This is Movember, where I grow a moustache for prostate health. Prostate cancer is the #1 cancer affecting men. You can donate or just watch me grow a cheesy moustache all month. (Proceeds go to the Prostate Cancer Foundation and Livestrong.) To date, I’ve helped raise $60.

I’m also doing a 30-day meme, the whole of which can be found here.

Today’s photo of the ’stache-in-progress:

Day 17 – Someone you would want to switch lives with for one day and why

Dave at TequilaCon 2007

I’m going with Dave of Blogography. Look at him, can you blame me? Why am I choosing Dave? Because the man has an enviable lifestyle (minus getting hit occasionally by vehicles), with all his traveling the world and visiting Hard Rock Cafes and meeting up with fellow bloggers all the time. He’s a talented mofo, that Dave, and like a Kit Kat bar, I’d like to break me off a piece. Hmm, maybe I’m 20% gay, too. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

So I mentioned that my Resolution this month hit a snag. Big time. Bottom line is, I got fired. From one of my gigs, not both.

Not that it’s a huge shock, mind you. After all, I haven’t worked in quite a while. I take the blame for that.

I won’t say exactly which site fired me, but it doesn’t involve travel blogging, and it might rhyme loosely with Brain Trawler.

No matter. It’s lit a fire under my ass. I plan on doing more travel stories until I find another gig to add to the hotel blogging. So if you know of anything, please let me know. Especially if it involves me writing more humor’ish, slice-of-life stuff. I’m also going to get my other little project going. I told you, I have ideas.

Course, this reaffirms what I’ve already said. TequilaCon is definitely out for me this year. And it doesn’t look good for BlogHer, either. Disappointing, to say the least. For you, I mean. Ahem.

In the meantime, I thought I’d write a little letter to any future employers I have. I’m sure they’re all reading this and are interested in anything and everything I have to say.

Dear Future Employers:

Hi, I wanted to take a moment to give you a list of things you might try in order to make my life with you more pleasant. Or more professional. Whatever.

1. You should know up front that I prefer being notified when I get fired. You know, as close to when you hire my replacements as is convenient for you. To clarify, telling me months later – only after I am ready to return to work – is just a tad late for my taste. I realize it’s a personal preference, but it’s MY personal preference.
2. If you simply must fire me, I prefer getting a phone call over getting an email 15 minutes before end-of-business. It’s more professional and, as an added bonus, it doesn’t make your company seem like it truly doesn’t give a fuck about their employees.
3. Please don’t try to explain your decisions for firing me, unless you’re giving me REAL reasons. I’m not as dumb as I look. For example, saying that it’s because of “budgetary constraints” when you only have a finite number of writing slots per day, and it doesn’t matter who writes them or gets paid for them, is kinda bogus’ish.
4. If you’re going to fire me, please do me the kindness of removing me from the company email lists first. I have enough email to wrestle with every day, I don’t need more.
5. If you happen to be in, say, the gossip industry, please don’t pretend to class up the joint by not using words like “butt” or “nude.” Especially if it’s a blog skewed toward mommies. Because moms happen to be nude a lot, and they also have butts. And they’re also there to read GOSSIP. Running a gossip blog – and again, this is only if you happen to be in that industry – and telling the writers they can’t use words like “sex” or “boobs” is a little like telling TMZ not to take photos. It can be done, mind you, but no one is going to want to read it any more. And I think the traffic reflects that. Or *would*…sorry.
6. I like employers who send me things like free coffee or Cherry Coke Zero. And massage gift certificates. Even without the Happy Ending added on, it’s still a nice perk.

I have other ideas, too, if you care to ask for my input. Most involve naked women, but I do have a great one that includes a shaved giraffe.

Sincerely,

Karl Erikson

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Watched half of the last “Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien” before bed last night. Funny, funny shit. Conan is funnier than I’ve ever seen him. I can relate. I often find that I’m near the top of my game when I’m in crisis mode. Not lately, mind you, but other times.

His ratings the last couple of weeks were up by over 60%. And NBC is still ditching him because, well, NBC is being run by rabid monkeys. Clearly. I mean, it makes sense. Jay Leno did so fantastic in prime time (*cough*) that anyone in their right mind would want to move him back to 11:30. Cue the Jaywalking and Monday night Headlines…comedy gold, people. *cough*

I don’t know who the fuck thinks Jay Leno is still funny, but the monkeys sure seem to dig him. Something tells me that Letterman’s ratings are gonna stay ahead of Leno’s now that this shit has gone down. But we’ll see. Either way, I’m back to not watching NBC late-night.

It’s like “Dallas” in the 80’s. That time when Bobby was killed, but a year later he wakes up and realizes the whole last season was a dream? Yeah, that’s the shit NBC is trying to pull.

“Just pretend the last 7 months never happened. You never saw Conan in the 11:30 slot. See? Jay Leno is host of ‘The Tonight Show.’ You must have dreamt the whole thing.”

Er…right. I was just imagining that “The Tonight Show” was finally funny again.

So. Back to me.

I slept last night. Finally. For about 6-1/2 hours. My brain finally shut off, thanks to classical music. And a beer. And a sleeping pill. And exhaustion.

Music has always been there for me. It’s critical in my life. But lately, naturally, music is trying to kill me. Every song that plays on the radio or my iPod (even on Shuffle) has lyrics that are speaking directly to me. Yes, music is trying to make me have an emotional breakdown.

Normally, I go to sleep to music, whether it’s my iPod or this retro 80’s radio station called The Point (101.5). But with me in manic mode, everything I see and hear is just more stuff for my brain to chew on. Actually keeps my brain BUSIER when I’m trying to relax and sleep.

So the classical music last night (thank you, WunderRadio! ) did the trick.

Yes, you heard me right a couple paragraphs ago. I think I’m manic right now. It definitely explains a lot of my behavior of late. The racing thoughts have really been out of control lately…far worse than usual.

I have a hard time explaining racing thoughts. Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about them:

Racing thoughts refers to thought confusion which occurs in manic episodes, hypomanic, or mixed episodes. While Racing thoughts are most common with patients with Bipolar disorder, they are also common with Anxiety disorders, such as OCD. Racing thoughts are also associated with use of amphetamines. ^[1]

Racing thoughts may be experienced as background or take over a person’s consciousness. Thoughts, music, and voices might be zooming through one’s mind. There also might be a repetitive pattern of voice or of pressure without any associated “sound”. It is a very overwhelming and irritating feeling, and can result in losing track of time. Sometimes racing thoughts are accompanied by an elevated pulse, including drumming in the ears.

Generally, racing thoughts are described as an event where the mind uncontrollably brings up random thoughts and memories and switches between them very quickly. Sometimes they are related, as one thought leads to another; other times they are completely random. A person suffering from an episode of racing thoughts has no control over his or her train of thought and it stops them from focusing on one topic or prevents sleeping.

Accurate. This site has a great chart, along with a list of symptoms of bipolar disorder, too. I’ve experienced most every symptom on that list. Lots of big ideas, rambling more than usual, restlessness, careless spending, paranoia, the whole shebang. Heh, I said she bang.

I think of racing thoughts in cartoon form, because I really try to relate most everything to cartoons at some point. Cartoons explain things so much more simply.

You’ve seen Pinky & the Brain, right? Imagine the Brain, mulling over his amazing Take-Over-The-World schemes. He’s sitting there – while  images of da Vinci’s Vetruvian Man, chemical compositions, quadratic formulas, Acme Rube Goldberg device blueprints, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, quotes from Andy Warhol, and giant Pi’s go swirling over his head. Tons of different ideas and thoughts surrounding him, consuming him.

It’s like that in my head. Most all the time. As if my reticular formation is malformed…or nonexistent.

For most of my life, I thought that was how EVERYONE’s brain worked. I was stunned to find out that wasn’t the case in the 90’s. Stunned, I tell you.

It’s astounding, really, knowing what I know now about bipolar disorder and racing thoughts, that I was a straight A student throughout the bulk of my academic career. But somehow I managed to compensate for the mess inside my head.

Growing up, my parents always called me “a dreamer.” But not in a good way, really. A “dreamer,” as in someone who daydreams all the time and gets nothing accomplished. And I always just bought into that. It’s not as if they had any understanding of bipolar disorder, or depression, or any of the other mental shit I’m afflicted with.

My problems were easily explained. Karl is a dreamer, his head is always in the clouds. Karl is lazy. Karl is very smart BUT doesn’t apply himself. Etc. etc ad nauseum. These were the things my parents were dealing with, and I can’t blame them for not knowing the warning signs or symptomology associated with BPD. It was the 70’s. Back then, divorce was still a “taboo” word, kids could go trick-or-treating unescorted by parents, and we still thought that shag carpet was a good idea. Our collective conscious was obviously afflicted.

One of the more prevalent threats I used to get from my folks when I’d misbehave was this: “Do you want us to take you to a psychologist?”

“Noooooo!” And I’d start to cry and beg for them not to take me.

Jesus, I wish I’d said yes. My life might be totally different. But back then, a shrink was a very scary threat. Shrinks were BAD, and proof that *I* was BAD. A fuckup. A loser. Crazy. Irreparably Broken.

Now I know better. Shit, I know a LOT of things better since I started going to therapy and psychiatrists. Not that I don’t often see myself as irreparably broken, mind you. Those negative tapes are still prevalent between my ears. I hear them at full volume a great deal of the time. It’s why, whenever I make a mistake, the first thing I say in my head (and usually out loud, too) is, “Gah! I’m an IDIOT!” Because I am literally hearing that shit in my mind, as clearly as I hear the television or a real-life conversation with a friend.

I tell you all this, about the racing thoughts and some of the other shit inside my brain, so you have maybe a little better understanding about the stuff I have to constantly compensate for. And because yesterday I had an appointment with the Matrix Therapist.

It was basically me blurting out 10,000 things all at once. For an hour. Mom fell on the ice. Now I’m her caregiver 24/7. I almost killed myself TWICE last week. I’m sleep-deprived. I’m losing relationships. My car “Service Engine Soon” light came on during my drive here.

I. CAN’T. TAKE. ANY. MORE.

And I told her I’m pretty sure I’m having a manic episode. She agreed. She’s gonna talk to the shrink and see about adding more meds. Now that we’ve seen me at baseline, and we know the Geodon isn’t enough. I’ve been taking (most) all my meds as directed since January 1.

I need more. And fast.

So she’s working on it. And that’s a good thing.

As for my diabetes, my sugars are running a lot better. Still high at times, because I’m not taking EVERYTHING until we get the meds adjusted. I am, however, checking my sugar 4 times a day (except for yesterday, when it was a very full day), using the regular insulin when I’m way high, etc.

This morning, I tested a 171 straight out of bed. Not bad, considering I don’t take nighttime insulin at the moment. Too scared. Last night, after two slices of pizza for dinner, my sugar was 294. That’s not good, but for the time being, I’d rather be high than low. Sure you can understand why.

My doctor went home violently ill yesterday, so my appointment with her is rescheduled for Monday. That’s when we’ll go over my blood test and make med adjustments. This isn’t a bad thing, since it’ll give her 3 more days of numbers to look over before we change things around. (And thanks to Glucose Buddy I have graphs and numbers galore.)

Mom’s surgery went perfectly. They went in, removed all the little kneecap fragments, reattached the tendon to the remaining kneecap, and it went without a hitch. She’s in a LOT more pain now, though we are staying on top of it with the pain meds.

She goes back to the doctor Wednesday for a follow-up appointment. We’ll know more then. For now, what I know is this. Six weeks in the knee immobilizer. Then 6-8 weeks of physical therapy. That puts us well into April.

Which brings me to my next point. TequilaCon is out for me this year.

It kills me, but quite frankly, I’m seriously considering everything being out for me this year, including BlogHer. I wasn’t kidding about not feeling the social media thing lately.

That may change, of course. As I progress through the Year of Resolutions, my attitude may change. But I have yet to buy my BlogHer ticket for this year. And at the moment, the only must-do as far as travel goes this year is visiting Bubblewench for her birthday.

In fact, I may adopt that for any traveling this year. Just visit friends in intimate gatherings, instead of attending the big blogger gatherings. That does not, of course, include Avitaween, which I can’t see skipping.

We’ll see. I’m not making any rash judgments. I think I’ve made enough of those in the last couple of weeks. And now that I know I’m manic, I know I need to keep the impulsivity in check and try more heavily to rely on my logic, as opposed to my emotions.

Emotions come and go, people. Acting on them impulsively, without any thought whatsoever, is foolhardy at best. And that’s something I’m trying to avoid.

I HAVE decided upon my February Resolution. Will be announcing that February 1. But the other 10 Resolutions for 2010 are still completely up in the air. So keep those suggestions coming.

I’m a natural Glass-is-Half-Empty person. Jaded. Cynical. Even petty. I’m trying, with the YOR, to do a 180 and move to being a Glass-is-Half-Full kinda guy.

It’s a bitch, believe me. My first instincts are always to point out the bad shit. Making a conscious effort to make NOTE of that Negative Nancy tendency – as it HAPPENS – is quite a workout. Those negative self-tapes and all that shit.

But I’m trying. And my friends are helping a lot with that effort, pointing out to me (in the moment) how things could always be worse. And I am trying to be gracious about it, even if in my head I’m hearing, “Fuck, I can’t say a single thing without it being criticized.”

Perhaps, though, the first step is controlling what comes out of my MOUTH, regardless of what’s going on in my head. Fix that part, then we can backtrack a little and start trying to fix the words that AREN’T coming out of my mouth.

Change what I say, then change what I think? I dunno. I could just be totally full of shit. I’m winging it here, people. This shit is all new to me.

Change typically terrifies me.

I hope to change that, too.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Odd, just a day after Christmas, I was sitting at the computer, wanting to listen to music. I love Pandora, have it on my iPhone, too. Personalized radio is the future, people, believe it. And even more than Pandora, I love Slacker (also on the iPhone). I think Slacker has a better mix of artists. If I create a station around, say, Beth Hart on Pandora, and do the same on Slacker? Slacker comes out with a more organic-sounding mix, I think.

But I was on the Last.fm site the other day. And I saw Lisa’s profile there. I’ve been using Last.fm longer than any other music site, and I like that it scrobbles the music from my iPod. Anyway, Last.fm says that Lisa and I have a High Musical Compatibility…Buckcherry, The Cars, INXS. Cool. Hmm, I think I’ll listen to Lisa’s station.

Then I saw the artists on Lisa’s station.

Audioslave. Rob Zombie. Metallica. System of a Down.

Fuck.

Lisa is way more hardcore than me. I went with a station based on a mix of New Order and Duran Duran instead.

I still think of her daily. Any time someone comments on Lisa’s blog, I get an email. Two or three times a week, Facebook reminds me I should put something on Lisa’s wall. Clusterfook.com sends people to my blog nearly every day.

I miss her.

Happy Birthday, Lisa. You really ARE the Rock Bitch.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Heya.  This is Wayne from the blog of whall.  All I’m going to say is… there are more than a few inside jokes in this.

Summer of Love Guest Post by whall for Karl from whall on Vimeo.

Karl asked me to guest post. This is what he gets.

If you need it, here’s a direct link to the youtube video.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

For those that are too young to remember that quote, “Da Plane! Da Plane!” is from the original Fantasy Island TV show. And that particular line was from the midget known as Tattoo, Khan’s right-hand man. Or Mr. Roarke, whatever.

I bring up Tattoo because I may actually be getting my first tattoo in a couple of weeks. Not the TequilaCon variety of tattoo, which comes off within a few days, a REAL one.

That’s right, Mr. Wild & Crazy is tatless. But my pending road trip to Lexington, Kentucky for the party fest known as ConFab has me thinking about getting one. There’s going to be a tattoo excursion and I think I’m going along for it.

The problem with tattoos, for me anyway, is finding the right one. What the hell do you put on your body PERMANENTLY when you’re one of those people who bore fairly easily? It’s not like my desktop wallpaper, where I can change the picture dozens of times a day if I feel like it. Tattoos don’t come off. Not without lasers, at any rate, and I’ve yet to go peeling off layers of epidermis with laser beams…don’t feel like starting now, either.

So contemplating something cool enough to place on your body is difficult, especially when you’re thinking 40 years down the road. What’s cool enough, significant enough, to put on your arm or shoulder or the small of your back, that isn’t going to look positively ridiculous when you’re 82 years old and not the tight, lean, fighting machine you are today? (cough)

I don’t know the answer to that question, but I’m working on it. The only thing I can think of so far is to get the little cartoon smoking guy at the top of my blog. See, even when I quit smoking (and I will), I’m pretty sure that some iteration of the smoking dude will always appear here at 2HT. So that’s where I’m leaning at the moment.

Course, I could make that 14-hour drive to Kentucky in a couple of weeks and totally change my mind. I could wander into the tattoo parlor, see the needle, and say “No fucking way.” But for now, I’m feeling more and more like this may be my first ink. We’ll see. Thoughts?

Now for a meme. I got tagged by Kim for this Crazy 8’s meme. Haven’t done one in a while, so I thought I’d give it a go. I don’t tag people back, but feel free to yank it and put it on your own blog, of course.

To do list (i.e. “the rules”):

1. Mention the person who tagged me, and I did !!
2. Complete the list of 8’s, and I did !!
3. Tag 8 bloggers & tell them I tagged them!

Eight things I am looking forward to:

1. ConFab, June 11-13, roughly. Lots of friends, old and new.
2. Road trip with Jill TO ConFab.
3. Watching the “Reaper” series finale some time today.
4. The magical room-moving fairies that are going to clean my current bedroom and move all my shit into the NEW bedroom.
5. BlogHer ‘09, Chicago (July)! Rooming with Neil, a first time attendee, and a chick magnet.
6. SecondHand Radio tomorrow night. My guest is my buddy Mike. Gonna be a blast.
7. Sex. Just kidding, there’s virtually no chance of that happening any time soon.
8. iPhone 3.0!

Eight things I did yesterday:

1. Worked
2. Went to Walgreens
3. Had dinner with Mom & friends at the Olive Garden
4. Watched far too much television.
5. Hung out with Mindy and Sarah for a while last night.
6. Played a fuckton of Zombieville USA on my iPhone.
7. Listened to Adam Carolla’s podcast. Seriously? Best podcast on Earth.
8. Smoked.

Eight things I wish I could do:

1. Play piano.
2. Have sex, maybe on the piano.
3. Finish one of my frakking novels.
4. Heal relationships.
5. Travel the world.
6. Escape my depression forever.
7. Get a new pancreas so I can eat giant fishbowls full of Fruity Pebbles again.
8. Marry Jaime Murray.

Eight shows I watch:

1. Jeopardy
2. Fringe
3. Lost
4. Heroes
5. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition
6. Leverage
7. House
8. Criminal Minds

Eight favorite fruits:

1. Grapes
2. Bananas
3. Watermelon
4. Cherries
5. Pineapples
6. Oranges
7. Apples
8. Peaches

Eight places I’d like to travel:

1. Australia
2. U.K.
3. Netherlands
4. Spain
5. Hawaii
6. Canada
7. Africa
8. Alaska

Eight places I’ve lived:

1. Westhampton Beach, NY
2. Alamogordo, NM
3. England
4. Biloxi, MS
5. Dallas, TX
6. San Antonio, TX
7. Boca Raton, FL
8. Sebring, FL

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Saturday

NOTE: lots of the photos in this post are clickable so you can see bigger versions. If you hover over the photo and it shows a Flickr address in your status bar, you should be able to click it.

So I woke up at around 7am, thanks to the brighter-than-hell New Mexico sun blaring in through my hotel room window, thanks to me opening the drapes the day before and forgetting to close them before going to bed. I promptly got up, remedied the problem, and went back to sleep until 9:30 or so.

By then, everybody had already had breakfast, because they’re all inconsiderate that way and couldn’t wait. Got up, threw on some shorts and flip flops and went outside to make out, only to discover it was in the 50s outside. But I’m hardcore like that, so I smoked, anyway. Plus, I was too lazy to go back to my room and throw on long sleeves.

It was decided while out at the Hilton’s smoker’s paradise that a group of us (Poppy, Dawg, Diana, Sarah, and me) would venture forth to the Historic District for the day. I went up and quickly showered, then came back downstairs and we were off.

First stop: the Georgia O’Keefe museum.

We all paid our $8 admission fee, and that’s when a security person told Dawg he couldn’t enter the museum with his backpack. Something about how they were worried he’d bump into the artwork with his pack and damage it. What a load of bullshit. Plenty of women were present with larger purses than Dawg’s backpack and THEY were allowed in.

Wisely, Dawg told them to fuck off because he wasn’t going to leave his backpack under their care…he had several pounds of heroine in his pack and didn’t trust them with it. I didn’t blame him. So Dawg waited outside while we wandered the museum, looking at  paintings of giant vaginas.

We weren’t allowed to take photos in the museum, but I’ve closely approximated what the bulk of the paintings looked like, just for Dawg’s benefit:

Now THAT’S art, baby. Nothing like lots and lots of giant vaginas. I love Georgia O’Keefe, even if she did screw Dawg out of $8.

The museum isn’t that big, only took about 25 minutes before the ladies came and pulled me away from one of the paintings I was licking. Then we wandered down to the historic square of Santa Fe. The square was full of artists and musicians and street food vendors and people walking dogs. Very artsy community, Santa Fe.

I grabbed a hot dog for breakfast and we walked around to some of the shops.

After a bit, Ren showed up to join us. And he brought my camera, too, which I’d inadvertently left behind the night before at the Santa Fe Brewing Company. Yay, Ren!

That’s Ren and Dawg, discussing F-stops or apertures or quantum mechanics. Whatever it was, I didn’t understand it. No matter, we all went off to go to the Cross of the Martyrs, which is located on this HUGE fucking mountain, which required yet MORE walking. I tried arguing that if you’ve seen one cross, you’ve seen them all, but Dawg wouldn’t hear of it. So we all went to be martyrs.

It was about a 4- or 5-block walk to the Cross…to the base of the hill, anyway. Then, it was a long winding path, consisting of graduated brick paths and occasional stairs, all of it leading up to a most fantastic view of Santa Fe.

We were up there for a while, admiring the view and taking lots of photos, and Twittering, of course. This was probably also the time that I acquired a deadly dose of ultraviolet radiation, for which I am still paying dearly. My face, ears, arms…are all molting and have been since Sunday. Being at a much higher elevation than usual – 7,000 ft. above sea level – you’re also that much closer to the sun.

And I almost always forget petty little things like sunscreen. So be it.

We made our way back down the hill and to the square once again.

We went to the Five and Dime store again to get some sunscreen for The Poppy and Carmex for Ren’s delicate lips. Then a few of us grabbed a chile relleno burrito from a cart – YUM! – and waited on Robin to get there, her body renewed from her spa treatment. Sarah grabbed some ice cream. Robin did, too, when she arrived.

By  now, it was mid-afternoon, so we set off for the Loretto Chapel, home of the Mysterious Stairway.

This stairway is technically architecturally impossible. There’s no center support and architects and scholars still don’t know how it was built. By the way, it was built by this mysterious stranger – alone – in only 6 months, using nothing but a hammer, saw, nails, and a carpenter square. Very, very cool. And the banister is a lot of fun to slide down.

We all ooh’d and ahh’d inside the chapel, because it’s positively gorgeous. Then most of us headed back to the hotel because it was 4pm and TequilaCon started at 6. Ren and Sarah went on to San Miguel, though, because they’re really pious like that. And it’s supposed to be the oldest church in the country, blah blah blah.

TequilaCon

I took a short 45-minute nap to charge the batteries. We all gathered down at Smoker’s Paradise around 5:30 to set off for The Pink Adobe for TequilaCon, only about an 8-minute walk from the hotel. The air was abuzz with excitement and we were all being called by the siren known as Jenny.

Actually, Jenny and the gang arranged for our own private room in the Pink Adobe, in a subsection of the bar/restaurant known as The Dragon Room. Very cool upstairs apartment with our own bathroom facilities, tables, and a sweet balcony.

We were greeted upstairs by Jenny, Vahid, Dave, Brandon, and some others who were already there.

This was our balcony view, right across the street. As it happens, it’s San Miguel, which is the church most of us skipped to prep for TequilaCon. I have yet to look at anyone else’s TequilaCon recaps or most of the other photos, so I’m sure Ren and others got great shots inside the church. Still, it was nice having God watch over us as we all got plowed.

Soon, the room was amassed with old and new friends. Our waitress, Jessica, handled all of us very handily, mostly delivering the signature Black Dragon drinks, of which I had 3. Or 7.

The Black Dragon contains:

• Silver tequila
• Cassis
• Cointreau
• Lime juice

And, as many of us TequilaConners will  profess, it is DELICIOUS. And deceptively strong. By the end of the night, many of us, including Dawg (who is like the mountain that the Cross of the Martyrs sits upon, but with legs) were feeling little or no pain.

There’s Marty and Reba (aka Mrs. Scooter Sunday). How Marty scored such a woman was the subject of much discussion and scrutiny. But she apparently likes him, so whatever.

Big surprise of the evening was having Dustin show up. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but Dave arranged for it stealthily and if you could have only seen the look on Jenny’s face…

Last year, Brandon couldn’t make it because he was in rehab or some such shit that TequilaConners frown upon. So there were a bunch of cutout heads of Brandon on wooden sticks. Many of us posed with Brandon last year and missed him dearly. We were all missing Dustin when he just popped into our private room and the cheers were deafening.

So there were pre-prepared cutouts of Dustin handy. You can hardly tell which ones are fake and which is real. Really, the only way you COULD tell was by the tater tots on the real Dustin’s breath.

Our waitress, Jessica, was incredible. She was the only one we had, and she served all of us – I don’t know, 40 or 50 of us? – flawlessly. Drinks AND food. And the food was incredible. I had the Green Chile Stew at the recommendation of Ren and a few others.

That glass on the left there was for something called “water.” Yeah, I don’t think any of them were used.

Robin and Ren, who actually wore long pants for the event.

Then, another big surprise. Mr. Tequila showed up…the same night Dustin came. What a pleasant happenstance! There’s Colleen, aka Communicatrix with him, in awe.

And in a rare move for the weekend, Rachel showed off her tits. Again.

Another tradition of TequilaCon is the Tattoo Booth, where you pick out one or a few temporary tattoos and have someone – usually the swarthy Vahid – apply them somewhere on your body. If you’re a girl, he’ll put them on your boobs, your legs, your arms, your ass…wherever. If you’re a guy, you’re lucky he’ll put them on your arm.

Here was mine:

It says “Dead or Alive” and it’s pretty much the tattoo I’ve always imagined myself getting. And at this point, it’s little more than a smattering of bright orange specks on my arm.

There was a very moving toast by Jenny, who gave a touching shout-out to our beloved Lisa aka Clusterfook. Some New Mexico dust flew into my eye at that moment, so I wasn’t crying or anything.

I tried to mingle as much as I could, meeting lots of new people whose names mostly already escape me. I’ll be refreshing my memories with the final attendee spreadsheet that Jenny provided a few days back via email.

Dawg and Wayne out on the balcony.

Lots more photos available in my full TequilaCon Flickr set.

And there’s also a TequilaCon’09 Flickr group, with lots more photos.

When 11 o’clock drew nigh, it was time to think about letting waitress Jessica take a breather. I was pleased to see that my bill was only $67, half what it was last year. And unlike last year, while I was pleasantly buzzing away, I wasn’t stumbling and falling down drunk.

Once our bills were all paid, a large group of us wandered down the street a few blocks to the Catamount, which was still open.

As we approached 1 o’clock in the morning, it was time to depart the Catamount and go our separate ways. So we all hugged goodbye and the Hiltonites walked (or stumbled) back to the hotel.

Dawg and Poppy went to bed, as did Robin and Rachel. Wayne and Ren decided they weren’t tired yet, so they joined me in Diana’s and Sarah’s hotel room, which was conveniently located two doors down from me.

We sat up till past 4am, talking and laughing and getting our next-door  neighbors pissed off. Really, someone came and knocked on Diana’s door and complained. We really weren’t being loud, either.

To the soundtrack of Hall & Oates, we talked a great number of things, while rennaissance man Wayne rearranged Diana’s and my chakras or some such thing. It was amazing. Now I’m supposed to spend 5 minutes a day imagining healing colors like red, orange, and yellow. I think it was just an excuse for Wayne to get his hands on me.

Then he worked on Diana’s blog while still drunk. Incredible.

And our little Sarah crashed a while because she had to leave at an ungodly hour to go back to California. Something about college the next day…

We split up between 4 and 4:30am. And that was Day 2 of my TequilaCon trip. Unlike most of the other folks attending this year, I wasn’t leaving New Mexico on Sunday, though. I was heading down to my old hometown, Alamogordo, for a few days.

Poppy and Dawg stayed an extra day in Santa Fe, but the bulk of the people left Santa Fe on Sunday.

And once again, I’ll have to post more of my NM recap tomorrow. This was already long enough, don’t you think?

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I fully intended to write blog posts on the road, but we all know about intentions and roads, so…

If you’re looking for stories about me getting hammered and peeing on the hotel rug, along with a little semi-private masturbation, sorry to disappoint. I was a (relatively) good boy this year. Plus, I didn’t have a roommate at TequilaCon, due to mine suddenly falling off the Earth. So really, there was no one to perform for.

A week ago Thursday night, I had my radio show as scheduled (10pm Eastern). This may have been a bad decision, since I had to leave my house 5 hours after the show was over, heading out for Orlando airport. It’s a 90-minute drive from Sebring. So I didn’t go to bed Thursday night.

Important Lesson to Self: Never ever again schedule a 6:45am flight.

I’m a last-minute packer, through and through. Think I finished up right about 15 minutes before leaving the house. Made it to Orlando airport with plenty of time to spare.

Seems like you see two kinds of people at Orlando airport: those who are getting off the plane to go to Disney World, and those that have just been to Disney World and are going back home. You can usually identify the latter by the ubiquitous Mickey/Minnie ears atop their heads. That, and the little girls all seem to sport hot pink Disney princess backpacks, which cost a reasonable $875 at any Disney gift shop.

I could regale you with interesting stories about my flight to Dallas/Ft. Worth, or my subsequent flight from there to Albuquerque, but I was asleep for both flights. All my interesting airport/plane stories were relegated to 140-character anecdotes.

I landed in Albuquerque around 11:30 am, Mountain time. And who should be waiting for me at the bottom of the baggage claim stairs? It was my lovely Geeky Tai Tai! Diana had flown in the night before and stayed in a local hotel. She had booked a shuttle from ABQ to Santa Fe, but when I told her I had rented a car, she got a refund for half her round-trip shuttle ticket, and drove with me to Santa Fe instead.

It was marvelous to have the company on the hour drive. We were some of the first people to make it to our hotel (Santa Fe Hilton), so we checked in, dropped off our bags in our rooms, and then set off for some lunch because I was starving. One of the amazing staffers at the Hilton recommended this place called The Shed for good Mexican food, so that’s where Diana and I went.

I vowed before leaving Orlando for NM that I would eat nothing but New Mexican cuisine while there. Why? Because there is nothing like fantastic Mexican food and I live in a little tiny town in Florida.

Turns out it was a mistake to drive my rental car into the historic district, but we made due. It was the last time I drove my rental car until I left Santa Fe Sunday afternoon.

The Shed rocks. Very cool bar/restaurant. Diana and I waited for a table at the bar, starting things off with margaritas. Then to our table, where Diana drank another margarita. And another.

Food was amazing. Green chili sauce, red chili sauce…we both had both on our enchiladas. The waiter called this sauce combo “Christmas,” as in “You want the Christmas enchiladas?” Yum.

Back to the hotel, where Rachel and Robin were waiting. Naturally, within 15 minutes of Diana and I leaving The Shed, Ren tweeted that he was at The Shed, looking for us. Oops.

We quickly discovered a fatal flaw of Santa Fe…many of the bars shut down super early. Like 10 or 11pm. An emergency tribunal was called, where we decided to go and procure alcohol to thwart such silly Santa Fe alcohol rules. And talk about amazing service…the manager of the Hilton hooked us up with a driver and van to take us to Albertson’s and buy some liquor.

Then it was back to the Hilton to consume said alcohol, naturally. We sat around the pool, meeting up with Whall and Ren. And I baptized my shoes with Guinness a couple of times…every time I opened a can, it went spewing all over the place. Guinness, you saucy wench, you!

Then Poppy and Dawg showed up, just in time for us to continue gearing up for BeerHer. It was starting to get a little cooler as we passed 6pm. I’d forgotten about the drastic New Mexico temperature swings…80’s during the day, 30’s at night! So while we regathered around the poolside fireplace, I zoomed up to my room to get a jacket.

Shortly after that, the lovely Sarah showed up and we were all set to cab it out to the Santa Fe Brewing Company. Off we went and a good time was had by all.

Marty showed up with his wife, Reba, after a while. Great to meet Marty after being a long-time fan. Sarah had her very first beer. Rachel constantly showed off her boobs, which is apparently her signature move, as you can see in the various assorted pictures of her over the course of the weekend. Ren, Whall, Dawg, and others talked cameras a while. Some of us talked geeky stuff. Diana and I danced to this cool soul/motown band, even did this Conga line with a bunch of other folks to the tune of  “Love Train.”

I give the Santa Fe Brewing company 5 out of 5 WJP’s. Good beer, though you kind of have to experiment, since they brew their own beer. Poppy was a brave soul with the Java Stout…I just can’t picture beer and coffee combined. I have too many bad memories of Coke Blak.

Great food, I had the sweet potato fries with these yummo horseradishy chipotleyey sauce. Poppy’s green chili fries looked amazing, too, but she’s even more of a militant non-food-sharer than I am.

I also have this thing about not sharing drinks. In fact, I’d share all my food before sharing a drink with someone, usually. But there ARE exceptions. Like when Sarah said she’d NEVER had a beer before, I let her try my pale ale (freshly served, hadn’t had a sip yet). What? A beer virgin? That’s like DefCon 1 on the Beer Scale.

Then I promptly turned the glass around and drank from the other side. It was amazing we were able to revive Poppy, because the sight of me sharing a drink out of the same glass made her faint. Sadly, I don’t think she’ll ever see me in the same light again.

Between 11 and midnight, most of us were rather beat. Hell, Wayne and Ren, and Marty and Reba DROVE to TequilaCon. A group of us left to go back to the hotel. Another group stayed behind a while before going out to the casino.

And for me, once I got back to the Hilton that night, that was it for the day.

BTW, I give the Santa Fe Hilton 4 out of 5 WJP’s. Amazing staff and service, great room, but they fall short on a couple of items. First of all, when I’m paying $150 a night for a hotel room, I don’t think I should have to pay an extra $15/night for a little fridge. I’m not REQUIRED to store my insulin in a fridge, but still.

Second, the fact that they charge you $10/day for Internet is ludicrous. And that’s not even wifi…it’s Ethernet. Which is fine – I always carry a cable with me in my laptop bag. But ALL hotels should give free Internet these days. Yes, they had free wifi in the lobby, but what the fuck? I paid only $44/night for the White Sands Motel in Alamogordo a few days later…and the room came with a fridge, a microwave, AND free wifi.

So get your shit together, Hilton. A “luxury” hotel shouldn’t go bilking customers for things that ought to be included with the room.

PS: One-ply toilet paper at the Hilton? SERIOUSLY?!

Day 2, Saturday, tomorrow.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Well, I’m gearing up for nearly a week away from home. At the buttcrack of dawn Friday, I leave my house, drive 90 minutes to the Orlando airport, and then catch a 6:45am flight to Albuquerque, NM, with a brief layover in Dallas/Ft. Worth (my old stomping grounds).

Renting a car once I hit NM, then driving to Santa Fe for TequilaCon to hang with some of my favorite people in the world. Can’t wait.

I’m also quite jazzed because after all the drunken revelry is over, I’ll (eventually) check out of the Santa Fe Hilton on Sunday and drive 4+ hours south to Alamogordo, my even older stomping grounds. That’s where I graduated high school. I’ll be hanging out there for a few days before coming back home, seeing people I’ve known for decades.

Course, before all that, I need to do mounds and mounds of laundry, but still.

And yes, even though I’ll have to get up and leave my house around 4:00 am Friday morning, six hours before that will be another episode of SecondHand Radio!

Look at the Babe Lineup on Thursday night’s show! It’s going to be TWO guests instead of one. Gingersnaps and her talk-show host buddy, Pamela!

Ginger is my Internet girlfriend (or so I fantasize) and Pamela Furr is apparently a hard-core hot conservative talk show host. Who knows WHAT will happen in an hour of free-flowing conversation? Politics? Religion? Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies! Rivers and seas boiling! Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together… mass hysteria!

Sorry, I got a little excited after seeing the Ghostbusters video game trailer for the Wii, coming in a few months.

If you’re not already, follow @GingerSnaps and @PamelaFurr on Twitter and prepare for a fun Thursday night.

SecondHand Radio

Showtime: 10:00 PM Eastern, 7:00 PM Pacific.

Show Link

2HRadio in iTunes

Chatroom available during the show. Everyone is welcome to call in at any time.

Call-In Number: 724-444-7444, Call ID 23738.

Spread the word. Hope to see you there!

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Tonight is another episode of SecondHand Radio and my guest is the beautiful cop, Shash from Diary of a Crazed Mommy. Shash is a ton of fun to hang with…I’m hoping to do it again soon. She’s funny, pretty, intelligent, and full of grace.

And she’s all mine for a full hour tonight at 10pm Eastern!

Tune in tonight. There’s a chatroom where you can join in on the fun. It opens at 9:45pm. You’re welcome to call in, too.

The call-in number is 724-444-7444, Call ID is 23738.

Woo hoo! I booked my plane tickets yesterday for Tequilacon! I’m flying into Albuquerque April 24, renting a car, driving to Santa Fe, partying down, leaving whenever on Sunday, and driving down to my old stomping grounds, Alamogordo.

Never heard of it? No surprise. Regardless, I have a lot of history there. Graduated high school in the top 50% of my class, lost my virginity, and met my future ex-wife there. So I thought I’d go visit for a few days. Haven’t been back to Alamo since my 20-year reunion.

The only thing left to do is book my hotel in Santa Fe because the venue hasn’t been announced yet. All you cool kids who are going…let me know if and when you book your hotel so we can stay together, OK? Not in the same room, necessarily, but in the same hotel. I wouldn’t subject most of you to the WJP.

So I went to the doctor last week for a follow-up and my nipple markers must have done the trick because the x-rays came back clean. Whew!

And my doctor says to me – again – “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

For sure, this time, she’s going to ask me if it’s okay for her to expose herself to me. Right? Two visits in a row she asks me this question?

I smile and say, “Sure.”

I’m sure she’s about to unbutton her blouse, show me those olive bosoms. Everything starts moving in slow motion. Someone off set starts a strong fan that’s blowing her hair around in a sexed-up Whitesnake-video fashion. She smiles and slowly, oh so slowly, rakes her tongue across her highly-glossed lips.

Then she says the four magic words: “What is that ring?”

POP!

My bubble bursts and, much to my dismay, there are no free-range breasts roaming anywhere in the room.

“The ring?”

“Yes,” she says, pointing to my hand. “That ring you’re wearing, what is it?”

I looked down at my hand, which was not at all pinching her nipples, and there it was. A ring.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. She doesn’t know what that is? And she’s in charge of my medical care? “It’s a cross.”

“I know what it is,” she says, “but what does it mean to you?” And here we go again. The last time she asked me a personal question it was about my eternal salvation. Now we’re going to discuss religious iconography.

“It’s a symbol of Christianity,” I say. Am I going to have to teach CCD to my doctor?

“Yes, I know. You’re a Christian?”

“Well, it would be an awfully silly thing to wear if I wasn’t.”

“Lots of people wear crosses and it doesn’t mean anything more than a fashion accessory to them.”

“True, but I’m not one of them,” I say.

“So you’re a Christian.” It’s a statement this time, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what -”

“Catholic.”

“Oh,” she says. One of those. “Catholic?”

“Yes.” Now can we commence the striptease? I’ve got my iPod in my pocket and I can have “Here We Go Again” playing in less than 4 seconds.

“What church do you go to?” she asks.

“Well, I haven’t been going much [at all] lately, but St. Catherine’s. Close to downtown.”

“Yes, and what is it that Catholics believe?” This is one of those loaded questions, I find, that non-Catholic Christians like to ask. I don’t know what they expect to hear.

Oh, we’re Pagans through and through. We worship statues and bow at Mary’s feet and occasionally sacrifice a lamb.

“The same thing that most Christians believe. Christ died on the cross for our sins,” I say.

She nods. Then she asks me about people praying to Mary, and saints, and praying the rosary, and all those evil things that all Catholics do. And I smile and answer her questions, more educated than a lot of Catholics because I chose to become Catholic as an adult. And I asked lots and lots of questions.

So it’s clear to me she’s likely a non-denominational Christian, which is fine with me. I have no problem with that. I’m not one of those Catholics that believe that the Catholic Church is the only way to finding God. I think God calls us each somewhere, and we should answer that call, wherever it takes us. Jews, Baptists, Methodists, Buddhists, whatever. As long as you’re not Pentecostal. Those snake-handling bastards are fucking crazy.

I kid, of course. Sort of.

We have a nice, pleasant conversation about Christ and religion and Catholicism for a few minutes and all my fantasies about asking her out – inappropriate as that may be – come to a crashing halt.  I’m not an evangelist and she happens to believe we should ALL be evangelizing. Clearly. She’s doing it in a freaking doctor’s office.

She asks me if I’m sharing the Word, which is the job of all Christians, and I lie and say yes. I’m not. Not actively, anyway. I’m not a proactive Word-Sharer. Maybe that’s a bad thing but all I can think of at the moment is what it was like living as an atheist, what a turn-off it was to hear Bible-thumpers thumpin’ that Bible. And I know in my heart that the best way to share the Word is to live it and not just talk about it. Set an example.

Not that I’m any great example, mind you. Obviously. I’m sure Jesus wasn’t out in the Holy Land, fantasizing about women’s hair blowing in slow motion to a Whitesnake soundtrack. He prefers The Doors.

I remember when I wrote about my last visit to the doctor, how offended some of you were, that a doctor would ask about religion. That doesn’t bug me. I’m happy to talk about my faith, such that it is, with most anyone who asks. That’s because I’m a REactive Word-Sharer.

I just wonder if next time she’ll remember that I’m a Christian so she doesn’t have to establish it yet again. I mean, she did notice that I had new glasses this time, which is something. Hmm, maybe she has a just-as-hot younger sister who likes a little sacrificial lamb once in a while.

Oh, and here’s a new shirt from the SecondHand Store:

More Popular Shirt by karlerikson
Design Custom Shirts At Zazzle.com

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan