You do realize that you’ve just handed me a loaded paintball gun, right?

Hey, I just got those pictures back, hoo boy! I had no idea how many people could get in that fountain at Legislative Plaza. My attorney called, he said he’s pretty sure he can get us cleared.

Les probably doesn’t remember the time (it’s got to be going on five years now) I ran into him at DFW.  I was just debarking from the world’s worst American Airlines flight, and saw him walking down the concourse, pulling one of those duffel-bags-with-wheels behind him.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember his name.  But I knew that picture too well.

“Bastard!” I shouted, without thinking.  “Stupid Evil Bastard!”

Airports don’t get quiet, but a lot of people stopped talking and looked at me.  “That’s—uh --”

How to explain blogging in thirty seconds, I wondered.

Fortunately, Les was quicker on the uptake than me. He’d heard me, looked my direction, and shouted “Three-Star Dave!  I’ll be damned!”

That managed to defuse the crowd, and deter the security guy heading our way, though the gate attendant shot me a dirty look anyway.

And so we had a couple of horrifically overpriced beers (and loud laughs), before I headed on to Houston and he finished his trip back to Detroit.

I’ll never forget it.  Seems like only yesterday ...

Then there was the time where Les, his wife and I got seriously anachronistic at a Renaissance Faire outside of Hoboken ... I haven’t touched mead since.

But Les DOES look great in tights.

And this one time, at Band Camp,...Les, I never knew you could play the flute!

It feels like only yesterday when Les and I used to go out for drinks at the local bar. We’d shoot the shit, talk about our recent adventures in the blogosphere.

Unfortunately it all came to an end when Les asked me back to his house. I followed, expecting a bunch of people. I instead found a group of underpaid, overworked immigrants chained to typewriters typing out his next entry.

I thought to myself, “I knew he couldn’t have written them all himself,” turned around and walked out the door.

I promised to never tell anyone, but he did ask for a secret.

And I’ll tell you, I’ve never forgotten that day where Les convinced the Pope that Michelangelo was a hack and the Sistine Chapel should be painted over. And in front of the Italian press, too. Man, RAI had a field day with that one. We nearly got kicked out of the country, but because of Les’ charm and masterful grasp of Italian rhetoric, we managed to escape to Switzerland.

...and THAT story is one all its own…

Les, remember the other day when you dropped your pen in the hall on the way to that 2 o’clock meeting? I was the woman behind you at the drinking fountain. I watched you pick up your pen thinking to myself, “that Les is a Stupid Evil Bastard but his ass sure looks great in those chinos”.

This was four years ago and I was still living in Dallas, working nights as a stripper at a gay club there called “JR’S”. Les was in town that weekend for a Star Trek convention at the Anatole and he called me from his room, inviting me to drop by for a drink. I explained that I only had a couple of hours before I needed to make my shift at the bar, then hung up the phone and proceeded to meet him at the hotel.

To say that we only had a couple of drinks would be to tell a lie. Les was in a stupid, somewhat evil, mood and had me doing Jägermeister shots within twenty minutes of entering the bar. After about an hour and a half of heavy drinking, I was seriously beginning to doubt that I could make it to work now and told Les this. He laughed and said “Don’t worry, you’ll make it if I have to carry you there and you’ll put on the best show you’ve ever given.”

“Ok, I slurred, “but we’d better leave now because if we wait any longer I’m gonna pass out first.”

The next thing I remember, I was laying on a couch in the changing room, listening to the raucous sounds of hundreds of gay men shouting in unison “Take it off! Take it ALL off!”

I struggled to my feet, stepped over a book titled “Stripping For Dummies” and peered out the door into the wings of the stage, certain that I had been replaced. I had been - for the night, at least - by Les!

“Les” I shouted. “What are you doing? This isn’t YOU!” and was muffled as a newly shed lycra thong flew from the stage and into my face.

When I look back on that weekend, I’m convinced that what happened was simply a phase he was going through. When I think of male exotic dancers I don’t necessarily think of Les. Not that you wouldn’t give your eye his candy, it’s simply that he’s usually too reserved and geeky for me to successfully imagine him comfortable in a thong, dancing for a crowd to remixed strains of “It‘s Raining Men“.

Oh man! If I laugh any harder I’m going to hurt myself!

ME: So, when we start blogging, who’s gonna get the use of the name?
SEB: Huh? What the fuck are you talking about, Les?
ME: Uhhh, Les, we both can’t blog as “Les"… people would be confused.
SEB: Fuck. Why didn’t I think of that?
ME: ‘cuz you’re a stupid bastard, Les.
SEB: Oh yeah!
ME: Rock, paper, scissors like we did over that redhead in Cleveland? Remember? The one with the big…
SEB: Oh yeah!
ME: OK, here we go… 1...2...3… ROCK!
SEB: PAPER! Ha! I win! I get to be Les. You have to call yourself Solonor or some shit.
ME: You’re a stupid evil bastard, ya know that?
SEB: Yes. Yes I am. SOLONOR! *giggle*

There I was, at The Circus Of Books, looking over the latest issue of ‘Bird Fancy’ when my husband elbowed me in the ribs sharply.  “maryh,” he hissed, “Isn’t that Les of StupidEvilBastard standing next to you?” I glanced over at the gent wearing the leather chaps, cycle boots and chains (and nothing else!) and sure enough, there stood my favorite atheist.
“Oh my stars and garters!” I whispered.  “You’re correct, as usual, Master. Let us flee this place!” As we rushed away, I’m afraid I may have nudged Les, because as we passed the checkout counter (Hub Steve needed to purchase a copy of ‘Sometimes It’s Just A Cigar Aficionado’) I looked back and saw poor Les, struggling against the second tier of the magazine rack with a copy of ‘Scrapbookin’ Quarterly’ impaled upon his pestle.
I’ll never forget that night.  For that was the night I accepted Rev. Moon as my One True Parent.

(Just in case you’ve ever considered accepting Rev. Moon as YOUR One True Parent, you might want to look at this site:)
http://www.gorenfeld.net/blog/

Damn, maryh, remind me why we’re not married yet???

‘Cuz that durn Dubya won’t let us git a license!
Also, because we’re both married, and also because we’ve never met. 
But why let that stop us?!!!
It’s them libruls, always blockin’ the road to happiness.  I blame Billary!!  (Sorry, I just heard such a whacked-out political screed while I was in line at Trader Joes the other day that I can’t help repeating variations on it.)
BTW, I love your blog!

Les, I remember it well…
You wore pink chiffon, hang on...that was me.
You sang Burt Bacharach...or was it Guns n Roses?
I rubbed baby oil on your head…

You stood in the middle of Times Square, tears streaming down your face and declared your love for all men and women of this planet.

What a beautiful day that was…

Well, we were just kids, 12 or 13 maybe, and I had a tent set up in my back yard. We were being knights and pirates (We didn’t know that doesn’t go well together!) and Les’ mom made him go home early for dinner, and stay in for the night.
He thought that his little rights were being violated, so as soon as he was put to bed, he snuck out in his pirate cloak & hat costume and his pyjamas.
I too snuck out of the house, and took turns playing hapless princess and evil knight.
Unbeknownst to Les, he’d torn out the bum on his jammie pants hopping the fence into my yard.
I didn’t bother to mention it because he’d have gotten all embarrassed and left.
Well after midnight, still battling and sailing, we heard calling, and knew for sure we were caught. Les’ mom cleared the fence faster and with much more agility than he ever had, with a fearsome expression on her face.
Les thought he might dive for a hiding spot in the tent, but side by side in horror, I was standing on his cloak, wich pulled off just in time to give his mom a full moon view of his backside.
She hollered, “LESTER EMMANNUEL JENKINS, you get your bare ass home right now! WE have been worried SICK”
That was our very last late night game of Pirates & knights.
The Police & Fire game was more fun at night anyway.