided a slightly more… austere… evening was in order, especially compared to last year.

It was my year to choose, so I chose a little neighborhood spot, since a place that fit that category was such a hit back in 2002. We hopped on BART, a confused Christopher wondering why we were on a Millbrae train, and got off in the quaint if foggy village of Glen Park and had a lovely meal at Chenery Park.

Surrounded by more senior citizens than at a Tuesday noontime opera lecture at the local public library, we had a really delicious meal served by a painfully cute waiter. The one dark spot was the bottle of wine we took. We thought we’d save on the check by only paying the $15 corkage fee. It turned out to be not so great, but a perusal of their wine list fixed that situation, if not the size of the bill.

Chenery Park specializes in fancier versions of ‘comfort food,’ so naturally we ordered their macaroni and cheese. It was delicious! Cut to several courses later, and I am full, yet still eyeing the dessert menu. When I saw that they had a Thomas Kemper Orange Cream Soda Float, I couldn’t resist.

It turns out that cocktails + wine + more, better wine + melted cheese and cream + scallops + one Thomas Kemper Orange Cream Soda Float = fucking unbelievable indigestion. And fucking unbelievable indigestion doesn’t really put one in an amorous mood, regardless of how big an anniversary it is. Burp!

Could my famous bottomless iron stomach be failing me?

Nah.

Our pal Kit lives in a house of men… specifically her husband and her two sons, aged 8.5 and 11. They watch a lot of sports. When we visited them last summer, they were watching the Tour de France. You heard me… beautiful sunshine outdoors, a pool, toys, games… a bazillion distractions and Kit’s men were watching a bike race. The male of the species, ladies and gentlemen.

Here is the text of an e-mail Kit sent yesterday:

So okay, we rotted on the couch ALL DAY yesterday watching the Olympics…

• Chad Hendrick (long track speed skating) is one of those HOT guys who really should NEVER say anything!

• Kid observation of the day (proof I live in a ‘boy house’): “Mom, I don’t think it is a good idea to have big parts if you do Luge…it makes you less aerodynamic!”* [This comment came out after watching a particularly well hung Italian do his run.]

As you can see, Kit is right about Hendrick. He’s a total Danny. Do I see a razor ad in his future? Samples of recorded interviews at the NBC website prove her second point. He strings cliché after cliché until he sounds like George W. at the State of the Union address. His teeth sure are white, though. Definitely a razor ad.

As for luging… I never was very good at it anyway.

---

* Obviously, I am "tm-ing" this statement right now.

Who doesn’t get the gay obsession with military-types? The hyper-masculine bravery, the beauty of youth and physical fitness, the “touch-me” hairdos, the sexiness of the tough and/or stern – to say nothing of the costume opportunities!

This comes to mind because today I spotted what looked to be a bunch of… well, not exactly Marines, as they were really too young (they looked to be high school age) and they were in civvies. But they were definitely Marines. A couple of them were in dress uniforms and they had the requisite high-and-tight haircuts. They were setting up for and practicing in formation for what turned out to be a recruiting effort. They were definitely hotties… especially the one in the grey sweatshirt. You know who you are.

At first I had the typical reaction: ogle while appearing to be nonchalantly passing by, a skill honed by every gay man who has spent any time in the closet. After I passed I had a very different thought though: we’re at war and these guys could end up dead very soon, just for doing their job.

And for what?

FUCK YOU GEORGE BUSH.

There. Now I:
A) got that off my chest, and
2) got myself on the NSA’s new phone-tap list.

The center of all these interactions seems to be empathizing with them and their situation, no matter how crazy or invented by them it is. Saying something like “I’m sorry… I know you’ve been waiting a long time,” or “I know that’s not the answer you were hoping for,” or “I understand why you’re disappointed – I would be too,” usually does it. That won’t work on everyone, but when you start out that way, and later they perceive that you’re put off by their bitchiness, they remember how nicely you started out and back off.

Think I could parlay this into a book deal?

After much fanfare and anticipation on my part, I got my first ever professional facial this weekend. As expected, it felt great and left my face feeling open and clean and fresh as a spring daisy. Good thing it was a gift from my generous husband Christopher, ‘cause if I’d have had to pay for it, I’m sure I would have just elected to sit in the lobby and drink cucumber water. Still, it was a fabulous luxury, and the 50 minutes it took literally flew by. I highly recommend one for anyone who has $110 burning a hole in their wallet. Oily skin full of blackheads and ingrown hairs like I have is also helpful.

Part of the facial was the consultation with Sarah, the lovely young lady who did my treatment. She asked what I used to wash my face and when I told her I used St. Ives Apricot Scrub, I swear I heard that “pull the needle off the record” sound effect on the boring ambient mood music being piped into the dimly lit room. Sarah admonished me mightily for using that stuff, saying something I had heard before but didn’t quite believe: using that stuff actually makes you oilier. It strips your skin of its natural oils and so it starts to produce oil overtime to make up for it. Duh! “Only use that apricot stuff on your feet!” she reminded me not too gently.

After steaming, squeezing, sweeping and salving my face, Sarah told me she’d prepared a list of products she recommended for me (any of which I could conveniently pick up at the shop downstairs), and then dropped the bomb. She told me that I should only be washing my face AT NIGHT. You read that right. “Just water in the morning,” she reiterated. She said she’d ‘balanced me out’ with the treatment, and she suggested a gentle cleanser followed by a moisturizer each night before bed, and a protecting moisturizer in the morning, but no washing. Her list actually included a couple other “pore cleansing” treatments for twice weekly use and a couple of other things, but I was still reeling from the “don’t wash your face in the morning” idea.

So… we’re now on day 2 of me only having washed my face at night. My moisturizer collection is not what it should be for a gay man, and the only pore cleansing treatment I have used recently was the apricot scrub, and we saw how that turned out. My face doesn’t feel particularly greasy or anything, but my forehead does seem a tiny bit less shiny.

I wonder if Walgreen’s has any night-time alcohol-free moisturizers on sale this week?

This long-awaited new Found Porn post comes from today's Day In Pictures, and is still more proof that white folks in this country are direct descendents of the Puritans.

All fall down: Miami fans get a pocket full of Posey during the Heat-Suns game in Miami.

Don't worry folks. It won't hurt you, and you still have your Beemers.

Remember women's lib? Remember 'Mizz?' Remember equality for women in society? Well, I do... and so does Wonder Woman. Er, I mean... so did Wonder Woman.

Anyway, my latest review for the Queer Eye on Comics series at the wonderful Prism Comics website is up. See... I've been writing. I just haven't been writing much here. To my legions of fans I say... 'that's what archives are for.'

Anycrap, because we’re pretty much Gen Xers (wise beyond her years, Mary is an honorary one), the topic of conversation inevitably came around to breakfast cereal. You know: what’s your favorite… which taste like sand… which ones can’t stomach anymore now that you’re an adult. If this topic hasn’t come up with you and your friends over drinks, then you must be too busy discussing the finer points of last night’s episode of “According to Jim."

That conversation inspired me to share a list here on the blog; a sort of “What’s Hot and What’s Not” of the Cereal World According to Kyle. What’s a blog for after all, anyway? I’ll leave the reportage to clever folks at Daily Kos, Talking Points Memo and The Jo-Tel*.

With a tip of the hat to those Kellogg’s Variety Packs (the buying of which was like experiencing some kind of kid-Nirvana), and Raisin Bran (which would probably clock in at #11), here are my Top Ten Cereals:

10. Cheerios
This classic is the favorite of the toddlers across the US for a reason: they’re tasty, not too sweet and will stick to you if you eat them with wet hands. Bonus: No milk? No problem!

9. Life
And this means any variety. Again, not too sweet, and it’s a healthy choice that both you and your mom can agree on. And if your mom is still choosing your cereal for you… you’re 37. It’s time to let go.

8. Corn Bran
This cereal isn’t seen very much anymore, but it is seriously delicious. I based my top ten mainly on how much I fondly recalled the taste and texture of each cereal, and I can taste this one now. It was like Corn Pops but without the slimy grossness. Slimy almost never makes for a good cereal.

7. Cracklin’ Oat Bran
The fact that this cereal has “crack” right there in its name is no surprise. Also no surprise is the fact that it is chock full of goodness due to all that palm oil in it. Oh, palm oil… you foul temptress, you!

6. Apple Jacks
Appley goodness, that’s what it packs. Sure they’re a bit sweet, but compared to their perhaps more diverse (color wise) cousins, Fruit Loops, they’re actually better since they actually have a taste (faux apple) as opposed to just being “sweet.” If the subtlety of this comparison is lost on you, go read the paper or something.

5. Mini-Wheats
Back in Pittsburgh, a friend of mine came across an old picture of himself from high school with the most cheap looking non-salon highlights in his hair. He shoved it in front of my face, exclaiming in his best old lady soprano “The FROSting!” Remember that ad? In a related story, this cereal is delicious, and the sugar side must stay oriented UP at all times.

4. Quaker 100% Natural Granola
This cereal proves the adage that if it’s delicious it’s probably bad for you, regardless if the name is Dr. Healthenhiemer’s Whole Body Macrobiotic Life-Lengthening Anti-Oxidant Flakes. Sure it’s 100% Natural. Naturally full of delicious delicious fat.

3. Cap’n Crunch Crunch Berries
Have you noticed that the relative percentage of sugar has been going up as we get closer and closer to my #1 cereal? For all it’s overpowering sweetness and the inevitable mess it makes of the roof of your mouth, Cap’ Crunch is worth it. It has a deliciousness factor so esoteric, it’s hard to really put into words. In that state of perfect softness yet not-softness this cereal is what makes it so… oh, je ne c’est quoi.

2. Lucky Charms/Count Chocula
It’s 2006 people. Let’s face facts: these cereals are identical. Slightly sweet cheerios with “marshmallow” shapes. CC has added the magic of “chocolate,” but essentially they are the same. And by “the same,” I mean scrumptious. Just enough cereal to be passing healthy, and just enough “marshmallow” (aka candy) to make it good eats. I love the slimy on the outside/crunchy on the inside quality of those “marshmallows.” Nothing is so satisfying as crunch-smooshing them between your teeth. PS: Those who object to me lumping two cereals into one spot on this list can get their own list.

1. Cocoa Pebbles
All hail the King of Sugar Cereals! It’s deep chocolateyness will not be diluted! Yea, though you let them soak beyond five minutes, their chocolateyness will not be leeched completely out into the surrounding milk! E’en unto the bottom of the bowl, they will retain their splendor, their sweetness, their rice-but-not-riceness. Woe unto him who filleth his bowl only halfway with their chittering brown presence. He shall wail and gnash his teeth and rend his robes asunder as he sees his roommate finish off the box he could have eaten. It shall be called Wonderful Consumable; Cereal of Cereals, and Pebble of Pebbles. Amen.

Please insert your own “Got Milk” joke here. I’m getting too hungry.

*Please note that The Jo-Tel is a specialty news site, reporting solely on popular culture, Scientology, indie rock, and extremely humiliating stories of guys who visit girls they hook up with at weddings. YMMV.

It's true. I've been in a rather bad mood for the last few days. Post-holiday depression? Workaday malaise? A bad piece of fish? Who knows. But I have been rather a bitch. Sorry!

Today, though, I found something that really dug me, at least temporarily, out of the depths. Anyone who knows me won't be shocked to hear that it was lunch that did it.

Hayes Valley has been an up-and-coming neighborhood as long as I've lived in San Francisco, but the opening of Octavia Boulevard has sealed the deal. Now the restaurants and shops that were there seem to be doing a brisk business even when it's not concert season (the Opera House and Symphony Hall are very nearby), and new spots are opening up faster than Elton John musicals.

One of these new spots is where I found myself for lunch today. Patxi's (say "PAH-cheese") Chicago Pizza is in the spot where Powell's Place used to serve up delicious and authentic Soul Food with a... well, not exactly a smile. Anyhow, Powell's has moved up to the Western Addition, and their old spot got a nice modern renovation and is now home to Patxi's. I'm happy to report that exposed brick still looks cool! Their menu tells me there is another Patxi's (the original?) in Palo Alto on Emerson just off University. Not to sound TOtally elitist, but that's actually a good sign. OK, that did sound elitist.

They sell pizza by the pie or slice, Chicago Style deep dish or thin crust. Now I am usually a thin crust guy, but I hated to miss out on pizza that was obviously their specialty. And hey... I was hungry, and could take any leftovers home with me, and besides... I was depressed! One 10-inch ('serves two' says the menu) full-on deep dish for me with pepperoni (natch), spinach and Kalamata olives. Salty-licious! The staff is eager to please in that "we're a new restaurant, so tell your pals how great we are" kind of way, but that didn't detract.

It did take a while to make (about a half-hour, just as they said it would), so I had a small garden salad to prime the pump. When the pizza finally showed up, it was a marvelous sight to behold. The sides were, like, 6 inches high and it was piled full of cheese, rich tomato sauce and my chosen ingredients. I flung aside the Everyday Food I had been reading and dove in face first.

To put it mildly, this pizza was incredible. I suppose I should make the inevitable comparison to Zachary's, but I'd hate to say one is better. If anything Patxi's deep dish is just a little more... refined than Zachary's, and that may be the stylish environment talking. Whatever -- they're both great, but I don't have to cross over or under a major body of water to get Patxi's. Advantage: Patxi's!

I am hardly ever one to get pizza leftovers wrapped up to go, since no pizza slice is fully safe with me in proximity, but this pizza pwned me. I did manage to finish four elephantine pieces and there are two more are on deck for my next downward mood swing. I'm expecting one any minute now.