Meet Wolfgang

JR (aka The Delusioneer) recently adopted a virtual pet, a hedgehog named Pookie. He's really cute and seems like the perfect pet for JR. I have wanted a pet for a long time, but simply don't have room for one. Or the time to invest. Or the money. And I don't like walking or feeding them much either. So, I decided to follow the link provided and see what other virtual pets were up for adoption.

I was really tempted by this crazy spider who spins a web and just waits. But then I saw this lone wolf and I just knew. It really was love at first sight. I named him Wolfgang, after Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (a role I played in college theater). So, I brought him home and we've both been happy as clams ever since. I can let him roam around here in cyberspace and know that he can take care of himself. He's an independent spirit and probably the closest thing I have to a soulmate.

Say hello, Wolfgang!
(He is kind of shy around strangers, but he'll sniff you out and play with you if you're cool. Please don't feed him too much steak. Thank you.)

adopt your own virtual pet!

Wasted on the Young

Youth was certainly wasted on me. Maybe I just blocked it out, but I hardly remember a thing from my formative years. Take this photo of me on my trusty blue tricycle, for instance. I have no idea where, when or why this was taken. Apparently, I had run into that rusty pole, racked myself and started to cry. How precious! A Kodak moment, no doubt... My first encounter with a pole that brought tears to my eyes.

I'm thinking about this now because my sisters have recently taken up breeding and their offspring cause me to wonder at the miracle of life. Human infants are completely helpless and as I discovered, render me helpless as well. When my nephew Parker would cry, I tried in vain to comfort him and eventually just sat him, screaming, on the couch next to me and hoped he would pacify himself. This, I learned, was NOT acceptable. If I ever adopt, I want a kid old enough to take out the trash. Babies are so boring... Cute and all that, but not intellectually stimulating at all.

They are like little emotion dolls. But seeing as how am I fully aware of the range of human emotion and the triggers, I don't need the kind of practice they provide. I own a mirror.

Providence Moves Too

Be not a slave of your own past - plunge deep into the sublime seas, dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience, that shall explain and overlook the old.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

My mother ripped this quote out of her day-planner and shoved it into my hand as I left Arizona on Sunday. I like it well enough, I suppose, though I really no nothing of Emerson or his work. I had been digging around in some old boxes in the garage, collecting tragic lost love letters and incriminating photos, when my mother suggested that we burn it all. Burn my past. Let it go forever. I was intrigued, but I declined. I like the thought of everything still intact, just in case. Maybe we will have a barbeque on my next visit.

Personally, I have always loved a quote that I believed was by Goethe, but now it seems that's just not true. Who knows who said this, but I am glad they did.

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.”

Hey Baby, What's Your Type?

My mother recently showed me a letter I wrote to her when I was about four, requesting that she upgrade the family typewriter to a word processor, as I had grown tired of constantly changing the ribbon. My point is that I came out of the womb with a knack for typing and do, as a result, consider myself a bit of an expert on "types." This has come up recently in conversations, both real and imagined, so I thought I should share a little of my wealth here.

Most people have a "type" that they are attracted to, whether they will admit it or not. More often than not, the problem with having a "type" is that you limit your own possibilities. Once you meet someone who fits the general physical characteristics you find attractive, you immediately start to work on making the parts (that are not easily seen) also fit.

I used to find myself in situations where I would feel: "You are absolutely perfect for me in every way, except for your personality, hygiene, vices, vocabulary, personal beliefs, etc." The scenario played itself out over and again, until I was able to meet someone, run the entire course of our relationship out very quickly and end it all, in the time it took other people to work up the courage to ask for a first date.

My "type", at this point in life, is anyone with a heartbeat. Dare I use this as a way to determine my future love life? I think not. Hey Baby, What's Your Type? As a pickup line, it has major problems. Though I am morbidly curious about these things. A person's "type" is usually very illuminating, sometimes predictable and more often than not; not me. I say this because I recently asked Mitch if he had a "type" and his reply really hurt my feelings, mostly because I can never be an albino midget amputee, thus never truly fulfilling Mitch's ultimate fantasy.

So, if you are into leather daddy's, muscle queens, latino twinks, or skinny British guys with a lazy eye, please don't tell someone who doesn't fit into those catagories. It will only make them feel inadequate and you look shallow. If you run into your type in a dark alley, by all means, let them know. But until then, let it be your dirty little secret.

Then again, part of my job description is to take confessions. So, if you must tell... Tell me. I promise I won't judge you to your face.

On Being Born

Thirty five years ago, I was in Heaven, just chillin' on a cloud, hangin' with this really fabulous angel, who told me that the only real requirement to be a gay man is that you must like cock, after that it's all paperwork.

Well, I liked cock well enough, so I signed up. Turns out there was a ton of paperwork. Sign this, initial this, sign this, suck this... Afterward, I was led down a corridor and into a large room with a sign that said "GIFTS." It was full of fags lined up to receive the special gifts that would enable them to thrive, as it were, in the real world. Set up like a job fair in a disco, there were booths for everything from Interior Decorating to Glam Rock. Others included Gaydar, Hair Styling, Dancing, Fashion Sense, Flower Arrangement, Potpourri, Culinary Skills, No Gag Reflex, the list was endless. I had just started to get excited when suddenly a loud siren went off and the lights flickered. A deep voice with a Southern accent filled the room saying: It's time, boys! I had never spoken to God directly, but somehow I knew it was him. Everyone started to panic, running toward the exit. Lights were flashing. Boys were screaming. Confetti and streamers shot out of nowhere for no apparent reason. It was fag-demonium!

"Wait," I shrieked. "I haven't gotten any talents!" An angel working the Nervous & Theatrical booth handed me an entire box full of N&T coupons and said: "Honey, just take these and GO!" Then he flew away, as I watched my fellow homosexuals flee. Soon, the room was empty and I was alone. I held onto the Nervous & Theatrical box and wondered why these two things came as a package. I was depressed already and a stray balloon bounced off my head. I bent down to pick up a couple of other coupons that had been dropped in the scuffle, but they were damaged, ripped or fragmented. I grabbed as many as I could. Some, I couldn't even make out what they said, I just stuffed them in the box. The voice came back. "What are waiting for, boy?"

"I didn't get to pick out any gifts," I replied. "I just got stuck with these." A soft, yet thunderous, rolling chuckle filled the air. A bit of movement in the DJ booth caught my eye.

"Son, you are gonna be fine! You have everything you need. Why look, you have an entire box!"

"These all say: Nervous & Theatrical. What does that even mean?" I asked God, cautiously approaching the booth.

"You'll see... Boy, now go! Walk out the door, just turn around-" And then he nudged me, using his God Powers, toward a tunnel type thingy that had magically appeared.

"Wait," I protested. "I didn't get a copy of my contract! I want to see my contract!" God just laughed and flicked me like a bug into the tunnel. Gloria Gaynor echoed through the tunnel as I left Heaven. He was the DJ after all. I don't remember much after that because: Sha-Pow! I was born.

And that, Children, is exactly how it went down.
_______________________________________________________
In order to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown I seem to have every year on my birthday, we have escaped LA.
JR, Mitch and I packed up and headed for the desert, our families, familiar territory, and the ghosts we love. There is nothing that compares with Mom's homemade Carrot Cake. Just a quick trip to help clear our heads. Last night as we drove down the interstate, we were given an extraterrestrial escort for part of the way. Aliens or angels, I just hope they were delivering the rest of our gifts.

Enjoy my birthday!
I love you.
SO

For Your Reconsideration...

When JR and I went out last night, we were in full "gutter punk" tragedy mode.

Mike had invited us to a party in Hollywood, to celebrate the release of the film: The Devil Wears Prada, which actually looks quite good. I love Meryl... Anyway, JR and I fully expecting Meryl to be there. She was not. We quickly realized it was one of those parties that gay boys throw on a Wednesday night to celebrate whatever might be happening in their universe. Madonna released a new album, come celebrate! Dolly Parton has a new wig, come celebrate! Dick Cheney shot somebody, come celebrate! The invitation stated: "Polish your stilettos and express yourself to the runway of success with fellow Fashionistas. Attitude required." Easy enough.

At one point, a camera crew was following around a good looking guy. Was he a celebrity? I don't know. He was dancing with some girl whose skirt was hiked up around her neck, then he was making out with a mohawked boy up against a wall. We positioned ourselves in the background of the shot and snickered. Well, the "on camera" talent noticed us and suddenly there are lights in our faces. We were on television... Mohawk says: "Why are you laughing at us?"

"We are not laughing at you, darling. We are laughing with you!" Was my reply. "Where can I buy the video?" Then he asked if I wanted to fight. I said no. The pretty boy wandered away and the cameras followed. "I guess we know who the star of this show is..." I told JR. Someone asked us to sign releases, which we did. I think it was for the LOGO network, but really, I was so wasted it could have been Access Hollywood for all I know.

Years pass before Mike finally arrives and when he does, we are very happy to see him. We go out to the front patio, for some "air" and I lay eyes on what I consider to be the sexiest creature I have ever seen. He wore a cute little hat like the Beastie Boys and leaned against the wall as if he were part of an art installation. I ask if he is straight, because usually it's the straight boys who do it for me, and he refuses to answer! He told me his name was John.

"Of course, it is darling," I purred. An attractive young actress named Kelsea was there, also quite interested in John. She told me that his presence in a gay bar did imply something. I was smitten and I promised to make them both stars. I was serious, but I think I came across at little too drunk for them to put any actual value into what I said. As we left, I spotted John at the bar and took his hand. "Oh, what could have been, but was never meant to be." When did I become such a stalker?

We followed Mike down to another club where we met Patrick, his roommate. At this point, I am completely wasted and have a hard time conjuring up anything intelligible to say. Patrick is another one of those "Greek God" types, who leave you with no other option than to write an epic poem about them. All too soon, the night was over and we made our way up the street. My Dr. Jekyll/Courtney Love transformation had begun and JR offered to drive me home. I suppose we made it, because here I am. I woke up exactly where he left me, still dressed, contacts glued to my eyeballs and big black boogers from the eyeliner smeared across my face.

I had decided that the new "in" thing was Tragedy, it was the look, the attitude and the accessory of the season. JR gleefully agreed with me and we have worked that angle for some time. At some point last night, JR asked me what I was thinking.

"I'm reconsidering," I said.

"Coming out tonight?" He asked.

"No, I am reconsidering my entire life, every thing that has led to this moment right now." Maybe it's time that I put tragedy to bed, the way JR helped me into mine last night. It was hard to let him go. No one wants to be tragic alone.

Wake up, darling... It's mourning.

You Can't Handle The Truth If You Can't See It!

While I am tempted to further alienate you with more fiction, I have decided to share a totally true story today.

I recently filled out an application for a passport. I have never had one, mainly because I am simply too lazy to travel to foreign countries. I grew up with Mexico in my backyard and they don't care about silly things like that. But seeing as how a whopping 8% of my readers are in Canada, with the United Kingdom running a close second, at 7%, I anticipate many invitations and marriage proposals that I don't want to refuse because I have no passport. I filled out the application online, printed it out and searched for the nearest office. This turned out to be a Post Office near my house, though not the one I can be found loitering at, late at night.

Upon arriving, a sign directed me to the back of the building. One couple was ahead of me in line, getting a passport for their daughter, who stared at me like I had two heads or something. Very rude child. Horrid genetics. Anyway, once they were gone it was my turn. I handed the man my paperwork and said: "I would like one passport, please." He reviewed my papers and asked to see my birth certificate. I handed him my credit card style "Birth Registration Card" and asked if that was acceptable. He agreed that it was and promised not to staple it to my application, as this might cause it to break.

"This card is pretty old and brittle. I think I will just use a paperclip,?" the man said. Old and brittle? It's the exact same age as me! But rather than be offended, I agreed that a paperclip would probably work best. He took my photo and then it was time to pay. I pulled out my check card.

"Check or money orders only," he told me. "You can get a money order in the main Post Office, if you like." On the website, it said I could pay with a card, but I didn't feel like arguing so I made my way back to the front office where I found myself behind a slow moving man. I tried to pass him and noticed his cane. He was blind. I couldn't cut in front of a blind man, could I? No, I decided. He must have been there before. He knew exactly where to stand and wait for the next available Postal Employee. I fell in behind him to wait my turn. There was only one woman behind the counter. She was explaining to the customer she was serving, that "Vicky" was on vacation for five days and that she is all alone and that makes her job harder and that makes her move slower, blah, blah, blah... Seconds dragged on and on. Minutes passed. Days. Years. I thought about the word: Postal and the various things it means. I knew that if she didn't shut her yap, I was going to go postal on her. Finally, she finished with her customer and said: "Next!"

The blind man stepped up to the counter and asked for a money order. She processed his request and gave him his total. He handed her his credit card, which she ran through the machine. "Please, enter your PIN," she told him, thrusting the electronic pad towards him.

"Could you do it for me?" He asked.

"It's against the rules. Get another customer to help you." By now, the line stretched to the door, but seeing as how I was next, I stepped up.

"I'll do it," I said in my best 'Good Samaritan' accent. The blind man thanked me and whispered his PIN number. I only heard the first two numbers. "What?"

"Are you deaf?" Now, I have never had the experience of a blind person asking me if I was deaf before, so I was unsure how to answer. Clearly, I am not totally deaf but I didn't want to insult him and I certainly didn't want to put my ear closer to his mouth.

"Sort of," I said, which is true. I often have trouble understanding soft voiced individuals, due to the fact that I like really loud rock music. He just smiled and began shouting his PIN number loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. I entered it for him and backed away, sheepishly.

"Thank you!" He said. "And Miss, I do believe that you are allowed to help the disabled!" She just stared at him with a scowl that I suspect she was born with. He collected his money order and started towards the door, tapping his cane in front of him. The Postal woman looked at me and shouted: "NEXT!"

I purchased my money order and returned to the back to pay the man at the passport counter. He paperclipped my birth card, the money order and my application together and told me that was all he needed. I would receive my passport as soon as possible. I left the Post Office and got in my car, pleased that I had actually accomplished something today. As I started the engine, my stereo came on. The volume was very loud and I immediately turned it down.

After all, what's the fun of traveling if you can't hear foreigners screaming at you?

Picasso's Revenge: Carpe Diaz!

Last night, I had the most disturbing dream.

JR and I were working at a doll factory in the Midwest. But wait! It gets worse. Basically, we worked on an assembly line where it was JR's job to snap the heads off the dolls that came out of the machine. Then, I was responsible for reattaching the heads, as some kind of "quality control" program. JR loved his job and I hated mine. Why should he get to have all the fun? He took great pleasure in beheading the baby dolls, especially. Soon, he was given the task of ripping off their limbs as well. JR bubbled with glee as he tore them apart, leaving me with six separate pieces to reassemble. Well, I had had enough and began what I call "Picasso's Revenge."

As the doll parts came down the belt, I quickly reconstructed them. Leg to neck. Arm to Leg. Head to Arm. Now, they were mutant dolls, and I began to really get into it. JR noticed what I was doing and happily joined in. Soon, we were aware that the "suits" behind the two way mirror that overlooked our workstation were watching us. We were summoned to the office. Busted! I was sure we would be fired.

We followed a guard down a narrow hallway with pictures of various celebrities adorning the walls. At the end of the hall, we were led into a room, designed apparently by David Lynch. Red velvet curtains hung on the walls, no windows, black and white checkerboard tile. At the far end of the room sat the president of the company, Mr. Dume. He was an old man with tubes running in and out of him and a severely hot nurse at his side. Female. Very Marilyn Monroe-esque. She checked his tubes and would reinsert them when they fell out. We stood there waiting for what seemed an eternity before he spoke.

"Gentlemen," Dume began. "We have been watching you with great interest. It seems you possess talents beyond your positions here on the factory floor. I have been waiting for you... I have a top secret project that needs men like you." He went on to explain the project which had been years in development, showing us various graphs and charts. DNA and machinery. Mr. Dume was a big fan of movies, especially blonde bombshells. It seems that the company had been working on a plan to introduce life-like dolls based on Hollywood stars. Through the magic of modern technology and modern DNA techniques, they were able to create "living dolls" that were exact replicas of their original.

"Then what do you need us for?" I asked, not quite grasping the concept. Mr. Dume motioned to his nurse.

"Marilyn, show them the prototypes...." Nurse Marilyn walked across the room to the corner, pulled on a gold braid cord and the curtains parted revealing a grotesquely huge Mae West, slumped over in a cage, drooling and sad. "Mae was the first to volunteer. Of course, this clone was too large to market and we have kept her here for 80 years. I destroyed most of the others, but I was curious to see how long they would live. As you can see, she stands at about 22 feet and weighs almost 800 pounds. She has never aged."

"Who the fuck is that?" Asked JR, too young to remember Mae. "That bitch is friggin' huge!"

"That was precisely the problem, dear boy," Mr. Dume replied. "Mae's persona was simply too big for the process and as a result, it was years before we could get something more... realistic. Marilyn, here was a breakthrough for us." Nurse Marilyn smiled at us, pleased with the praise. I looked closer and saw that she was indeed, a life size clone of Marilyn Monroe. It was amazing! Mr. Dume continued, "While this was a much needed improvement in scale, it was not without it's problems. Say something, Marilyn..."

Marilyn bit her bottom lip, nervous and scared. Mr. Dume just nodded in encouragement. She opened her mouth and the sound that came out was not human. It was more like a dolphin! She stopped "speaking" and turned away in shame. It was a result of experiments in mixing human DNA with sea creatures.

"Oh! I get it!" I said. "With Mae, you used a whale! Marilyn is part Dolphin!"

"Yes, it's true, Mr. Dume replied, as Marilyn rolled out a room service cart with a covered silver tray. "But times have changed and the ladies who grace the silver screen have changed, too. We finally found the right combination to make doll sized clones by using shrimp and.... they tell me that this Cameron Diaz is the modern equivalent." Marilyn removed the top off the tray and there she was: a Barbie doll sized Cameron Diaz. She looked pissed!

"Fuck you, Dume! You think I got nothing better to do, asshole! I'm outta here!" Then the tiny Cameron jumped off the table and began to scamper around the room, looking for a way out.

"Seize her!" Shouted Mr. Dume. "She mustn't get away!" The next few moments were chaotic. JR and I chased Cameron around the room, she was really fast and slippery, though. Because of her shrimpness, I supposed. Marilyn echolocated when Cameron tired running up her leg. She kicked and the Diaz was airborne. I ducked out of the way and JR reached right out and snatched her from the air. He returned her to the silver tray and replaced the cover. "Do you see now, why I need your help?"

"You want us to pull her head off? JR inquired.

"Not exactly. I need strong, creative young men, like yourselves, to train these creatures before they can be properly marketed. What do you say?" Mr. Dume waited expectantly for our reply. I looked at JR and could see our future in his eyes. They said: Let's do it. Being the slightly more practical one, I had a question.

"How many of these are we talking about?" Mr. Dume signaled for Marilyn to pull another cord, this time revealing a warehouse sized room full of tiny Cameron Diaz clones, practicing Karate, pulling each others hair and dancing, lots of them were dancing. I sighed. Anything was better than reattaching baby heads. "Mr. Dume, we would love this assignment. When do we start?"

We started immediately and quickly worked out a system. JR would capture the Diaz' one at a time and then I would talk to them, brush their hair and tell them how much joy they would bring to little girls (and some boys, too) by being their doll. It was surprisingly easy work. JR only killed a few by accident. It seemed we had found our calling.

Then I woke up.

Identity Theft or Personality Crises?

I've been duped. I feel like Oprah.

In the comments of my previous post, there was a most unfortunate misunderstanding involving my dear friend Mitchell and an internet impostor who fooled me with his linguistic trickery! It's just not like Mitch to post comments, especially on something as mundane as a Nacho Recipe. At first, I was amused, though somewhat suspicious. As long as I have known him, Mitch has never once indicated by word or action that he is literate in any way. Soon, more comments appeared, each stranger than the last. So, I called up Mitch and asked exactly what he thought he was doing? Claims of a relapse into Anal Compulsive Behavior involving a corncob, jalepenos and a curling iron, should have tipped me off as I happen to be the only foreign object that has seen the inside of Mitchell's bum since 1997. Still, I let my emotions get the best of me. I began to read the comments to him over the phone.

"Hold on a second," Mitch said before flushing the toilet and coming out of the bathroom. "What's all this now?" I showed him the comments and he just shrugged. You and your silly 'internet' thing! That has always been Mitch's attitude regarding my blog. "That's not me. Anyway, who cares? No one reads that shit anyway."

"It isn't shit!" I cried. "This is my ticket out of this hellhole! Mitchell, I am tired of you dismissing the things that are important to me! I work really hard on my blog in order to support you! I took you to the hospital when that girl sat on her lizard! I am always there for you and now I find out you've been shoving spicy peppers up your butt behind my back! It's over, Mitch. I can't do this anymore..." Then, for dramatic effect, I sank down to my knees and wept. Just then, my computer pinged, a signal that I had mail.

"What was that?" Mitch asked, ignorant of the technology. I sat up, wiped my eyes and clicked on my inbox. Sure enough, there is was: A new comment from "Mitch", posted while I had been ripping him a new one. I checked my watch to be sure. "Well," he persisted. "What was it?"

"It's a message from you."

"Transmitted, no doubt, from the computer I have lodged up my anus right now!" Mitch laughed. "Someone has been fucking with you, darling!" I stared at the computer screen in disgust and shame. I read over the comments again and the pain of how stupid I had been hit me hard. This time, real tears rolled down my face. I fell into a million little pieces. I looked to Mitch, full of regret and sorrow, and he turned away. Cold. Hurt. I tried to take his hand, but he pulled away.

"I'm sorry, Mitch. I don't know what happened. I just- I thought..." I was on the ground, clutching his pant leg. He pulled his keys out, a signal that he was leaving. I grew desperate. "Don't go! I'll do anything you want, just don't go!"

"Anything?" I looked up to see him smiling, one eyebrow raised. I knew what he was thinking and I knew that I would do it. In an effort to maintain some degree of decency here, I will not describe what happened next. Let it suffice to say that John Cougar Mellencamp got it right when he sang: "Hurt so good... Come on baby, make it hurt so good..." It's true, that sometimes love don't feel like it should but we all have to make sacrifices, right?

End of story, I let the Impostor know that I was onto him and no sooner had I done this, when a sort of bidding war broke out amongst some of the top names in news for the right to have us appear in a cooking segment on television! It's all there in the previous post! I can hardly believe it! It looks as if Mitch and I might become huge media cooking stars in the coming weeks! All my dreams are finally coming true!

Anyway, I should go now. I have to figure out how to give myself a much needed milk enema...

Mitch's Special Nachos

One of the greatest things about blogs is the fact that people will occasionally post recipes, which invariably give much greater insight into their secret world. Holly does this on occasion and I thought it was about time that I shared a little culinary advice.

Okay. Say you are sitting around in your underwear, you are slightly drunk and a tad peckish. That's what Mitch and I were when we came up with this recipe.

"I wish I had, like, some nachos." Mitch said.

"Ooh, yeah!" We both bolted off the couch and headed into the kitchen. Mitch found some processed pre-grated mild cheddar in the fridge, as I pulled out a plate and grabbed the chips. It was a bag that I have been working on and it didn't look good. You know how the bottom of the bag seems to collect the tiny broken pieces and crumbs? That's what I found.

"Fuck! I guess we are out of luck," I told Mitch.

"Nonsense!" Said Mitch, as he grabbed my large salad bowl. (Yeah, I own a large salad bowl. This is the first time it's been used for anything.) Then he dumped the entire bag of chips into the bowl and began to sort through them. To my surprise, there were plenty of "nacho worthy" chips hidden amongst the crumbs. We arranged them on the plate and covered them with tons of cheese. I tossed the remaining crumbs into the trash and Mitch carefully loaded the plate into the microwave.

"Be careful," I warned. "It doesn't melt cheese very well. Half will be fried to a crisp and half will still be cold."

"Darling, darling, my darling boy," Mitch cooed. "Let me show you something." He pointed to the control panel of the microwave and a small drawing of a piece of pizza. Mitch then pressed it and the oven fired up. Two minutes and counting. I thought for sure it would burn and tried to protest, but Mitch just pressed his finger to my lips. Naturally, I bit him before starting to suck on his finger and before I knew what had happened, the microwave dinged.

We popped open the door to view the results. What do you know? The cheese had melted perfectly over the entire surface. I wondered why I had never noticed the pizza feature before, especially since nachos are really just dozens of tiny pizzas. God, I love Mitch! We topped off the nachos with salsa and retired to the couch to pig out.

In case you missed it, here is the recipe:

Mitch's Special Nachos
Ingredients:
a bunch of tortilla chips
tons of cheese

Place the chips onto a microwave safe plate,
then cover with cheese.
Microwave on the "pizza" setting.
(Approximately 2 minutes at some magical power setting)

Top off with your favorite salsa.
(We like El Pinto medium with a splash of Tapatio for kick.)
Enjoy!

I hope you like this recipe. I have another one that I hope to post soon that involves "weiners." Happy cooking, y'all!