I sent out a press release this past week. I offered to give NFL quarterback Kyle Boller a free pre-nuptial agreement, prior to his marriage to that ill-fated beauty queen Carrie Prejean, and I offered to do his eventual divorce from her for free.
This week marks the end of what has become globally Gay and Lesbian Pride Month. It started out, a long, long time ago (at least in gay years!) in 1969 as a rebellion against the terrorism of police brutality in New York at the Stonewall Inn.
Bustles and bonnets. Top hats and spats. Chamber pots and rotary phones. What do these things have in common? They have all gone the way of the horse and buggy.
I never really knew my father. Well, let me be clearer. I know who he was. He lived with me until I was 12, and then I lived with him on summer vacations and such.
Men are such beasts. At least, that is the conventional wisdom. We are considered to be smelly, brutish, crude creatures who know only the satisfaction of carnal pleasures.
I had lunch last week with a friend at The Lazy Daisy cafe. He’d been through the wringer over a child custody case and shared with me his experiences with the meat grinder of family court in the years before he knew me.
It’s that weekend again. The one where we barbecue lots of burgers, work on our tans, enjoy the bounty that Wal-Mart has to offer and bask in the glow of the coming summer months.
Boobies, ta tas, hooters, bongos. You know what I’m talking about. We likely have as many euphemisms for the female breasts as there are nouns in the English language.
“I want you to keep it local.” That’s what my editor says. I do my best, but the problem is that sometimes, and with increasing frequency as the world becomes smaller, it’s all local.
I was called a fag again. Actually, it was something much worse but I don’t want to have to subject you to such hatred. It was jarring to me because usually my hate mail is a bit more intelligent.
Lawyers are expensive, and scary, but we really protect our client’s rights. Most lawyers take their job, and their responsibilities, very seriously. It can be extremely challenging at times, particularly in child custody cases.
I remember my first oyster. I was maybe 6. It was the fall. I know that because I can still picture my mom in this short, black coat she loved to wear.
