1.5 Marg-ur-itas

1.5 marguritas to send off a coworker to greener pastures (still irrigated by imported water from a non-sustainable source)...but greener pastures none-the-less.

and now I have Bruce Springsteen's My Hometown on repeat. But right now, it's not REALLY on repeat in that it is still on the first play. So the mantra has only started. My hometown has not yet obsessed me. But I did talk to two DC-area transplants today, one of whom still owns a 2BR place in capitol hill that has more than quadrupled in value since she bought it in the late 1990s. You go girl!

but talking about money and real estate is so boring and predictable, especially with regard to DC. The song just started it's second spin. My hometown. My hometown.

i went to a rainbow flag raising yesterday on campus. it was a sweet ceremony meant to mark some relevant flag/fag anniversary, but I am not sure which one. But it was not your average flag raising. The flag raising was performed by a hunky hot guy in a hard hat and jeans tight in all the right places. Why? Because the flag poles are supposedly drunk-asshole protected in that the place where you "do the mashed potato" with your hands in order to raise or lower the flag is 20 feet above the ground. That's the drunk-asshole-protected part (drunk-asshole-pole-jumpers not withstanding). And that means that when the fags want to raise the rainbow flag, they have to enlist the help of a hot hunky guy from the tree cutting crew who rides in a big white cherry picker. (Insert sex-related cherry joke here. Insert rides-something-big-and-white jokes here.)

the event was very nice, but also bizzare. From tremendous wedgies, to pleated pants from hell, to linen that should be forbidden, this was no Queer Eye back-up cast. I rode my bike to the event, and stood straddling my bike throughout the event, quietly reveling in the gentle tickle of my scrotum brushing past the bike's horizontal bar as my balls waved in the wind, seemingly synchronized with the waving rainbow flag overhead.