Here's the newest in urinal concepts. Congrats to award-winning, South Korean designer Yeongwoo Kim. He'd like for you to pee in the sink and wash your hands at the toilet. Seriously. Well, kind of.
The concept is as ingenious as it is simple. Both the sink and the urinal use the same plumbing. The water draining from the sink acts as the flush in the urinal below. This configuration saves water (and space) and encourages hand washing.
I don't know. I like the concept, but the implementation seems a little delicate to me. Not sure how effective the execution would be in a real-world scenario. This might work at the opera house. But all advances in urinal technology should undergo testing at the men's room under the bleacher seats at Fenway Park. If they can take it there...
Reaction on-line is mixed. Some love the style, others are concerned about "splashback." And yes, ladies, it's a real problem. Trust me.
That's my mother's expression when she's in a state of total frustration and exasperation. Funnier if you knew that my mother's annual alcohol consumption is three sips of wine on Christmas Eve. What she'd do with a whiskey sour under her belt terrifies the imagination.
Today was a "if I were a drinking man . . . " day. Okay, I am a drinking man, but you get the point.
First disaster o' the day: This afternoon, I headed out to a shopping mall to meet some friends for a movie. On the way to meet up, I went from not very hungry to starved in a flash. With ten minutes to spare before meeting my friends, I ducked into the mall food court. I needed the fastest of fast food.
Oh, God, I won't respect myself in the morning, but I hit McDonald's. Who, me? I'm such a food snob. I campaign and complain against McDonald's: It's not good, it's a nutritional nightmare, it's responsible for America's girth. But, I wanted it--that it was the fastest-moving line was a bonus.
While tearing through a Happy Meal, I looked across the food court, and who should appear but a boyfriend from a few years ago. He didn't see me, and I wanted to keep it that way. He's not a bad guy, but he sucks the energy right out of me. Worse, he was looking pretty sleek and buff. Worse still, he was with a boyfriend or at least a date. Strictly speaking, I can state that it was another guy. But I didn't recognize him, they looked happy and they were toting matching Banana Republic shopping bags. Gay men x happiness glances + Banana Republic sale = date.
I kept my eyes peeled as they started to come through the food court. I'm not jealous about ex-BF, but I just didn't care to deal with it. Luckily, with a bit of shifting in my seat, I could block the view by keeping the kiosk with the map of the mall between us.
I didn't feel like talking, meeting his friend, being late for my friends, and, most of all, didn't want to talk to vegan ex-BF while stuffing my face with a Happy Meal. I destroyed most of the evidence at the trash can, the white bag of small fries over my face looking like an oxygen mask.
SG, how can I go from being a reasonably confident guy to a junior high boy so quickly?
Disaster o' the day two: Wait, wait, it's a Ghee Whiz story. Movie's over, and I hit the men's room. The urinal I step up to looks fuller than it should, but a line was forming. I'm doing my business when the man next to me finishes up, zips, and leaves, setting off the motion sensor on my urinal. The urinal churns and fills . . . and fills . . . and shows no sign of stopping. The water--and piss--is only a hair below the rim, ready to spill over.
I jumped back and away from the coming flood. Problem being, my instinctive sanitary survival hop meant I didn't zip up first. Yep, me with my stuff fulling hanging out, jumping back and left and flopping in full view of a standing-room-only men's room.
Hope you are enjoying your vacation. It's boring here without you.
So boring, in fact, that I've been on a cleaning frenzy. First my office at work, then attacking some stacks of paper at home. I've moved to cleaning out my e-mail in-box and bookmarks, where I found some news gems that I had squirreled away as blog fodder. A few of them are old but still good, including this one.
There's a restaurant chef making cheese out of his wife's breast milk. Yep, it's true. Read about it. He didn't want to waste his wife's excess breast milk. My mommy friends have mentioned "pump and dump" but never "pump and curdle."
Here's the definition of cheese: "Cheese is the curdled milk of sheep, goats, cows or other mammals." Are women mammals? Check.
Given the definition, why wouldn't we make breast milk cheese? It's perfectly natural, as in made in/by nature. What is cow's milk but breast milk from a cow? The cow's breast is quite a bit larger than that of the girl next door, but it's the same idea. My dad grew up on a dairy farm, but I'll pass on reaching out to him to get his dairy husbandry expertise.
Would I eat human breast milk cheese? I'm not sure. And I'm not sure why I'm not sure. I guess I would. Once.
SG, would you eat it? Slap it between two burger patties and top it with bacon? Or, no whey?
Readers: How would you answer my "Got Cheese?" quandary?
I'm mostly interested in how well this sold in the restaurant, which is located in NY's Chelsea neighborhood -- probably the gayest neighborhood in the U.S. Not a lot of recent experience with breasts and nipples in that 'hood.
I guess Dear Abby has been running a series on standards of appropriate dress. But here's an example of the ultimate in straight guy self-centeredness:
"DEAR ABBY: Hooray for "Can't Believe's" comments on cleavage at businesses and schools, but I'm more disturbed by the number of women -- young and not so young -- who show way too much in church. I'm a guy who appreciates God's handiwork, but please, ladies, don't showcase it in the pews."
Poor guy can't get through the day's sermon on the dangers of coveting, because he's too busy coveting. Don't these women know that this man's impure thoughts are their problem, not his?
Face it, we're all at least a little insecure about our bodies. We're mere mortals, not underwear models. No one in the contact list in my cell is sporting single-digit body fat. (The summer intern in our office . . . okay, so that's less than 10 percent, but he's 22.)
Gay Guy has some mid-zone to lose. The scale readings and the lone pair of trousers that still fit comfortably have been bothering me for a while and so, at least in theory, I've been trying to watch what I eat to drop the poundage that wrestles and wriggles over my belt like a koi in a fish pond.
(My goal would be more efficiently accomplished if I vowed to act with resolve before I ate that stack of Pepperidge Farm cookies, not after.)
But, we accept, we deny, we delude, we figure out how to live with ourselves and just keep going, right? Do we need to spank ourselves? Or do I mean Spanx ourselves?
I love today's Washington Post article about "men's shapewear," the delicate-as-fine-china term coined by the men's delusion. . . err . . . fashion industry. Basically, were talking about girdles for men that pack and smush excess flesh, transforming chunk to hunk in seconds. They are "compression shirts" that squeeze the rolling hills and valleys of a beer belly and moobs into a Mojave Desert of flatness.
This has been coming on for a while. I'd noticed tight, gym-like T-shirts started popping up in public at least five years ago. Form-fitting shirts in which the spandex/natural fibers battle left cotton eating dust. I don't know that those T-shirts were officially in the "compression" zone, but word is they helped cover "problem areas." If those shirts were supposed to be hiding problem areas, I'd ask for my money back. Unless you have a hot bod, they only broadcast problem areas. (Only looking directly at an eclipse is more painful than looking at a too-tight shirt on a too-loose man.)
They can't be comfortable. I've never had anything like it on my body, not even bike shorts, so I don't know. Maybe you get used to it. I love how the Post referred to Spanx as "undershirts that fit and feel like a wet suit." And this description of trying on a compression shirt: "We discovered it's not a T-shirt and it will snap back like a rubber band if you stretch it. We banged our nose trying to pull it over our head."
Besides the look and feel problem, here are Gay Guy's nagging questions: 1.) Isn't this in the same bucket as stuffing a socking down your underwear to impersonate a better bulge? The stuff has to come off and the truth has to come out sooner or later, right? 2.) Where does the flab go under pressure? Up into the neck? Down into the toes? It's like my question, "Where do the valet parking attendants put your car if the reason you are using valet parking is that there is nowhere to park?"
Until I get good answers, I'll keep banging away at the treadmill and hope to break up with Pepperidge Farm Gingerbread Men. Or, like Scarlett O'Hara, I'll just eat like a bird until I can corset myself into a 17-inch-waist dress.
Richie Hayward, one of the founding members of the zydeco-infused rock band Little Feat, died last week. I was a fan. Not a fanatic, but a fan. The band has been through many lineups over the years, so I'm sure the magic will continue.
I don't know if I ever told you that I once won a contest from the band. Back in the mid-80s, I entered a drawing by dropping my name into a box at a Strawberries record store in Boston. Just about when I had forgotten all about it, a local DJ called me on the air to tell me I had won the grand prize, which included a shopping spree at a record store and tickets to a concert later that day.
My friends also heard the news and it seemed like a big deal. The spree was set for an early Sunday morning, which coincided with the daylight savings switch, so in the end only a few of my friends showed. The radio station promotions guy was a stoner and even less happy about the early start time. He was obviously a wannabe rocker, and the promo gig at a rock station was probably as close as he'd ever get.
So there was a small crowd, but everyone was excited to see my dash. I had the duration of the band's Let It Roll song to grab as much Strawberries merchandise as I could carry to the register. The limitation was that I couldn't set anything down.
The smart thing would have been to use this golden opportunity to launch a killer CD collection. But I was a college kid up early and not thinking straight. So I grabbed dozens of cassettes, which were still my format of choice. I crammed them into every available crevice as I waddled through the store, trying to find the good stuff. I also took a few requests from the friends that did show that morning. I was willing to share. A little.
My shirt, pants, and arms were full long before the song came to a close. It was a great haul and a lot of fun. I can't remember all of the selections, but the big names from 80s rock were well represented... Talking Heads, The Police, The Cars, Elvis Costello. There were also a few guilty pleasures and one hit wonders thrown in there, too. I can't remember them as well, but let's just say Scritti Politti was in the mix and move on. When they counted them up, I had over 50 items but many of them were sets or collections. I was thrilled and splurged on cab to get it all back to my apartment.
The stoner station rep stood me up at the concert, though. I had to beg the theater manager to let me (and the girl I was failing to impress) in from the rain. After a phone call or two, he came through with some good seats. Somehow he let the band know, because they gave me a mispronounced shoutout before their encore set, which closed with Let It Roll.
--Straight Guy
Readers: I'm traveling right now, so I can't post any art, movies, or links. But if you're partial to southern rock, check out Little Feat on Google or YouTube.
In your July 13 post about ultra-macho film The Expendables you worried that --given that it was opening the same weekend as Eat.Pray.Love.--if the chick flick beat out the testosterone-fueled destructo boy movie, you feel a nip to your testicles.
Fear not. The Expendables led the Top 10 chart, but not by a huge margin. You still deserve to be a man, at least for this week.
Fellow blogger and regular GG/SG commenter Kathryn features a great interview with author Lucille O'Neal on her site, The Internal Makeover. Check in to listen to Kathryn's interview.
Lucille O'Neal is Shaquille's mom and the author of Walk Like You Have Somewhere to Go. The title is already giving me better advice about life than "Eat, Pray, Love," though I only practiced the "Eat" part.
Kathryn had a book give-away of some copies of Walk Like You Have Somewhere to Go, and Gay Guy's name got drawn at random. I am a winner!
Is it true that the sound of running water can magnify the pressure of a full bladder?
I have no idea. But when you unzip in front of a four foot wide waterfall, you may not have a choice.
This photo is from the men's room at the Madonna Inn, just off the 101 in San Luis Obispo, CA. It's ground zero for kitsch on the west coast, so I assume your team is familiar. The lobby is filled with pink roses and each guest room is themed. I was hoping the steak house would be a haven for straight guys, but alas, it's upholstered in hot pink.
According to wikipedia, "Its famed rock waterfall urinal is a fixture along California's Central Coast. Many tourists come to visit the urinal, to the embarrassment of males who genuinely need to use the facilities."
Tell you what. If we ever get a project in Lompoc or Cambria, we'll check it out together.
--Straight Guy
Photo courtesy of getdown on flickr. See previous entries in the Gee Whiz series.
Check out these photos: Which pair of footwear makes sense for a picnic?
I was at a picnic last weekend. The group was all gays and lesbians. Folks were relaxed and just letting their hair down.
One guy in the group does drag. He came to the picnic in his "civvies," but when you're a drag queen, there's no such thing as leaving the house completely free of accessories.
For me, a picnic means Tevas or sneakers. For him, its kitten heels with rhinestone-studded straps. (Don't ask me how I know what a kitten heel is.)
I'm an open-minded guy, so what do I care. That is until he started tottering around the uneven tree-root riddled ground of the picnic site. It was comical until the got close to the hot grills. I shooed him away. It had bad ending written all over it.
I don't know how this happened, but I didn't spend any money today.
I used my bus pass. Was late for a meeting first thing at work, so drank office coffee (and appear to be none the worse for it). It was clean up day, so the office brought in pizza for lunch. No fear of afternoon munchies, because the office provided crack-like snacks. Made dinner from food in the freezer. Did laundry and read.
Not one dime.
Not gay, not straight. Just weird. Good weird, I guess.
Not being a good American, though. I know my country needs me to do better to help us out of these economic doldrums I know I can do better tomorrow.
I only have time for a quick news brief today... Important stuff, though.
This is a photo from a British bachelor party gone wrong. The gentlemen involved decided to celebrate the upcoming nuptials by chartering a fishing boat for the afternoon. Good idea.
While out on the high seas they decided that the trip would be more enjoyable in the nude. Bad idea.
The photo was captured by an RAF helicopter called to investigate the goings on. There's some blurry video on The Sun's site, but don't get your hopes up, GG.
I once had a fishing hook snared in my leg and had to push it through and cut off the barb before I could remove it. Ouch. As a kid, my brother was also once hooked in the top of his ear.
So, fishing in the nude (and the additional risks inherent therein) would NOT be on my list of recommended activities.
How these guys got so mixed up on the traditional use of nudity at a bachelor party, I'm not so sure. If you don't want strippers involved, that's a reasonable decision. My own bachelor party was a shameful farce. (Readers: GG claims to have have been the only voice of reason on the planning committee -- thanks for trying, GG.)
About the ONLY thing that could have made that day any worse would have been an afternoon of nudity with my guy friends and future brothers-in-law. Even an extremely high blood alcohol level wouldn't have changed my mind about that.
A federal judge has ruled to overturn California's same-sex marriage ban. Read: Prop 8 is overturned.
The language: Proposition 8 "fails to advance any rational basis in singling out gay men and lesbians for denial of a marriage license. Indeed, the evidence shows Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California Constitution the notion that opposite-sex couples are superior to same-sex couples."
Rock it, Your Honor!
Does this mean I need to follow through with sending my California friends that wedding present now?
"This double-walled do-it-all lets you have it both ways. Elegant wine stem on the inside, manly beer stein on the outside, it's a glass for all reasons."
Still confused? Good. It's a metaphor for... something.
Probably not on your radar, but over the weekend, Slate reposted it's tongue-in-cheek essay, "A Dandy's Guide to Girl-Watching." [link]
Author Troy Patterson claims, "Despite all the many philosophical inquiries into beauty since the Greeks and into sidewalk scenes since Baudelaire, there is an acute shortage of discourse on the subject of checking out hot chicks, a silence all the more appalling because they are famously difficult to ignore."
He references a decade old (and famously lewd) NY Observer piece on the joys of summer skin and spandex. That article claims that men "are blithering dopes who find themselves in constant hummana-hummana mode all summer long. The women claim they're dressing for comfort and they seem perfectly oblivious to the intense effect they produce in the men, who fall instantly and hopelessly in love with every woman who approaches, only to pass out of their lives forever."
Wow. Hyperbole much?
That's overstating it a bit. Not all women are oblivious to their effect, and not all men are hopeless. Well, most of us aren't. There are still a few cavemen on the prowl. In a previous post, I agreed that catcalling is harassment -- and that it originates only from the most immature and insecure men.
Beauty is out there, but what's to be gained by making the beautiful uncomfortable?
A dandy, of course, is overly concerned about appearances and appropriateness, so crossing the line between noticing and ogling is strictly prohibited. Patterson says "the most correct girl-watcher apprehends passing loveliness in a sunny flutter -- as a series of little thrills to the soul."
Besides, it doesn't have to be demeaning -- to either side. "To be a gazer, some say, is to place oneself superior to the gazed, which works fine as a tenet of film theory and feels notably more dubious as a premise of girl-watching analysis. ... It is the nature of beauty that the girl-watcher is helpless before the wonders of nature."
Go for it, dude. Any thoughts on "JUICY" short-shorts, while you're waxing poetic?
Yes, the relationship between the subject and object of desire can be complicated by the rules of society. Thank goodness. Otherwise, the whole world becomes an episode of Jersey Shore.
I'll say no more than this: I'm glad that my internal dialog stays internal. My guess is that most of our readers (men and women) feel the same way.
Gay Guy,
