I wrote a poem for Homer and his chicken, Henny-Penny. When I lived in Homer's guesthouse earlier this year, and even though I grew tired of stepping in chickenpoo, I liked having Henny-Penny around. Her gentle clucking was strangely comforting, and she certainly kept Martha the Puppy entertained.
Anyway, I hope Homer likes the poem, despite its unfortunate ending. For the record, I bear no ill-will toward the chicken. Let's just call it poetic license.
The Tale of Henny-Penny
Henny-Penny went to town To have her tooth capped with a crown, (But Henny-Penny hadn't really any).
For Henny-Penny had eaten rocks, Mistaking them for Homer's socks, And heard a crack that made her quack, poor Henny!
While on her way to see the dentist (Or perhaps his handsome male hygienist), Henny-Penny felt her tummy rummy.
She stopped and bowed her head down low; She cocked her eyeballs to and fro And spied a lovely beetle lying fetal.
Without delay she took the plunge, And at the insect she did lunge, And with one peck did gobble up the bauble.
Alas, the truck she did not see, Nor realized that in the street she be! Poor Henny is now flat as any penny.
During my youth, while being force-fed a weekly serving of creepy catechism, I would sit unnerved while Sister Whats-her-habit rabbited on about the evils of vanity, watching Maude and smoking. But it wasn't what the old nun said as she stood in front of us, ascetic as a rutabaga, that scared me the most. It was the illustrations in our catechism text, the spine of which I never dared to crack at home. It was only during these dreaded hours of Sunday School that I had the nerve to open the cover, turn the pages and stare in fear at the drawings that pronounced judgment, induced shame and symbolized my damnation.
The portrayal of the decaying soul was the most affecting. Shiny black sin metastasized across the heart-shaped "organ" like the worst kind of cancer, slowly engulfing it. I imagined my soul's decimation by my own iniquities...each lustful glance at my Phys Ed teacher, each minute I stayed awake past bedtime, each peek I sneaked at the latest issue of Hustler on the magazine rack of our family grocery store. They all led to my eventual and unending stay in the penthouse suite of hell.
Well, my blog soul is stained. I have sinned. It's been five days since my last post...and much longer since I actually read those of my fellow bloggers. So go ahead. Dole out my penance. What will it be? Creating fifty new banners? Twenty things? Tagged with a dozen memes? No matter. I am contrite. I am ready.
We are back from Hobart, where we went for Mark's Fulbright Scholar Orientation and Award Presentation Dinner. It was my first time there.
Only a couple of hours after we landed, I joined a group of people for the Mt Wellington Descent bike ride. I was retrieved from my hotel and driven up the mountain, which stands just outside of Hobart. After we reached the top, bikes were unloaded, helmets and gloves dispensed, a few pictures were taken, and off we went. Here are a couple of photos. More can be seen in my Flickr collection.
The view from the pinnacle of Mt Wellington
Just before the descent
We got to ride off road a few times.
Our ride ended at Sandy Bay. Fitting, eh?
Hobart, Australia's second-oldest city, is charming. Our hotel was a short walk from Salamanca Square, where there were lots of options for eating and shopping. One of my favorite restaurants was the Machine Laundry Cafe...a must-do for breakfast.
The Fulbright Award Presentation Dinner was held at the Moorilla Winery. I was proud of my man for his achievement. Our dear friend Alison came along. She and I are Fulbright Alums ourselves. The experience brought back memories, although the Aussie Fulbright award activities are much more substantial (and entertaining) than in the U.S. Here are a couple of photos. As before, many more are in my Flickr collection.
Sandy, Mark & Alison
All cleaned up
On our final day in Hobart, Mark and I went for a visit with TJ, a blogger pal and another American who followed his heart to Australia. He and his partner live in a wonderful older home overlooking the city and water. Beautiful! I look forward to keeping in touch with them more and more. (In my rush, I forgot my camera, so no pics I'm afraid. Next time.)
A number of Mark's family came to Hobart to celebrate Mark's award with us. I really enjoy being around them. They are a very loving bunch. The eight of us piled in a mini-van and did a few hours of sight-seeing in historic Richmond Village before we had to head to the airport. Lots of convict history in Richmond. Lots.
It has been raining in Sydney for nearly two weeks. I don't mean once every other day. All this while Victoria, our neighboring state, was burning. While we were kicking aside one abandoned broken umbrella after another on our way down the city sidewalks, people's homes were succumbing to fireballs and disappearing faster than it takes to toast bread. It's a crisis of unimaginable consequence.
Lord, I do need a laugh. This gave me a good one today.
Roger enjoyed the sun, too. He's a bit tired of being toweled off after every journey to the sidewalk and dog park.
[Checking teeth in phone mirror. Nope, no spinach.]
"Look everybody, it's the new Sandy Brady!"
Today I'm breaking new ground. I'm casting my social-anxiety dysfunction to the wind and venturing forth into the terrifying realm of Blogger Meetups.
Actually, I look forward to it, but I'm nervous...to meet bloggers. Get this: one of the personality quizzes I recently completed...found via a blog...said with great assurance that I am an extrovert. Yyyyeah. Okay, so I'm willing to try it out. I'll come along and see just how outgoing I really am. Keep me away from those lampshades.
I'm only half kidding. I am nervous. But it is complicated by the fact that, I confess, I haven't really reached to Sydney bloggers at all. Since I began dipping my toes in this pool of newmedia proportions in January of this year, most of the bloggers I have connected with are back in the U.S. That's probably because Homer, my friend from halcyon Tucson days, is a veteran blogger, and I wanted to be just like him. Only shorter. Through him, I've connected with a few U.S.-based bloggers. But now it's time to look locally!
Once I started looking for Sydney bloggers last week, I just happened upon notice of the Sydney meetup. Great timing. Sad, however, that no one will know me in advance, for I doubt many Sydneyside bloggers even know about my blog. That might be a good thing, however. Most people meet bloggers after they've read their musings. Then again, I might be shattering a cardinal rule of blog-etiquette. I'm sure they'll let me know.
Sydney Blogger Meetup 5pm, 29 July Tilbury Hotel, Woolloomooloo
"It turns out that the straight-male fear of reciprocal anal play is a
potent mix of sexism and homophobia; a straight man can do it to
someone else, but having it done to him isn’t okay."
Well, thank you Captain Obvious.
So a government-sanctioned report reveals that straight men love to ream the lemon. Big woo. Dig out the beer and confetti. It also seems that these men are unwilling to admit they also like their lemons juiced, although the rocketing sales figures of the, um [clearing throat] ...lemme get this correct, "doctor-created, FDA-approved prostate stimulator" belie their silence. We're on to you and your papinani love, fellas.
Oh, by the way, you can see the above excerpt in its full context here. And, should you find yourself with some time and No-Doz at hand, you can read the report of the 2002 CDC Survey here. I was led to the article by the awesome Durbango. Read his poem. It's durbalicious. (Sorry, no permalink available; see 25 July post.)
I guess one could look at this from two ends [giggle]. As DB points out, this penchant for booty encroaches on sacred territory where we homasessuals firmly planted our flagpoles [double giggle] centuries ago.
You could also see it as further Maple-Streeting of elements within gay culture. Not that there haven't been MonF (or dare I say it...FonM!) backdoor barbeques all along. I'm sure there were, but talk about your taboo topics. One by one, however, the bricks are getting knocked from the top of the wall. We can see you peekin' over, you molls!
The upshot: no, we're not going to share our stuff with y'all right now. Come back to us once you've earned that privilege.
Oh, another interesting tidbit I culled during my quick perusal of the CDC report: 90% of the men surveyed, aged from 15 to 44, identified as "heterosexual." That's not to say that all others answered "homosexual," because "bisexual" and "something else" [shiver] were also possible answers. Nearly 2% didn't answer the question at all. Regardless, there's that pesky 10% lifting its head again [pseudo-giggle], driving the conservatives mad. Pedal to the metal, baby.
Over the past month or two, Brian and Patrick seem to have happened upon interesting food of the penile dimension. You can read about their adventures here and here.
In a comment on Brian's delectable post, I mentioned that I have been known to chew my toast into a tumescent state. (Granted, it's not as serendipitous.) He quickly e-mailed me and requested a photo. Being a nice person, I am only too happy to oblige. My record is 3 bites. I think this one took about 5, plus a little sensitive nibbling to achieve true photobility.