There was more in the way of no power. Or less, I suppose. On Sunday morning. I had a brief yet intense NO COFFEE panic. But Deb made it all better. Of course. She revved up the gas stove and put on an old fashioned percolator we got from my grandmother's house a long time ago. Then she whipped up French toast instead of waffles. And ... it was bacon day. Oh, yeah.

After breakfast, and after I washed dishes and vacuumed the house, we all headed off to the Thrashers hockey game. Except when we got there, they were sold out of everything under $90 dollars. We had these $24 nosebleed seat coupons. Last game of the season. We've been making noise about going to a game all spring and never did it. Ah, well. It's just ... who would've thought such a sucky team would sell out Philips Arena? The Atlanta Glory couldn't even fill up the Morehouse gymnasium. The Glory, for those of you who missed out, was Atlanta's American Basketball League team. That was the REAL women's league, before the WNBA stuck it's money-dripping, TV-coverage-getting, Nike-sponsored, special-rules-following, smaller-basketball-using nose into things. But I'm not bitter.

Okay. So we didn't want to see the Losers ... I mean the Thrashers ... enough to pay the difference between our coupons and the corporate fatcat seats, so we hung out at CNN Center and ate fast food, just to make it worth the train trip. Deb, Jake, and I took a turn through the Turner Store while Sara browsed through Bored & Noodle's. I'm tellin' ya, I just don't see why anyone would really want to invest in CNN-wear. Unless you're planning on posing as a journalist to get chicks. Which would kind of be like dressing up like Rush Limbaugh to get chicks.

The most shocking discovery is that among all the crap and clutter featuring the likenesses of Johnny Bravo and the Power Puff Girls and Samurai Jack and Dexter, there is WAY NOT ENOUGH crap with Space Ghost on it. A key chain. That's it. A stinking key chain Space Ghost gets. The freakin' hero of the goddam universe and all he gets is a lousy key chain? There's no Brak stuff. No Moltar stuff. No Zorak stuff! There should be frigging POSTERS OF GEORGE LOWE (the genius voice talent of Space Ghost) and cuddly stuffed Brak (voice unknown, but possibly done by Jake) toys! There should be Zorak bottle openers that say "I hate you" when you crack open a cool one! There should be tapes of all the episodes! What a waste of retail space.

Dear Ted,
Bring back "Space Ghost Coast to Coast." And for the love of God, please think about what you're saying before you let it spill out of your mouth once in a while. Jesus.
Love,
Badsnake

Sunday night we watched "Southern Comfort," a documentary on HBO that features some folks we know. Touching and sad. Made me want to go to the Southern Comfort Conference again this fall. The film won an award and Sundance and it's getting a lot of attention now. If you ever see it, here's my brush with the film's featured folks. Maxwell and I were hitting on the same woman (Heather, a then-coworker of mine who was wearing a foam green lace dress with not much on under it at the time) at one of Lola's parties a few years ago. And I met Robert a couple times but didn't know him well. And Deb and I had Lola give us an estimate on our central air installation, but I wanted a different brand of AC unit than the ones she carries. Anyway. My brush with fame. The film is wonderful, but really sad. I recommend it highly.

Molly wants to know how the fuck I can get into a sub's headspace so well, and then went on and on in a really flattering way about that little fantasy I posted on Saturday. You guys are so good for my ego. I'm thinking that now is a good time to point out that you, wonderful babes that you are, give me way too much credit sometimes. You're all, "Bad, you're so hot," and "Bad, please do me," and "Bad, you're the sexiest thing since sliced bread if sliced bread were something that was really, really sexy, though unfortunately it's not." But I'm not by myself up in that attic, you know?

All of these fantasies and scenes that we do come largely from Sara's imagination. She's an incredible, inventive lover, and we've spent a lot of time talking about what turns us on. I pay attention when she's telling me what makes her squirm and tremble and shudder and wet. And they usually happen to be things that get me off in a big way, too. And together we make up scenes that incorporate our kinks and fetishes. So, some credit where credit is due. I don't understand why there aren't men and butches out there clamoring to do Sara. But, hey. More for me. Heh.