My father is now in an assisted living home since performing a half gainer down the basement steps, breaking a hip and smashing his face to the tune of 12 stitches.  He calls the place the assisted dying home, or The Prison.  Thankfully, the home is only about a mile from Hell's Half Acre, so I'm able to go see him every day, and I call him at least once per day. 

Physically, he's doing better than expected.  He gets around pretty well with the aid of a walker.  Emotionally, he's not doing very well at all.  He's becoming depressed.  I can't blame him.  The home, nice as it is, is not home.  Being there strips one of self esteem and independence, and on some days it takes a real toll on him. 

I went by to see him yesterday afternoon.  He was in a good mood, talkative, and relaxed.  We had a 45 minute visit and discussed the gas prices ('goddam Bush!') politics ('goddam Bush!') the economy in general ('goddam Bush!') and the war in Iraq ('goddam Bush!'). 

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My father is 86 years old.  Almost 87.  He's in fairly good health for someone his age, and gets around well.  My mother died 15 years ago.  He's lived alone since, taking care of the house, the car, himself, etc.  He cooks his own meals, with some help from me and one of my brothers who lives nearby.  My other brother lives part time in Georgia, part time in Branson, but is in town to see the old man about once per month or so.

He entertains himself by going to auctions and estate sales, and bringing home shit nobody wants. 

'Look at this!  It was in a box I bid on.  Got the whole box for 2 bucks!' he says, proudly holding up a dusty lava lamp with no electrical cord. 

He buys clothes at these sales, washes them, and donates them to local women's shelters and a home for wayward youth.  It's a sort of hobby for him.  It keeps him out of the taverns and lap-dance clubs, so I don't have any problem with him doing this, even though I'm continually telling him, 'No, dad, I don't need a pair of size 10-1/2 tennis shoes with no laces.'  or, 'Why would you buy 4 Igloo coolers when you already have 6?'

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After almost a year of anti-gay propaganda from American Family Association and assorted other homophobes, the Eureka Springs gay community is asserting itself in print and on-line.

While the AFA has done a fine job of advertising the city's gay charms--including the only Domestic Partnership Registry in Arkansas--it needed a little help reaching our target market--gay and lesbian travelers.

What began in December as an effort to persuade regional gay magazines to publish travel stories about Eureka Springs has produced substantial dividends:

Love Notes From the Lone Star State

• In mid May, Houston's OutSmart magazine declared our mountain mecca a must-see for gay Texans.

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Wednesday, 5:15 A.M.

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The May issue of Houston's OutSmart magazine--with seven full pages devoted to gay Eureka Springs--is now . . . well, out.

Celebrate this major marketing and public relations achievement and get your copy of the magazine at Marquee's (former location of Caribe Restaurante y Cantina) on Thursday, May 15 at 6:30 p.m.

«With all it has to offer the GLBT traveler, Eureka Springs should be considered on par with Key West, Provincetown and Palm Springs as a gay vacation paradise,» writes OutSmart contributor Bradley Williams.

With the publication of this major travel story, a great many more Texans will know about Eureka Springs.

Because, in addition to Houston, OutSmart is distributed in Galveston, Beaumont, Conroe, Clear Lake City, Spring, Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, El Paso, Longview, and College Station.

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I just bought a Berlitz German language course.  When we go to Austria and Germany in June, I would like to be able to say a few words that aren't English.  What the hell.  It was only 20 bucks. 

I know that everyone over there under the age of 75 speaks English, probably better than I do, and learning the language isn't absolutely necessary to get around Europe, but I think it would be kind of fun to order dinner in German.  Or at least say hello to the clerk in a store in the native tongue.

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Three-day stubble-OR- why won't it grow on TOP of my head?
 

I didn't shave Wednesday.
I didn't shave Thursday.
Now it's Friday.
I didn't shave this morning.
I could blame my not shaving on being late for work, which is not entirely true.
More accurately, I just didn't want to do it.

I was sitting in front of the tv, scratching my itchy chin, watching Matt Lauer do his thing in London and just figured what the hell. I don't have any appointments today that would require a smooth face, so screw it.

The only problem is that the weekend is coming fast.
As most any man knows, Man Law Number 17 requires eschewing the razor on a Saturday and Sunday. Shaving on the weekend is just not right.

Unless that man must attend a funeral or wedding. Even then, shaving depends on who is getting married or buried.

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At least it MAY be.  

I haven't had a lot of time to write my annoying missives lately, so I've dug into the Yip Files for a couple of past posts that may (or may not) have been added to this blog.  I hope I'm not repeating myself by putting the next few installments in here. 

Just letting you know - you may get a feeling of deja vu when reading. 

Bear with me.  There will be some new nonsense before long.

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Back from the eye doctor. 

I've never, in all my life, had my eyes examined.  Interesting experience, that I'm not sure I want to go through again.  It wasn't as invasive as the prostate exam I had a few weeks ago (that's a subject best not discussed in polite company, so I won't.  I assume everyone reading this is 'polite'.  I could be wrong.) but it wasn't a lot of fun.  Bright flashing lights, looking through all sorts of complicated machinery, so forth.  The interesting part was the Dr. (Insert a nice «oooooo!» here.)  He was cute! Quite tall, about 6'3 or 4, I would guess.

I'm a sucker for tall guys.  And, he had hair.  Lots of it.  Thick and wavy.  (bastard!) 

So, he told me to look through these little glass things, asked me which seemed better, if they were fuzzy or not,  and filled out a bunch of paperwork.  Then I got to pick the frames.  Not a SINGLE Dame Edna 'wings with rhinestones' pair in the lot.   They had everything from skinny little slits to oversized Sally Jesse Raphael owl-eyes.  But no 'wings'.

Shit.

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One of the benefits of the second job I have is insurance coverage.  That's a biggie.   

In the past I've looked into policies for myself, as a small business owner, and found the premiums to be outrageously expensive.  Expensive enough that I didn't sign up.  So, now that I DO have insurance, I'm taking advantage of it.

I have to wear safety goggles at the job.  I have some problems with close-up vision.  Can't read the newspaper (or anything else, for that matter) without reading glasses.  The job requires reading small numbers and letters, so I have some «standard» bifocal safety goggles.  They  don't work very well, so I've set up an eye doctor appointment for today.  Prescription safety goggles!  Woohoo!  I'm gonna see if I can get a pair with rhinestones and «wings» that extend above the eye about an inch or two.  Like Dame Edna's. 

I'll be the mega-star of C Shift!

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