Tattoo parlor in the Mission. Duke offered to be their mascot.

The cyclops were giants with a single large eye (their name literally means "round eye"). Born of Heaven and Earth, they were imprisoned in the bowels of the earth until rescued by Zeus when he overthrew his father and the other titans.

Because the cyclopes were metal workers and blacksmiths, they gave Zeus thunder and lightning, which became his weapons of choice. Poseidon was presented with his trident, Apollo got a bow and arrows made of sunlight, while his twin Artemis got arrows of moonlight, and God of Death Hades got the awesomely named Helmet of Darkness.

Odysseus had a famous encounter with a cyclops on his journey home from the Trojan War. The poor cyclops was blinded with a sharpened stick heated in the embers of a fire -- just imagine that sickening sound of melting eyeball.

I suppose Polyphemus deserved it -- the big guy was grabbing Odysseus' men, slamming them onto the ground to kill them, then popping 'em in his mouth as tasty snacks.

I watched an awesome History Channel show about the origins of various mythological creatures, and one of the coolest theories is that cyclops were thought to have been inspired by mastodon skulls -- the big hole in the center of the forehead looks an awful lot like a giant eye socket, doesn't it?

That last one didn't work right, so today's a twofer.

Duke took this shot at the bus stop. Notice the spider in the center of the pic. Pretty effin' rad, eh?

Another shot of the lighthouse at the end of Golden Gate Park.

It's showing up postage stamp-sized. Isn't that adorable?

It's no secret that i'm OBSESSED with Peter Michaelfi.

Here's the latest of his misadventures:

I had a sleep study last night and it sucked.  An Indian man knocks on the hotel door at 10pm and takes 40 min to wire me up to a million wires. glue and clay were used. It was uncomfortable. I had dreams that he was coming in and taking my covers off. It wasn't true, but it seemed real.  I also dreamt about fatty. ick.  George St. George was his new whore and was painting his house. He was painting over crushed velvet!  why???

Can anyone help him out with that?
My theory: It dreamed that 'cause it wants to be molested. I'm not sure about the George St. George/crushed velvet part, though...

Who excused himself from the table at Harmony Cafe to pleasure himself in the bathroom...only to return about one minute later?

"I can do it in 30 seconds," he was heard to say. "I've got it down to a science."

I've found that the best thing to do for Valentine's Day is something that most assuredly does NOT involve going to a crowded restaurant. With the ex, we decided we should do the opposite of what most people would do (i.e., romantical restaurant). So our tradition became going to Devon Avenue, Chicago's Indian neighborhood, and having yummy vegetarian eats at Udupi Palace.

Duke and i, though, came up with an even better plan: Every VD, we treat ourselves to massages at Sir Spa. It's nice 'cause that way we don't have to worry about gifts, either -- though we always exchange cards, and i snuck in an iTunes gift card 'cause that's just the kind of guy i am. There's just nothing like having the knots worked out of your back and shoulder and legs, and having your carpal tunnel-ridden wrists soothed. For days afterward, we feel absolutely incredible. In the past, both of us have had masseurs who do deep-tissue massages and i've had to breathe through the pain. So, believe me -- arousal is the last thing on my mind.

This dude, though, had a gentler touch. He worked out the knots, so that part hurt -- but otherwise, it was pretty relaxing. And toward the end, when i was on my back, he was tucking the sheet over my crotch and rubbing down my upper leg...and, well...you can guess where this is going.......it moved. Like George Costanza. It moved; i'm almost sure of it.

Now, before you go thinking i got a happy ending, i can assure you that this is a reputable operation. (It's funny, though: One of Duke's coworkers asked if he got a happy ending and Duke was all, Of course not! and the dude was all, I've never had a massage when i DIDN'T have a happy ending!)

I think there's more of an endorphin rush when you have a deep-tissue (i.e., PAINFUL) massage, so we didn't feel the intense high we usually do. Still, man, oh man, did it feel good.

We planned on going to Frida's up the street -- it's a newish Mexican joint, with portraits of Frida Kahlo all over the brightly painted walls, and even though Duke had tried to make a reservation earlier in the week and they insisted it'd be no problem getting a table for two, but the small space is crowded with people waiting to get a table, so Duke suggests that new Tapas Las Ramblas place, and we head there and get a spot right away, and our waitress is absolutely adorable and i make Duke get a liter of sangria even though he thinks it's too sweet, and we have tons of delicious nibblies -- calamari, garlic shrimp, artichoke hearts stuffed with crabmeat, warm goat cheese, caramel bananas -- and we've got a nice buzz going and my stomach is delightfully stuffed, and i'm glad it worked out like this.

Surfer on Ocean Beach.

"Is it your birthday?" i ask Holiday.

"No," she says.

"Good!" i exclaim. "You can't celebrate your unbirthday if it's your actual birthday!"

And i hand her a loaf a bread. It's a bit lopsided, the poor thing, but it was Duke's first attempt. He got some special flour to make it, and i can't remember exactly what kind it was, but i call it Salmonella Bread. It's kind of English muffiny. He made two loaves, and i figured one would get stale if it was left at our house, so we gave it to Holiday, where she and her roomies could eat it all day like poor people.

That evening we treat Holiday to dinner at Dib, and she regales us with stories of crazy Pause customers. Then we head up to Ollie's for drinks, and we sit in the booth in the window and it's such a step back in time -- there are dusty placemats of Cubs players from before Holiday was even born pinned to the wood paneling -- and the sign by the door reads, "NEW DRESS CODE. NO PANTS BELOW THE WAIST OR YOU WILL NOT BE ALLOWED IN" and some dude comes over to us and keeps asking if we're with the theater group by the el stop, and he just can't seem to get it through his head that no, we're not actors -- i guess it just doesn't compute why three Whities would be hanging at Ollie's -- and at one point i go outside and smoke my one-hitter in the playground next door, and it's a nice night out and luckily no one passes by, and i call Catty and he's with the beau and Nigel and Michael at the (Un)Lucky (W)Horeshoe, and even though i had been trying to convince them to come to Ollie's, now i'm regretting it -- the last thing we need is a group of loud drunken honky fags at a predominantly Black dive bar -- and when i go back in to take a leak, there's a sign in the bathroom that just cracks my shit up, and there's no lock on the door, so i grab the paper quickly and shove it in my back pocket before someone walks in and catches me.

Now that's quite a prize!

Duke's turn.

Might as well jump!

(i'll tell you a secret: it took a few tries to get just the right shot. that's some pretty good air for a fellow who was feeling rundown with a chest infection, eh?)