Monday, March 30, 2009

Now with more famous!

I didn't think life could get any better after my gay porn debut, but then Jenny the Bloggess took this kind of horrifying thing I said and named it her official Comment of the Day.

If you don't read The Bloggess, you should, on account of it's the funniest site on the Internet. Jenny's my first-runner-up blog hero (Deborah is my actual blog hero, since she was the first person to link to me, and she sometimes lets me guest blog, which totally makes me feel like a celebrity even when I know I'm really not). But yeah, please do read The Bloggess. You'll like it. I promise.

I'm also pretty sure Jenny will add me to her blogroll now. And if she doesn't, then I assume Loyal Strifemongers will have no choice but to post comments on her blog demanding that she do so.

Or I could simply e-mail her and beg. But I would come across as a lot more important if my Strifemongers just, y'know, took care of it for me.

PS: Jenny is afraid of giant squid, which means I'm no longer alone. If I weren't such a big homo and she wasn't married, we'd almost certainly identify as soulmates.

PPS: Based on the way she describes him, I have a terrible crush on her husband. I'm far more afraid of her reaction to that admission than his.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Poorly Scheduled Witchcraft on Wheels

Good times to dispose of ritual remains at the crossroads:

In the dead of night.
Just before sunrise.
When no one can see you.

Bad times to dispose of ritual remains at the crossroads:

Rush hour.

And no, other drivers, I was not intentionally trying to egg your cars. So enough with the fingers already.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Spell It Out

On the very first episode of RuPaul's Drag Race, RuPaul told the competitors that they would be judged on four qualities: charisma, uniqueness, nerve and talent. The queens all tittered at that, which led me to assume that a joke of some sort had been made. I didn't get it.

Every week, after announcing the main challenge, RuPaul would list off those four important qualities:


And then the remaining contestants would giggle. Because apparently, being told you need to work on your:

Talent amusing. For some obscure reason. That I could not comprehend.

The season finale aired last night (with the fabulous BeBe Zahara Benet taking the crown), so I spent most of my morning pouring over online recaps. One blog in particular kept going on an on about the "C.U.N.T.," and I was like, "Well that's rude. If I were a drag queen, I'd be pretty pissed off if some asshole blogger called me a cunt." And then I thought about it for half an hour, and finally a dim little light bulb appeared and I was all, "Oh. I see." And then I felt like an idiot for missing the glaringly obvious hoo-hoo reference.

But eventually, I decided that if a brilliant, eagle-eyed wordsmith such as myself didn't catch the joke, then the majority of the viewing audience probably didn't, either. Which made me feel better. So later, I was telling one of my employees about the show, and I said, "The contestants are judged on their charisma, uniqueness, nerve and talent." And she threw her hands in front of her mouth and went, "Oh my God! They said that on television?!"

I fucking quit.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

There's no delicate way to explain how this happened...

... but I've been quoted on a pornographic Web site.

Actually, let me rephrase. It would be more accurate to say I've been quoted on a humorous lifestyle site, akin to those Reader's Digest features where people send in funny anecdotes. Except, y'know, with naked dudes. And their friends. Behaving inappropriately.

Should man-on-man action not offend your sensibilities, click here to witness my literary immortality. Also, please know that Le Cornichon is very, very proud of me right now.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Pagan Go Bragh

I was wandering the office in a desperate search for fresh coffee when G., one of our salespeople, waved me over to her cubicle.

"Happy Saint Patrick's Day!" she exclaimed, handing me a sheaf of green stickers. "Have a shamrock. Or two. In fact, take as many as you want! I've got tons of them, and... oh." She pointed to my coffee mug. "That's kind of creepy."

"You think?" I asked, inspecting the mug for any subtle ghoulishness I may have missed when purchasing it.

"Yes," G. replied, averting her eyes. "Emphatically creepy."

Alerted by her discomfort, the man in the next cubicle swung around, spotted the mug and flung himself into the conversation.

"Hey, cool!" he said. "It's one of those, whaddayacallem, Wood Men."

"Green Men," I corrected.

"Yeah, that's it, Green Men!" Then, with a slight shift in tone, "They're very witchy."

I about jumped out of my skin, all set to launch into a defensive explanation of alternative, Earth-based spiritualities, when I noticed the smug look on his face and realized he wasn't talking about me. Pagan and Proud, with a Penchant for Shock-Value Theatrics, read the scrolling marquis of his aura.

G.'s, on the other hand, was flickering with selections from the Old Testament. I decided to aim for some ecumenical damage control.

"A lot of Green Men have been found carved into the woodwork of old churches in England," I said.

"Really?" she asked, still on edge but soothed by the word church. "Why?"

"Because European churches were all built on sites of ancient Pagan worship!" her neighbor announced.

He smiled. G. fled back to her desk and started furiously reorganizing her stickers. I glanced around for any stray office supply that could double as an impromptu shank.

Call me old-fashioned, but I firmly believe that religion is a subject Not To Be Discussed at the workplace. A little historical trivia to spice up the day, fine. Just not religion. Now, longtime Strifemongers will understand this makes me something of a hypocrite, since I've outed myself at least once, and the people in my department talk about religion all the time, but we're also a discreet, tight-knit group, and we've known each other for years.

The situation is decidedly hairier over in the larger, less sociable Sales division, where rumors spread like staph infections. Logically, I know our higher-ups would never fire someone because of their spiritual beliefs and practices, but at the same time, I've seen ambitious (read: ruthless) agents throw their co-workers under proverbial buses for less.

Witchcraft doesn't pay for broken windows, guys. Steps on the path towards religious freedom aside, let's please do keep that in mind.

On a more festive note, I just received the following phone call:

[ring ring]

"This is Evn."

[earsplitting blast of Celtic music]

"Um... hello?"


"I can tell."


[another violent burst of amplified fiddle]


"My ears are bleeding."



It's a bit disconcerting to get drunk-dialed by your parents in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. But in the interest of heritage and holiday spirit, I think I'll forgive them.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Attack of the 50 Foot Ego

I got an e-mail the other night from a minor-league NeoPagan author, with the title of his most recent book in the subject line. Assuming it was a mass-mailed press release, I opened it up, all set to give it a perfunctory glance and SPAM it away. However, it turned out to be a long, rambling, invective-filled rant addressed to me personally, condemning my incompetent (I think he meant ignorant) opinions and the part I'm playing in the vast Wiccan conspiracy that's bent on destroying him.

"Stop spreading your malicious lies!" he blathered. "I've authored or co-authored a dozen books and have five children. Why don't you post your list of accomplishments, you idiot?"

Where in the hell is this coming from? I thought. Do I even know this person? What do his children have to do with anything?

It took me all morning to piece the situation together, but back in November, on a relatively obscure online forum, someone brought up the author's book and asked if anyone had read it. I replied that the book in question was a revised edition of an earlier work, that it really wasn't very good, and that the author had a dubious reputation. Not the kindest review, but not particularly inflammatory, either. People have certainly said worse about me. Hell, I've said worse about me.

But that's just part and parcel of professional writing, isn't it? No matter how eloquent you may be, someone, somewhere, is going to disagree with the words that come out of you. That said, and understanding how criticism of one's literary abilities could eat away at one's sense of self-worth, I have a hard time picturing a legitimate wordsmith scouring the Internet for possible detractors and firing off angry, late-night e-mails to them, demanding that they appreciate him or else. Especially five months after the fact. Makes me suspect unresolved paranoia issues.

Although this begs another question: Why does he give two shits what I think, anyway? I'm just some guy. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm cool and all, but it's not like Raymond Buckland just publically snubbed him at a high-profile charity event (as far as I know). And with this in mind, why the hostility? Does he think I called his mother a whore? Sent a tornado through his trailer park? Pillaged his children? Is that why he mentioned them?

Sadly, we'll never know, as I deleted his e-mail without response. But he did do me a favor by giving me more incentive to write a book of my own. Once finished, I'll send him an autographed copy (hardcover, natch), and he can kick it and pee on it and finally feel vindicated, while the rest of NeoPagandom gets back to the quiet business of forgetting he ever existed.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

The Other Side of the Deck

Jack: "What is this?" [Points to box on dining table.]

Me: "That's the Gummy Bear Tarot. But it's not for me. I'm going to a birthday party on Saturday..."

Jack: "Oh, okay."

Me: "... for a four-year-old."

Jack: "I'm sorry, what?"

Me: "It's totally cool. He's Co-Witch K.'s kid."

Jack: "Why are you giving Tarot cards to a four-year-old?"

Me: "It's not like I didn't clear it with his mom first. Geez."

Jack: "You didn't answer the question."

Me: "Well, see, last year he sort of spontaneously started reading playing cards, so I figured this would be a good transitional deck for him."

Jack: " ... "

Me: "But I'm not going to tell him they're Tarot cards. I'm going to say that they're cards that will help him tell stories. Isn't that clever?"

Jack: "I need you to please stop talking now."

Me: "I'm just saying that if someone had given me Tarot cards when I turned four, I would've been very appreciative."

Jack: "Please?"

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

You still have your testicles. Now let go of them.

I don't know if I somehow screwed up my Karma, or if the Gods are playing a practical joke on me, or what the hell is going on right now. But for some reason, I can't set foot in an online forum these days without going head to head with a Men's Rights Activist. An "MRA," as the kids like to say.

Because white men between the ages of 18 and 35 are so very oppressed in our culture. Apparently. The poor dears.

Allow me to share a few general observations.

If you're an MRA, you're ignorant.

If you're a Pagan MRA, you're dead to me.

If you're a gay Pagan MRA, then what the fuck is wrong with you. And please note that this is a statement, not a question.

To sum up: If you identify, for whatever reason, as an MRA (and I really hate to say this, on account of the irony will be a distraction), you have Mommy issues.

And I'm sorry about that; I'm so very, very sorry. But you do. At some critical point in your emotional development, Mommy was unkind. Or Mommy had another baby, or went back to work, or wouldn't let you have the car keys just this one time. Or Mommy suggested that, at the age of 47, you might want to consider moving out of her basement.

Whatever the traumatic event that was instrumental in shaping Who It Is You Are Today... you have Mommy issues.

And again, I'm sorry, but agreed? Good. Now please get over them. Or, at the very least, stop dumping them over the rest of us, because here's the thing: While your existence is ultimately irrelevant, I cannot begin to describe how uselessly annoying you are.