If you're as old as I am, you know what the word "cathect" means. The author M. Scott Peck taught us all about cathecting in his book "The Road Less Travel," which was mandatory reading back in the 'Eighties, suggested reading by friends and strangers alike. At the time, coming off having spent four years reading philosophy, theology, and american literature in college, I found the book problematic: I liked the people Peck described in his book better before they were "cured" by his ministrations than afterwards.
But back to "cathecting." It means to invest emotions or feelings in someone or something. To have something start to matter to you. Peck felt that the ability to cathect was the basis for a loving relationship, necessary for that Holy Grail of the 1980s, True Intimacy.
So now, back here in Bucks County, I'm feeling myself de-cathecting my present life, and beginning to cathect a future life for myself, one that will unfold at the edge of the californian desert.
The business of my life remains much the same. I get up, go to work, come home, make myself dinner, daydream in the hammock on the porch, go to bed. Work has become a wee bit more stressful than it was when I left it. There's a new assistant manager at my Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Although initially we got on pretty well, I can almost pinpoint the moment when that turned, and now he doesn't like me at all. As far as I can tell, I haven't done anything to prompt this turnaround, and I'm detecting a few whiffs of the stench of homophobia in the air. I think what happened is he figured out I was gay. So where previously work was either tedious or fairly enjoyable, now there's some stress running through it like an electric current. Nothing too serious, mind you. Just enough to be annoying.
The odd thing is that never before in my entire life have I encountered this. In every job I've ever had since I was sixteen, I've never been The Only Homosexual in the workplace, and even among straights I worked with, me being queer has never been an issue.
Of course, work still offers me the opportunity for fantasizing that gives me a hardon underneath my orange apron. Yesterday, an particularly well built bearish man with a nice beer gut--one of those solid round beachballs--was shopping with his wife and infant daughter. He was wearing a Miller Light tshirt, and that got me thinking. As in, thinking about him tied up and me pouring bottle after bottle of beer into him, growling in his ear, "I hope you can handle it, Boss, because when you pass out drunk, I'm gonna bend you over and fuck you till you bleed. I'm gonna wreck your whole so bad you'll have to wear a diaper from now on." *sigh* Ah, reverie.
Yesterday morning before work, I put my brother on a plane back to Florida. His visit up here was to show the house to those folks at the yard sale who had expressed interest in buying. We hosted an open house, even placing an ad in the paper. And no one showed. Which I was expecting. My brother and his wife see us as competing on the market with the mcmansions and capecodders in subdivisions in the area. And because we don't have Granite Countertops! and All New Fixtures! and a Spectacular Master Bedroom Suite!, they'd like to lower the price to bargain basement levels for a quick sale.
I'm opposed to that.
This is not a house for everyone, but it's a house that some people could fall in love with. The woods out back are beautiful this time of year, the fireplace from locally quarried stone, the open floor plan, the little house on the property that's close enough for friends or family or long-term guests but far enough away to rent out and get some extra income... It all adds up to a pretty nice piece of property. Particularly for a couple from NYC (which is less than two hours drive away) to get away to on the weekends, and later maybe live here full time. That's my strategy. It's not a house for everybody, but it's a house that some people out there could totally fall in love with when they pull in the driveway. But my strategy doesn't add up to a quick sale. Patience is required. And I'm teaching my brother and his wife to be patient.
But of course, more and more, I'm thinking of the Coachella Valley.
I've rented a storage space, 10x15, and I'm packing up the stuff that I'll be taking with me and putting it in there. As longtime readers know, I'm a sucker for the kind of examen du conscience that such a process entails. My values and my identity are reflected in those few possessions I choose to own, and so it's all about the editing thereof.
Yesterday it was 116° in Palm Springs. The kind of heat where you have to be careful where you park your motorcycle or the kickstand will sink into the all but liquified asphalt and your bike will topple over. It seems to me that this is another reason why there's nothing to do in Palm Springs. During half the year, you do your best not to be outside between Noon and 7 p.m. Unless you're sitting in the shade at Koffi drinking an iced tea and reading the paper. And about forty percent of the population is gay. And the cost of living is mostly affordable. (I saw apartments listed with rents of less than $1000.) I will go to Palm Springs and get a degree in Construction Management and learn to weld and get my California contractor's license and become a study up on the ins and outs of LEED certification. And then we'll see what happens.
But in the meantime, here I am in Bucks County. Today is a day off. The painters are putting paint on the outside of the house. I'm a wee bit disappointed that the crew working for my painter, Gus, consists entirely of young women in their early twenties, his daughters and nieces mostly, but they seem to be doing good work. The colors I picked out for the exterior were a deep blue-green and a sort of cranberry red. The red is going on today, and it's less cranberry and more a kind of mexican red. In other words, a shade of orange. I am not at all displeased since I love orange. I don't work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot today, so I'm doing some stuff here around the house, packing up books and winter clothes and such to take to my storage place. For the past week, there's been a "chance of severe thundershowers" and I feel cheated that we haven't gotten a drop of rain out of it. The lawn and gardens sure could use it and there's only so much I can do with my sprinkler and the hose.
And it's Summer. My favorite season. Time for eating peaches and grilling steak. And today in Doylestown, I want to get a boat launch license for my kayak.
And go to the gym today.
I found a new gym. And it's a great gym. It's a gym right out of gay porn. If there are spinning or aerobics classes and such, I'm unaware of them. There are, however, a few competitive bodybuilders, and all these hot young boys who come in for a workout after their construction jobs to show off the new tattoos they got down at the Jersey Shore. And these hot heavily tattooed men who park their Harleys on the sidewalk out front. It's that kind of a gym. It makes me slap the side of my head with wonder that I stuck it out all these years with the dads and grads as I used to call them at the always-crowded-with-people-not-working-out Cornerstone Health And Fitness in Furlong, PA.
Oh! And the Fashion Phenomenon of the Summer of 2008: basketball shorts and workboots. Totally hot. Totally totally hot. And I'm seeing it more and more. If'n you live in some fashion backwater like NYC or LA or SF, you probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but here in Bucks County, men have figured out a way to show off their hot asses by draping them in shiny acetate and still wear boots. And that's just making my Summer special in so many ways.
So during this interstitial period of my life, after dad, before the desert, I'm enjoying it all. In weak moments I fall into the trap of "Life Is Elsewhere," but not too much. It's too peaceful and beautiful and I have it way too good to get sour.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Home Again.
Love JetBlue, but not the red eye from Ontario to JFK. Man oh man. It leaves at 11:59 p.m. and gets into NYC at 8:30 a.m., a wee five and a half hours later. It had been my foolish hope to get some sleep on the plane, but these hopes were dashed when I got the middle seat. And, on TBS they were showing back-to-back X Files episodes, so that distracted me for three of the five-and-a-half-hours. I spent two sort of trying out different positions and praying for sleep, and I think I might have actually managed to go unconscious for a minute or two. But then there we were, coming in to Terminal Six. I retrieved my Jeep from Long Term Parking, and headed home, down the Belt Parkway, across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, across Staten Island, 287 to 78, 78 to CR-513, and soon enough, my bleary eyes were taking in the lush greenery of Bucks County, such a huge change from the golden hills of California that had been awing me so recently.
Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, this was an amazing trip. It would be wrong to call it a "vacation," because there was nothing, certainly, that was being vacated. Just the opposite. Dark and airless crevices were filled with air and sunshine. During the past two weeks, despite circumstances and that painful, terrible loss back here in Pennsylvania, I came back to life.
I was reeling from the news of the situation with Faithful Companion in San Diego. The only thing I could do was Not Think About It. Or rather, plunge into it, let the grief wash over me, then climb out, dry myself off, and fill up time and attention with other things. It was startling to me how well this strategy worked. I spent an hour curled on the guest bed in Alpha's well appointed condo sobbing, then got up, went shopping, and made meatloaf and scalloped potatoes for Alpha and his beau, which we ate while we watched Barak Obama give his amazing speech in Minneapolis. And, whilst my meatloaf and scalloped potatoes were in the oven, I ran down the street to meet up with 'bastian for coffee! Such a great guy, and I'm not just writing that because I know he's a devoted reader. That brief hour was one of the highlights of my trip. (And maybe next time we meet I'll be wearing my big ol' Wesco harness boots for 'bastian to enjoy.)
And then, we were off to LA for the Dwell On Design conference, Alpha and I. We stayed at this newish boutique hotel called the Grafton On Sunset. Nice rooms, great pool. It reminded me a bit of what the Grammercy Park Hotel used to be, offering reasonable rates for its then-unrenovated rooms, mostly to music industry types.
The Dwell thing was great. I had the opportunity to quiz a couple of developer guys and architect guys about my ideas on pursuing a career in Construction Management. What I heard was helpful, but not particularly encouraging, along the lines of, "because of the economy, I just laid off fifteen people." Yikes. I've sort of had my fill of insecurities around unemployment.
But then the real blow came when I drove over to USC to have a sit down with the guy who ran their Masters in Construction Management program. He got right to the point: "What was your GPA?" Mine--2.8, I think--sure doesn't cut it with USC. He didn't ask about my work and my life in the twenty years since I earned those grades (Executive Director of a non-profit organization with a budget of $1.8 million, Chief-Of-Staff to a member of the New York State Senate), it was all about me missing my Probability And Statistics final exam when I was nineteen years old.
Go figure.
So basically, to get into USC, I'd have to come in with some really impressive GRE scores, particularly on the math portions.
Like, Eeeeeeeew.
That was not the answer I was looking for.
So I mulled this for a bit, then forgot about it all completely on Saturday, losing myself in touring contemporary residential architecture on LA's West Side.
Oh! Wait!
Gotta tell you about Friday night.
So awhile ago, I ran across this profile on Recon. This guy had made the intriguing selection in his screen name of picking the name of the model and actor who was murdered by New York City art dealer Andrew Crispo back in the '80s. That got my attention. And it got his attention that I was able to identify the reference in his screen name right off the bat. Y'see, the Crispo murder was quite fascinating to fifteen year old me, and I have a good memory for detail. So he was in LA, and I was going to be in LA, so we agreed to meet up when I was in town.
And meet we did.
And it seems that this guy's artistic endeavors (he's a photographer and runs a gallery devoted to fetish art) and my obsessions dovetail quite closely. He's taken a lot of photographs--some of them downright iconic--of Mr. Tony Ward. When I saw the penultimate episode of Project Runway wherein Tim Gunn visits with Santino Rice in LA and Santino takes him to dinner with his friend Tony and Mr. Tony Ward opens the door to greet them, I think I actually did fall off my chair onto the floor. As far as I'm concerned, they don't come sexier than Tony Ward. At the gallery, I was shown the Tony Ward Toilet, the bathroom curated by Mr. Tony Ward himself, lined with candles and photographs of--and a couple of sketches by--Mr. Tony Ward. And I ended up buying two of them. I couldn't resist. Signed by the artist even.
So anyway, gallery owner guy expressed an interest in photographing me. To be sure, I was all in, exhibitionist ham that I am. And we were talking about my other obsession with nooses when he proposed that those be worked into the photos he takes of me, and I was cool with that. And it sort of grew and grew, so now, I'm going to make a point of being in LA in October, when he's going to have me as a model for a monthly sketch thing that that he does, and as a model of a monthly fetish photography thing that he does, and photograph me, and have me whip somebody at his October opening.
So there I am, in Hollywood, about a block off of Hollywood Boulevard, and there's this guy saying to me, "Baby, I'm gonna make you a star!"
It was my Lana Turner moment!
(Well, kind of.)
Beyond all the strokes to my ego, what a supercool way to get to know and be known by the BDSM community there in LA. October is a long ways away, and who knows what might go down between now and then, but I'm gonna do my best to make this happen.
Okay.
So back to contemporary residential architecture.
Oh. And Alpha.
Y'know, Alpha and I spent a solid week together, and he seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed his. For the entire time! Now how often does that happen that I run across someone who not only can put up with me and all my stuff ("I'm taking a bath now. Be with you again in about an hour.") but who I can put up with, too!
And Alpha was just great as a companion on the Dwell Home Tour. We both found some of the design decisions in some of the homes to be a little questionable ("that window can only open four inches because it knocks up against the downspout"). One exception was a house designed by a firm that was something like 3W or W3 or WWW. It was absolutely flawless. And the architect was a great guy. And so was the landscape architect, who was also on-hand. We spent a good two hours going over that place. Just amazing.
And the last house of the day was pretty special, too. It was the Kappe House, designed by Ray Kappe and built in 1967, that is often described as the pinacle of "nature-friendly modernism." It was just too fukken amazing to be believed. I walked through it in a trance. Everything was just so perfect. Although there were all these sort of hideaway places. Like in one of the bathroom, there were what seemed to be a stack of towel bars going up the wall. But wait, those weren't towel bars, that was a ladder, leading up to a little platform under the skylight. Ray Kappe's kids clearly had a blast growing up in that house. And Alpha found it interesting that there were all these sort of built in day beds all over the place. "Clearly there were a lot of orgies that went on in this house. This would be perfect for orgies." And I thought I detected whiffs of that musty marijuana smell coming up from the green shag carpets. Pretty quickly, our minds went to the same same place. "So this past weekend, I went over to Ray Kappe's place. Joan Didion and Mick Jagger and Neal Cassidy and Joni Mitchell were there. We all smoked a lot of pot. And then we fucked." It was the Seventies, after all! What else did people do for fun? Especially if you were in the beautiful surroundings of the Kappe house.
Sunday, Alpha and I were feeling pretty lazy in the morning, so we decided to forgo the Dwell Home tour of loft spaces in Downtown LA. Instead, we headed down the hill to watch LA's Gay Pride Parade on Santa Monica. Our favorite float was by the medical marijuana people, featuring a drag queen with a watering can and a joint as big as a baseball bat. Alpha and I wondered if this was perhaps the Controlled Substances contingent of the parade, and eagerly awaited the Crystal Meth float--millions of pieces of glitter individually glued in place by hand!--but no, other narcotic indulgences went uncelebrated.
We had to cut out early because I was eager to get on with the third leg of my trip, heading off to Palm Springs, even though that would mean parting company with Alpha. As we walked back to the car, I noticed some interesting things about cruising while wearing sunglasses. If you're cruised by some guy wearing sunglasses and you're not wearing sunglasses, it's a little unnerving, because you're not really sure if you're being cruised or not. But if you're wearing sunglasses and you're cruising someone whose not, that can make things awfully interesting, particularly if the guy you're cruising is a cop on duty at the LA Gay Pride Parade. But what's really cool is two guys wearing sunglasses cruising each other, because there's that moment when both of you just know that you're cruising each other, even without being able to see one another's eyes. That totally rocks.
Alpha drove me to Ontario Airport where I rented a car, a silver Jeep Laredo. It was enormous, and with the crappy site-lines I remember from the Jeep Grand Cherokee that I used to drive. Alpha and I said our fond farewells, and I got back on the 10 heading towards Palm Springs.
Ah, Palm Springs. No matter how you enter the Coachella Valley, it's always magical. Either coming over the mountains on that windy road from San Diego with all the little switchbacks and hairpin turns, or on the 10, which takes you right through the wind farm and all those way out of proportion huge turbines. But there it is, an oasis in the middle of the desert, green and glimmering.
During my time, I stayed at the Chaps Inn. I highly recommend the Chaps Inn. Not because of the St. Andrew's Cross standing poolside, not because it's clothing optional, and not because it's walking distance to Koffi, the great coffee place. All those things are important, sure, but what totally blew me away was that of all the clothing-optional gay resorts I've stayed at, and I've been to a few, this one was by far the cleanest. I mean, it was spotless. Scrubbed and polished. With clean soft white sheets on the bed and clean soft fluffy towels hung in the bathroom. And the hosts, Ian and Stewart, are really sweet guys. Just delightful.
As usual, I spent an inordinate amount of time sitting and drinking iced lattes and observing. And thinking things through. Particularly that question of What The Hell Am I Going To Do With The Rest Of My Life? I did make a trip out to a zoo and botanical garden called the Living Desert. And that was pretty special. There were these two roadrunners who were having a good time teasing the coyotes, jumping down from the walls of the enclosure and pretending to be all like "Oh la-di-dah, here I am just minding my own business and not paying any attention at all to the fact that I'm in the middle of the coyote enclosure at the Living Desert. And when one of the poor coyote would take note and come closer, the roadrunners would fly up over the fence.
I swear! Chuck Jones didn't have to look too far for inspiration for that Warner Brothers great. Like, Meeep-meeep! No discarded Acme Explosives Co. boxes were in sight. I think if I worked at the Living Desert I'd have that.
But my days in Palm Springs were pretty blissful. I'd get up without the alarm, go out and sunbathe for a bit, take a swim in the pool, enjoy a nice, long bath, decide where to go for breakfast, plan out my day.
On my second night there, I had this amazing dream. In the dream, I had been given two months to live. Something in my guts. I was working with the Baron to wrap things up in the time I had left to me, dividing the proceeds from the sale of my worldly goods between animal rescue operations and the library of the small, Roman Catholic liberal arts college in Reading, Pennsylvania where I earned that 2.8 GPA way back when. I was leaving them money so they could buy some books on the subject of reconciling Roman Catholic moral theology and homosexuality. The Baron was great about everything. And I was at peace with the situation. Focused and clear-headed. Not taking on too much but just making sure I did all I was able to do in the time I had left to me.
I awoke filled with love and gratitude to the Baron, off in Pennsylvania, minding my house if not my dog, having been relieved of the latter responsibilities by Fortune.
And then an idea took shape.
Not two months, but two years.
Two years.
In two years, I would set out to accomplish the following:
A.) Learn to weld. And get really good at it.
B.) Get LEED certification.
C.) Master AutoCAD.
D.) Get my California Contractor's License (one of the recommendations that I got from a guy I talked to at the Dwell conference).
E.) Get my Construction Management certificate.
And then, two years down the road, when (it is to be hoped), the economy has picked up some, I'll be prepared to go out there and make a living doing something I enjoy doing, whether that be working for someone else, or setting up my own business. And I'm going to tackle those goals living in Palm Springs, California. A place where I'm always happy. A place where I'll pull over to the side of the road and spend a half an hour watching how the sun going down behind the Sandia Mountains turns the whole sky this beautiful pale purple. A place where it's blazing hot but with only five percent humidity. A place where, from my first visit, I thought, "I could move here tomorrow."
And another thing that, thinking back on it, speaks in Palm Springs' favor.
It was my intention while I was there to get laid. And I managed to do that, but just barely on my last night there. But I met up with this really amazing former Marine for breakfast on Monday morning, felt my heart pounding in my chest with desire when I was introduced to this smoking hot russian man visiting from San Francisco and had that desire reciprocated, and finally, spent a night of carnal extravagance with a man who six years ago got off a bus in Palm Springs with no job, no car, and no money, but who quickly felt himself to be welcomed and embraced by the Coachella Valley and has made a home here and can't see himself living anywhere else in the country. (And he had a great dog, too; a beautiful rhodesian ridgeback, the coming of whom into his life was foretold to him in a dream.)
See what I'm saying?
Meeting these great guys. And not in a stupid Omigod!-You're-The-One!-It's-You-And-Me-Forever! kind of way, and not men who were kinda okay but since I don't seem to have any other options I guess I'll settle for, but really solid, mature, grown-up men with wisdom to impart and each with his own story that I want to hear.
Now don't get all excited. I haven't just come back here to pack a bag and head west. I'm unbelievably unencumbered, but I do have Stuff To Take Care Of. Like the sale of this house and all.
But hey, what better place to start a new life for myself than California, a place which exists for the purpose of starting a new life.
Everything will be all right.
And so here I am. Tonight I'll be sleeping in my own little bed. Tomorrow I head up to NYC to play three games of softball. Walking in the door and not having Faithful Companion come out to greet me was the hardest thing. And just now, when I thought, "time to get ready for bed," it dawned on me that for the first time in twelve years, that wouldn't mean heading out into the night to take Faithful Companion for his walk would be the last thing for the day.
So there you have it. Clarity. Mourning. Peace. Hope. All the rich and multifarious complexity of life. Of any life worth living at any rate. And mine is definitely worth living.
Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, this was an amazing trip. It would be wrong to call it a "vacation," because there was nothing, certainly, that was being vacated. Just the opposite. Dark and airless crevices were filled with air and sunshine. During the past two weeks, despite circumstances and that painful, terrible loss back here in Pennsylvania, I came back to life.
I was reeling from the news of the situation with Faithful Companion in San Diego. The only thing I could do was Not Think About It. Or rather, plunge into it, let the grief wash over me, then climb out, dry myself off, and fill up time and attention with other things. It was startling to me how well this strategy worked. I spent an hour curled on the guest bed in Alpha's well appointed condo sobbing, then got up, went shopping, and made meatloaf and scalloped potatoes for Alpha and his beau, which we ate while we watched Barak Obama give his amazing speech in Minneapolis. And, whilst my meatloaf and scalloped potatoes were in the oven, I ran down the street to meet up with 'bastian for coffee! Such a great guy, and I'm not just writing that because I know he's a devoted reader. That brief hour was one of the highlights of my trip. (And maybe next time we meet I'll be wearing my big ol' Wesco harness boots for 'bastian to enjoy.)
And then, we were off to LA for the Dwell On Design conference, Alpha and I. We stayed at this newish boutique hotel called the Grafton On Sunset. Nice rooms, great pool. It reminded me a bit of what the Grammercy Park Hotel used to be, offering reasonable rates for its then-unrenovated rooms, mostly to music industry types.
The Dwell thing was great. I had the opportunity to quiz a couple of developer guys and architect guys about my ideas on pursuing a career in Construction Management. What I heard was helpful, but not particularly encouraging, along the lines of, "because of the economy, I just laid off fifteen people." Yikes. I've sort of had my fill of insecurities around unemployment.
But then the real blow came when I drove over to USC to have a sit down with the guy who ran their Masters in Construction Management program. He got right to the point: "What was your GPA?" Mine--2.8, I think--sure doesn't cut it with USC. He didn't ask about my work and my life in the twenty years since I earned those grades (Executive Director of a non-profit organization with a budget of $1.8 million, Chief-Of-Staff to a member of the New York State Senate), it was all about me missing my Probability And Statistics final exam when I was nineteen years old.
Go figure.
So basically, to get into USC, I'd have to come in with some really impressive GRE scores, particularly on the math portions.
Like, Eeeeeeeew.
That was not the answer I was looking for.
So I mulled this for a bit, then forgot about it all completely on Saturday, losing myself in touring contemporary residential architecture on LA's West Side.
Oh! Wait!
Gotta tell you about Friday night.
So awhile ago, I ran across this profile on Recon. This guy had made the intriguing selection in his screen name of picking the name of the model and actor who was murdered by New York City art dealer Andrew Crispo back in the '80s. That got my attention. And it got his attention that I was able to identify the reference in his screen name right off the bat. Y'see, the Crispo murder was quite fascinating to fifteen year old me, and I have a good memory for detail. So he was in LA, and I was going to be in LA, so we agreed to meet up when I was in town.
And meet we did.
And it seems that this guy's artistic endeavors (he's a photographer and runs a gallery devoted to fetish art) and my obsessions dovetail quite closely. He's taken a lot of photographs--some of them downright iconic--of Mr. Tony Ward. When I saw the penultimate episode of Project Runway wherein Tim Gunn visits with Santino Rice in LA and Santino takes him to dinner with his friend Tony and Mr. Tony Ward opens the door to greet them, I think I actually did fall off my chair onto the floor. As far as I'm concerned, they don't come sexier than Tony Ward. At the gallery, I was shown the Tony Ward Toilet, the bathroom curated by Mr. Tony Ward himself, lined with candles and photographs of--and a couple of sketches by--Mr. Tony Ward. And I ended up buying two of them. I couldn't resist. Signed by the artist even.
So anyway, gallery owner guy expressed an interest in photographing me. To be sure, I was all in, exhibitionist ham that I am. And we were talking about my other obsession with nooses when he proposed that those be worked into the photos he takes of me, and I was cool with that. And it sort of grew and grew, so now, I'm going to make a point of being in LA in October, when he's going to have me as a model for a monthly sketch thing that that he does, and as a model of a monthly fetish photography thing that he does, and photograph me, and have me whip somebody at his October opening.
So there I am, in Hollywood, about a block off of Hollywood Boulevard, and there's this guy saying to me, "Baby, I'm gonna make you a star!"
It was my Lana Turner moment!
(Well, kind of.)
Beyond all the strokes to my ego, what a supercool way to get to know and be known by the BDSM community there in LA. October is a long ways away, and who knows what might go down between now and then, but I'm gonna do my best to make this happen.
Okay.
So back to contemporary residential architecture.
Oh. And Alpha.
Y'know, Alpha and I spent a solid week together, and he seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed his. For the entire time! Now how often does that happen that I run across someone who not only can put up with me and all my stuff ("I'm taking a bath now. Be with you again in about an hour.") but who I can put up with, too!
And Alpha was just great as a companion on the Dwell Home Tour. We both found some of the design decisions in some of the homes to be a little questionable ("that window can only open four inches because it knocks up against the downspout"). One exception was a house designed by a firm that was something like 3W or W3 or WWW. It was absolutely flawless. And the architect was a great guy. And so was the landscape architect, who was also on-hand. We spent a good two hours going over that place. Just amazing.
And the last house of the day was pretty special, too. It was the Kappe House, designed by Ray Kappe and built in 1967, that is often described as the pinacle of "nature-friendly modernism." It was just too fukken amazing to be believed. I walked through it in a trance. Everything was just so perfect. Although there were all these sort of hideaway places. Like in one of the bathroom, there were what seemed to be a stack of towel bars going up the wall. But wait, those weren't towel bars, that was a ladder, leading up to a little platform under the skylight. Ray Kappe's kids clearly had a blast growing up in that house. And Alpha found it interesting that there were all these sort of built in day beds all over the place. "Clearly there were a lot of orgies that went on in this house. This would be perfect for orgies." And I thought I detected whiffs of that musty marijuana smell coming up from the green shag carpets. Pretty quickly, our minds went to the same same place. "So this past weekend, I went over to Ray Kappe's place. Joan Didion and Mick Jagger and Neal Cassidy and Joni Mitchell were there. We all smoked a lot of pot. And then we fucked." It was the Seventies, after all! What else did people do for fun? Especially if you were in the beautiful surroundings of the Kappe house.
Sunday, Alpha and I were feeling pretty lazy in the morning, so we decided to forgo the Dwell Home tour of loft spaces in Downtown LA. Instead, we headed down the hill to watch LA's Gay Pride Parade on Santa Monica. Our favorite float was by the medical marijuana people, featuring a drag queen with a watering can and a joint as big as a baseball bat. Alpha and I wondered if this was perhaps the Controlled Substances contingent of the parade, and eagerly awaited the Crystal Meth float--millions of pieces of glitter individually glued in place by hand!--but no, other narcotic indulgences went uncelebrated.
We had to cut out early because I was eager to get on with the third leg of my trip, heading off to Palm Springs, even though that would mean parting company with Alpha. As we walked back to the car, I noticed some interesting things about cruising while wearing sunglasses. If you're cruised by some guy wearing sunglasses and you're not wearing sunglasses, it's a little unnerving, because you're not really sure if you're being cruised or not. But if you're wearing sunglasses and you're cruising someone whose not, that can make things awfully interesting, particularly if the guy you're cruising is a cop on duty at the LA Gay Pride Parade. But what's really cool is two guys wearing sunglasses cruising each other, because there's that moment when both of you just know that you're cruising each other, even without being able to see one another's eyes. That totally rocks.
Alpha drove me to Ontario Airport where I rented a car, a silver Jeep Laredo. It was enormous, and with the crappy site-lines I remember from the Jeep Grand Cherokee that I used to drive. Alpha and I said our fond farewells, and I got back on the 10 heading towards Palm Springs.
Ah, Palm Springs. No matter how you enter the Coachella Valley, it's always magical. Either coming over the mountains on that windy road from San Diego with all the little switchbacks and hairpin turns, or on the 10, which takes you right through the wind farm and all those way out of proportion huge turbines. But there it is, an oasis in the middle of the desert, green and glimmering.
During my time, I stayed at the Chaps Inn. I highly recommend the Chaps Inn. Not because of the St. Andrew's Cross standing poolside, not because it's clothing optional, and not because it's walking distance to Koffi, the great coffee place. All those things are important, sure, but what totally blew me away was that of all the clothing-optional gay resorts I've stayed at, and I've been to a few, this one was by far the cleanest. I mean, it was spotless. Scrubbed and polished. With clean soft white sheets on the bed and clean soft fluffy towels hung in the bathroom. And the hosts, Ian and Stewart, are really sweet guys. Just delightful.
As usual, I spent an inordinate amount of time sitting and drinking iced lattes and observing. And thinking things through. Particularly that question of What The Hell Am I Going To Do With The Rest Of My Life? I did make a trip out to a zoo and botanical garden called the Living Desert. And that was pretty special. There were these two roadrunners who were having a good time teasing the coyotes, jumping down from the walls of the enclosure and pretending to be all like "Oh la-di-dah, here I am just minding my own business and not paying any attention at all to the fact that I'm in the middle of the coyote enclosure at the Living Desert. And when one of the poor coyote would take note and come closer, the roadrunners would fly up over the fence.
I swear! Chuck Jones didn't have to look too far for inspiration for that Warner Brothers great. Like, Meeep-meeep! No discarded Acme Explosives Co. boxes were in sight. I think if I worked at the Living Desert I'd have that.
But my days in Palm Springs were pretty blissful. I'd get up without the alarm, go out and sunbathe for a bit, take a swim in the pool, enjoy a nice, long bath, decide where to go for breakfast, plan out my day.
On my second night there, I had this amazing dream. In the dream, I had been given two months to live. Something in my guts. I was working with the Baron to wrap things up in the time I had left to me, dividing the proceeds from the sale of my worldly goods between animal rescue operations and the library of the small, Roman Catholic liberal arts college in Reading, Pennsylvania where I earned that 2.8 GPA way back when. I was leaving them money so they could buy some books on the subject of reconciling Roman Catholic moral theology and homosexuality. The Baron was great about everything. And I was at peace with the situation. Focused and clear-headed. Not taking on too much but just making sure I did all I was able to do in the time I had left to me.
I awoke filled with love and gratitude to the Baron, off in Pennsylvania, minding my house if not my dog, having been relieved of the latter responsibilities by Fortune.
And then an idea took shape.
Not two months, but two years.
Two years.
In two years, I would set out to accomplish the following:
A.) Learn to weld. And get really good at it.
B.) Get LEED certification.
C.) Master AutoCAD.
D.) Get my California Contractor's License (one of the recommendations that I got from a guy I talked to at the Dwell conference).
E.) Get my Construction Management certificate.
And then, two years down the road, when (it is to be hoped), the economy has picked up some, I'll be prepared to go out there and make a living doing something I enjoy doing, whether that be working for someone else, or setting up my own business. And I'm going to tackle those goals living in Palm Springs, California. A place where I'm always happy. A place where I'll pull over to the side of the road and spend a half an hour watching how the sun going down behind the Sandia Mountains turns the whole sky this beautiful pale purple. A place where it's blazing hot but with only five percent humidity. A place where, from my first visit, I thought, "I could move here tomorrow."
And another thing that, thinking back on it, speaks in Palm Springs' favor.
It was my intention while I was there to get laid. And I managed to do that, but just barely on my last night there. But I met up with this really amazing former Marine for breakfast on Monday morning, felt my heart pounding in my chest with desire when I was introduced to this smoking hot russian man visiting from San Francisco and had that desire reciprocated, and finally, spent a night of carnal extravagance with a man who six years ago got off a bus in Palm Springs with no job, no car, and no money, but who quickly felt himself to be welcomed and embraced by the Coachella Valley and has made a home here and can't see himself living anywhere else in the country. (And he had a great dog, too; a beautiful rhodesian ridgeback, the coming of whom into his life was foretold to him in a dream.)
See what I'm saying?
Meeting these great guys. And not in a stupid Omigod!-You're-The-One!-It's-You-And-Me-Forever! kind of way, and not men who were kinda okay but since I don't seem to have any other options I guess I'll settle for, but really solid, mature, grown-up men with wisdom to impart and each with his own story that I want to hear.
Now don't get all excited. I haven't just come back here to pack a bag and head west. I'm unbelievably unencumbered, but I do have Stuff To Take Care Of. Like the sale of this house and all.
But hey, what better place to start a new life for myself than California, a place which exists for the purpose of starting a new life.
Everything will be all right.
And so here I am. Tonight I'll be sleeping in my own little bed. Tomorrow I head up to NYC to play three games of softball. Walking in the door and not having Faithful Companion come out to greet me was the hardest thing. And just now, when I thought, "time to get ready for bed," it dawned on me that for the first time in twelve years, that wouldn't mean heading out into the night to take Faithful Companion for his walk would be the last thing for the day.
So there you have it. Clarity. Mourning. Peace. Hope. All the rich and multifarious complexity of life. Of any life worth living at any rate. And mine is definitely worth living.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Goodbye, Boy-boy
It is so much harder with Faithful Companion than it was with my dad. Awful to say, I know. But when your father dies, there's this whole thing. I'd like Faithful Companion's name to go in the paper, I'd like a thing at church for him, I'd like people I hardly know to stop me and tell me how sorry they are, I want a leave of absence from work.
I want the world to stop for a bit.
This is so tough.
This morning when I got up, I talked to him some, said goodbye, reminisced about the time we had together. Told him how much I'd miss him. When things were really crazy in my life, who was I going to go for a nice long walk with before I went to bed to talk it through and sort it all out? I confessed to him that when I say I love dogs, what I mean is that I love my dog; other people's dogs are just "okay" and not quite as perfect as my dog is.
Oh oh oh. My boy-boy with the big brown eyes.
I closed this morning by sending him off on his wanderings on the astral plane by giving him the Stern Commands I'd leave him with every morning when I left the house. I did it not because I expected his obedience, but just because he would get this serious look on his face, like an Army Air Corps pilot in some World War II movie getting orders for a bombing run over Germany. I'd say, "Okay, let's review. While I'm away, NO up on the furniture, NO pee-pee in the house, and NO barking."
And then, over my shoulder, as I was heading out the door, I'd call, "Love you! Best dog ever!"
I want the world to stop for a bit.
This is so tough.
This morning when I got up, I talked to him some, said goodbye, reminisced about the time we had together. Told him how much I'd miss him. When things were really crazy in my life, who was I going to go for a nice long walk with before I went to bed to talk it through and sort it all out? I confessed to him that when I say I love dogs, what I mean is that I love my dog; other people's dogs are just "okay" and not quite as perfect as my dog is.
Oh oh oh. My boy-boy with the big brown eyes.
I closed this morning by sending him off on his wanderings on the astral plane by giving him the Stern Commands I'd leave him with every morning when I left the house. I did it not because I expected his obedience, but just because he would get this serious look on his face, like an Army Air Corps pilot in some World War II movie getting orders for a bombing run over Germany. I'd say, "Okay, let's review. While I'm away, NO up on the furniture, NO pee-pee in the house, and NO barking."
And then, over my shoulder, as I was heading out the door, I'd call, "Love you! Best dog ever!"
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
In Threes
Where to start?
See, this is the part where I should definitely learn a Life Lesson. Namely, post regularly to your goddamn blog or else...
Or else, you find yourself in the situation your now in.
But there it is. This may turn out to be quite the long post, so settle in, folks.
I am writing from the well appointed comfortably contemporary home of my dear friend Alpha in San Diego, California. It's 4:51 a.m., but not to me and my circadian rhythms, which are totally screwed. I flew in yesterday, landing at just after 2 p.m. local time, Alpha picked me up, we came back here, I had some banana walnut cake and iced tea, and after a series of traumatic revelations, I took a nap.
Which your not supposed to do. When you travel to a new time zone, your supposed to tuff it out and go to bed when everyone else goes to bed, thus resetting your internal clock. I didn't do that, so here I am at 4:54 a.m., wide awake in an otherwise sleeping city and household. I think I hear garbage trucks outside. That's comforting in a way. And if the Starbucks down the block operates by the same hours as the Starbucks in good old Bucks County, Pennsylvania, I'll only have about an hour to wait for them.
Well first the Big News. Or at least, the most recent development: I'll probably never see Faithful Companion again.
I know, right?
Last Tuesday, I noticed that Faithful Companion wasn't wagging his tail. It was just sort of there. Like Eeyore's tail. I did a web search and found out that it wasn't because he just didn't feel like it, but because something was wrong. So I made an appointment at the vet for him, and that's where we went Thursday morning. The vet said it looked to him like spinal degeneration, not uncommon among old dogs, and Faithful Companion is a very old dog at this point. He gave me some non-steroidal anti-inflammatory medication and told me to call if that did or didn't work.
Outside the vet, with Faithful Companion nestled in the back of my jeep, I cast my eyes heavenward and inquired of the Almighty, "Really? I mean, really? This is really going to happen twice in my lifetime? Are you letting John Irving take the controls for a while? Are you serious?"
What did I mean by that?
Well, I'll tell ya.
My sister, Kathy, who was thirteen years my senior, died in 1999. She and I were very close. A year before she died, she had been diagnosed with primary pulmonary hypertension. It's this strange, poorly understood debilitating disease. The only way of effectively treating it is a heart-lung transplant, and they don't exactly move forty-eight year old childless, single women with life histories of alcohol and drug abuse to the front of the line. At one point, she got a colostomy bag, and she hated that. She once woke up and something had become unattached and she was rolling around in her own shit while she slept. Plus, as she pointed out to me, "No one will date me if I have a bag of my own shit duct taped to my thigh. This is killing my love life, so called." Finally, her doctor felt that she was strong enough to reverse the colostomy and an operation was scheduled. And it was a success. Yay!
I was on vacation in New Mexico when I got the phone call. While waiting to be discharged from the hospital, a blood clot moved to my sister's brain and she died. She probably didn't know what hit her. I cut my trip short by a day and flew home to Brooklyn. First order of business when I got home was feeding the animals. The dogs were chowing down, and I noticed that my dear old cat Ned, who was usually first, wasn't joining them. I hunted for him and found him down in the laundry room, lying on his side looking angry and perplexed. He seemed to be paralyzed from below his shoulders. Off we went to the vet. Ned, it seemed, had a blood clot. He died the next day. From a blood clot.
Coming clear? There I am, reeling from the death of my sister, and my beloved cat Ned dies from the same thing my sister did.
Now let's jump ahead nine years. My father dies, after a lot of pain and misery from spinal stenosis. And within a few months, my dog develops spinal degeneration out of the blue that leaves him crippled and in pain?
Such a thing can really happen to a person twice?
It seems it can.
The Baron is up watching over the Ol' Homestead while I take my trip to Southern California. It was evident to him, as well as to me, that every time we took Faithful Companion for a walk, he seemed to be having more and more trouble. I flew out of JFK at 11:10 on Monday morning. That meant, I had to leave for the airport at around 6 a.m. After being up late packing, I didn't get to bed until just after midnight. An hour later, I was awoken from a deep sleep; Faithful Companion was stumbling around in the room in the dark bumping into things. And he kept at it. I flicked on the light, took him, put him on his little bed, stroked him gently, got back into bed, and turned off the light. In no time, he was up and at it again. On went the light again. "Settle down, Buddy!" I scolded, "Go lie down!" (A command he understands.) Off went the light. More moving around from Faithful Companion. I realized that I was looking at four hours of sleep before I had to drive up to JFK. I got angry.
On went the light.
"Okay, that's it!" I opened the door and shoved Faithful Companion through it and closed it behind him.
Well that was dumb.
Lying there in bed, I felt terrible about that. Really really terrible.
So I got up and went out to find Faithful Companion wandering around in the living room while the Baron was getting lost in the internet. Faithful companion would get himself comfy on his cushion or on one of his Special Spots where he likes to sleep, but then struggle to his feet and go find another spot, circle three times, lie down, get up again...
He was hurting.
I took him for a walk, hoping that would help, or at least exhaust him some, and gave him another treat. Then I stroked him and kissed him when he once again settled himself. Then I went to bed, and got just over two hours sleep before I had to drive up to JFK.
Oh.
And the drive up to JFK.
My trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty.
On Sunday, the Baron and I went up to NYC so I could meet with my SM/Spirituality Discussion Group and the Baron could erstwhile tool around the city. The drive up was awfully eventful and anxiety producing. While we crept through the Holland Tunnel, my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty overheated. Luckily we didn't stall, and the engine block didn't fuse or anything. We found a parking spot, went for coffee to let the engine cool down, bought some coolant, filled it up, started it, and the needle didn't more into the danger zone. So I guessed that the problem was that I had just run out of coolant.
But yesterday, driving up to JFK so I could get on a plane and come out here to sunny Southern California, Staten Island was a parking lot, as per usual, and I heard that ominous beeping, checked the temperature gauge, and found that once again, my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty was muy caliente.
Beelzebub!
On went the heat, full blast, and this seemed to do the trick. While I was speeding across the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge (I love speeding across the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge), the temperature went back to normal. So it seems that all I have to do so my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty doesn't overheat is to not get stuck in traffic.
Not that that should be a problem.
But I made it to JFK, made my flight, was reminded why many years ago I made a rule for myself that if JetBlue doesn't fly there, then I probably don't want to go there, and managed to get to San Diego where my dear friend Alpha met me at the airport. We drove back to Alpha's new digs at the condos he designed and built, dropped off my luggage, blah-blah-blah about the flight and my car troubles, and then Alpha said, "Well I got this phone call from your friend who is staying at your house while you're out here."
It seems that about five hours after I left, Faithful Companion woke up the Baron, yelping in pain, dragging himself around on the floor, terribly distressed. The Baron called my vet, who is fabulous, and he came out, gave Faithful Companion a sedative and a pain reliever, then bundled him into the back of his white stationwagon and took him back to the clinic. And now, today, I have to call the vet. And I know just what that topic of conversation is going to be.
Oh man.
Twice in my life?
Really?
And all this would get filed under the heading of On Top Of Everything Else I'm Dealing With.
What? There's more?
Yes. Yes, there is more.
It has recently become evident that my brother and I, very different men that we are, have very different ideas about dispossessing ourselves of the Ol' Homestead. My thinking has been to fix the place up, enjoy puttering in the garden, and over the course of the summer, while some real estate broker or other occasionally brings potential buyers through, perhaps figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.
My brother, on the other hand, wants the place sold yesterday. And anything getting in the way of that--for instance me living there and cluttering up the place with those things that I refer to as My Worldly Goods--are but a nuisance.
It seems that during the yard sale, ordeal that that was, several people expressed interest in buying the place. These inquiries have lit quite the fire of urgency under my brother's butt. I know not why. I think it might have something to do with he and his wife wanting urgently to take this deluxe accommodation tour of Hungary and Romania, including a stop at Dracula's Castle. (I shit you not.)
Now as my brother and I jointly own the Ol' Homestead, I am not seriously threatened by all of this. He can do nothing unless I sign my name to an agreement of sale. But still, I'm very fond of my brother, and his wife, and I hate to see our good relationship put through the ringer and perhaps damaged irrevocably all because he and the Missus want to take pictures of themselves faux biting each other on the neck in faraway Transylvania.
So that's what I'm up against.
My dog is dying. My car is dying. My home is being sold out from under me. All I really have that I can call my own is a job selling toilets at Ho(t)Me(n) Depot.
But here in the well appointed comfortable contemporary abode of my dear friend Alpha in San Diego, California, it's light outside. The time is 6:10 a.m. locally, and I suspect that means that Starbucks might be open.
I'm here for just a couple of days, then Alpha and I are heading up to LA for this design conference put on by Dwell Magazine. Then on Sunday, I drive out to Palm Springs where it's my intention to Get Some Clarity, have some smokin hot ManSex, and sit in a goddamn hot tub looking up at goddamn palm trees.
Anyway.
Off to Starbucks.
Say a prayer for Faithful Companion.
And for me, too.
See, this is the part where I should definitely learn a Life Lesson. Namely, post regularly to your goddamn blog or else...
Or else, you find yourself in the situation your now in.
But there it is. This may turn out to be quite the long post, so settle in, folks.
I am writing from the well appointed comfortably contemporary home of my dear friend Alpha in San Diego, California. It's 4:51 a.m., but not to me and my circadian rhythms, which are totally screwed. I flew in yesterday, landing at just after 2 p.m. local time, Alpha picked me up, we came back here, I had some banana walnut cake and iced tea, and after a series of traumatic revelations, I took a nap.
Which your not supposed to do. When you travel to a new time zone, your supposed to tuff it out and go to bed when everyone else goes to bed, thus resetting your internal clock. I didn't do that, so here I am at 4:54 a.m., wide awake in an otherwise sleeping city and household. I think I hear garbage trucks outside. That's comforting in a way. And if the Starbucks down the block operates by the same hours as the Starbucks in good old Bucks County, Pennsylvania, I'll only have about an hour to wait for them.
Well first the Big News. Or at least, the most recent development: I'll probably never see Faithful Companion again.
I know, right?
Last Tuesday, I noticed that Faithful Companion wasn't wagging his tail. It was just sort of there. Like Eeyore's tail. I did a web search and found out that it wasn't because he just didn't feel like it, but because something was wrong. So I made an appointment at the vet for him, and that's where we went Thursday morning. The vet said it looked to him like spinal degeneration, not uncommon among old dogs, and Faithful Companion is a very old dog at this point. He gave me some non-steroidal anti-inflammatory medication and told me to call if that did or didn't work.
Outside the vet, with Faithful Companion nestled in the back of my jeep, I cast my eyes heavenward and inquired of the Almighty, "Really? I mean, really? This is really going to happen twice in my lifetime? Are you letting John Irving take the controls for a while? Are you serious?"
What did I mean by that?
Well, I'll tell ya.
My sister, Kathy, who was thirteen years my senior, died in 1999. She and I were very close. A year before she died, she had been diagnosed with primary pulmonary hypertension. It's this strange, poorly understood debilitating disease. The only way of effectively treating it is a heart-lung transplant, and they don't exactly move forty-eight year old childless, single women with life histories of alcohol and drug abuse to the front of the line. At one point, she got a colostomy bag, and she hated that. She once woke up and something had become unattached and she was rolling around in her own shit while she slept. Plus, as she pointed out to me, "No one will date me if I have a bag of my own shit duct taped to my thigh. This is killing my love life, so called." Finally, her doctor felt that she was strong enough to reverse the colostomy and an operation was scheduled. And it was a success. Yay!
I was on vacation in New Mexico when I got the phone call. While waiting to be discharged from the hospital, a blood clot moved to my sister's brain and she died. She probably didn't know what hit her. I cut my trip short by a day and flew home to Brooklyn. First order of business when I got home was feeding the animals. The dogs were chowing down, and I noticed that my dear old cat Ned, who was usually first, wasn't joining them. I hunted for him and found him down in the laundry room, lying on his side looking angry and perplexed. He seemed to be paralyzed from below his shoulders. Off we went to the vet. Ned, it seemed, had a blood clot. He died the next day. From a blood clot.
Coming clear? There I am, reeling from the death of my sister, and my beloved cat Ned dies from the same thing my sister did.
Now let's jump ahead nine years. My father dies, after a lot of pain and misery from spinal stenosis. And within a few months, my dog develops spinal degeneration out of the blue that leaves him crippled and in pain?
Such a thing can really happen to a person twice?
It seems it can.
The Baron is up watching over the Ol' Homestead while I take my trip to Southern California. It was evident to him, as well as to me, that every time we took Faithful Companion for a walk, he seemed to be having more and more trouble. I flew out of JFK at 11:10 on Monday morning. That meant, I had to leave for the airport at around 6 a.m. After being up late packing, I didn't get to bed until just after midnight. An hour later, I was awoken from a deep sleep; Faithful Companion was stumbling around in the room in the dark bumping into things. And he kept at it. I flicked on the light, took him, put him on his little bed, stroked him gently, got back into bed, and turned off the light. In no time, he was up and at it again. On went the light again. "Settle down, Buddy!" I scolded, "Go lie down!" (A command he understands.) Off went the light. More moving around from Faithful Companion. I realized that I was looking at four hours of sleep before I had to drive up to JFK. I got angry.
On went the light.
"Okay, that's it!" I opened the door and shoved Faithful Companion through it and closed it behind him.
Well that was dumb.
Lying there in bed, I felt terrible about that. Really really terrible.
So I got up and went out to find Faithful Companion wandering around in the living room while the Baron was getting lost in the internet. Faithful companion would get himself comfy on his cushion or on one of his Special Spots where he likes to sleep, but then struggle to his feet and go find another spot, circle three times, lie down, get up again...
He was hurting.
I took him for a walk, hoping that would help, or at least exhaust him some, and gave him another treat. Then I stroked him and kissed him when he once again settled himself. Then I went to bed, and got just over two hours sleep before I had to drive up to JFK.
Oh.
And the drive up to JFK.
My trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty.
On Sunday, the Baron and I went up to NYC so I could meet with my SM/Spirituality Discussion Group and the Baron could erstwhile tool around the city. The drive up was awfully eventful and anxiety producing. While we crept through the Holland Tunnel, my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty overheated. Luckily we didn't stall, and the engine block didn't fuse or anything. We found a parking spot, went for coffee to let the engine cool down, bought some coolant, filled it up, started it, and the needle didn't more into the danger zone. So I guessed that the problem was that I had just run out of coolant.
But yesterday, driving up to JFK so I could get on a plane and come out here to sunny Southern California, Staten Island was a parking lot, as per usual, and I heard that ominous beeping, checked the temperature gauge, and found that once again, my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty was muy caliente.
Beelzebub!
On went the heat, full blast, and this seemed to do the trick. While I was speeding across the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge (I love speeding across the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge), the temperature went back to normal. So it seems that all I have to do so my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty doesn't overheat is to not get stuck in traffic.
Not that that should be a problem.
But I made it to JFK, made my flight, was reminded why many years ago I made a rule for myself that if JetBlue doesn't fly there, then I probably don't want to go there, and managed to get to San Diego where my dear friend Alpha met me at the airport. We drove back to Alpha's new digs at the condos he designed and built, dropped off my luggage, blah-blah-blah about the flight and my car troubles, and then Alpha said, "Well I got this phone call from your friend who is staying at your house while you're out here."
It seems that about five hours after I left, Faithful Companion woke up the Baron, yelping in pain, dragging himself around on the floor, terribly distressed. The Baron called my vet, who is fabulous, and he came out, gave Faithful Companion a sedative and a pain reliever, then bundled him into the back of his white stationwagon and took him back to the clinic. And now, today, I have to call the vet. And I know just what that topic of conversation is going to be.
Oh man.
Twice in my life?
Really?
And all this would get filed under the heading of On Top Of Everything Else I'm Dealing With.
What? There's more?
Yes. Yes, there is more.
It has recently become evident that my brother and I, very different men that we are, have very different ideas about dispossessing ourselves of the Ol' Homestead. My thinking has been to fix the place up, enjoy puttering in the garden, and over the course of the summer, while some real estate broker or other occasionally brings potential buyers through, perhaps figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.
My brother, on the other hand, wants the place sold yesterday. And anything getting in the way of that--for instance me living there and cluttering up the place with those things that I refer to as My Worldly Goods--are but a nuisance.
It seems that during the yard sale, ordeal that that was, several people expressed interest in buying the place. These inquiries have lit quite the fire of urgency under my brother's butt. I know not why. I think it might have something to do with he and his wife wanting urgently to take this deluxe accommodation tour of Hungary and Romania, including a stop at Dracula's Castle. (I shit you not.)
Now as my brother and I jointly own the Ol' Homestead, I am not seriously threatened by all of this. He can do nothing unless I sign my name to an agreement of sale. But still, I'm very fond of my brother, and his wife, and I hate to see our good relationship put through the ringer and perhaps damaged irrevocably all because he and the Missus want to take pictures of themselves faux biting each other on the neck in faraway Transylvania.
So that's what I'm up against.
My dog is dying. My car is dying. My home is being sold out from under me. All I really have that I can call my own is a job selling toilets at Ho(t)Me(n) Depot.
But here in the well appointed comfortable contemporary abode of my dear friend Alpha in San Diego, California, it's light outside. The time is 6:10 a.m. locally, and I suspect that means that Starbucks might be open.
I'm here for just a couple of days, then Alpha and I are heading up to LA for this design conference put on by Dwell Magazine. Then on Sunday, I drive out to Palm Springs where it's my intention to Get Some Clarity, have some smokin hot ManSex, and sit in a goddamn hot tub looking up at goddamn palm trees.
Anyway.
Off to Starbucks.
Say a prayer for Faithful Companion.
And for me, too.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Curmudgeon Moment
Here I am, poised to head in to work at Ho(t)Me(n) Depot, and I'm feeling really crabby.
It's Memorial Day dammit.
Now I will admit that for the better part of my life, Memorial Day meant a long weekend off from school before the home stretch, or an opportunity for a barbecue, or whatever. But back then, there wasn't a war on, little less a war that has taken the lives of over 4,000 americans.
Ho(t)me(n) Depot should not be open today. What the hell? If we don't sell lots of grills and patio furniture then the terr'ists win?
This black mood all came upon me last night when I was driving home and I saw fireworks over Chalfont, PA.
Fireworks? Really?
A fitting way to remember those who gave their lives?
Among the things I found cleaning up my father's bedroom was a little wire with a rippled shiny red plastic disk on one end. I knew immediately what it was. It was the faux poppy he would wear on Memorial Day every year. In his youth, the recent war was World War I, and the poem they had to memorize in school referenced poppies... "In Flanders fields the poppies grow/between the crosses, row on row..."
I believe I threw out my father's poppy, but I wish I hadn't. I would have liked to have worn it today, wrapped around the strings of my orange apron.
Off to work.
It's Memorial Day dammit.
Now I will admit that for the better part of my life, Memorial Day meant a long weekend off from school before the home stretch, or an opportunity for a barbecue, or whatever. But back then, there wasn't a war on, little less a war that has taken the lives of over 4,000 americans.
Ho(t)me(n) Depot should not be open today. What the hell? If we don't sell lots of grills and patio furniture then the terr'ists win?
This black mood all came upon me last night when I was driving home and I saw fireworks over Chalfont, PA.
Fireworks? Really?
A fitting way to remember those who gave their lives?
Among the things I found cleaning up my father's bedroom was a little wire with a rippled shiny red plastic disk on one end. I knew immediately what it was. It was the faux poppy he would wear on Memorial Day every year. In his youth, the recent war was World War I, and the poem they had to memorize in school referenced poppies... "In Flanders fields the poppies grow/between the crosses, row on row..."
I believe I threw out my father's poppy, but I wish I hadn't. I would have liked to have worn it today, wrapped around the strings of my orange apron.
Off to work.
Friday, May 23, 2008
In Which Bucky And I Kiss
So Bucky.
You remember him, right?
In October, 2003, this beautiful young man working behind the counter at Starbucks stopped me dead in my tracks. Many an evening I would flirt with him in my oh so subtle way on the porch when he was on his break. After a few months of that, he was off to Minnesota or somewhere in pursuit of this girl he met online. Then, back before Christmas, he re-appeared, told me the details of this homoerotic screenplay he was writing, and was once again fueling my masturbatory fantasies.
We met up for coffee, we talked about getting together for vietnamese food, I called and left a message, I never heard back.
End of story.
Until Wednesday, when I was shocked and surprised to get a phone call from him, asking if the offer of vietnamese still stood.
Absolutely it did.
We made plans to get together last night.
And then, after we said goodbye, but before he hung up, I heard him say, "Okay, so he's gonna meet me. I'll lay it all out for him at the table tomorrow night."
Lay what all out for me?
What gives?
When we met up last night at the Starbucks in Chalfont, Bucky was resplendent in his untucked white dress shirt and cargo pants. We got our respective coffees, then headed off in my Jeep to Pho Thai, the restaurant I had in mind. We talked on the way. Bucky was driving again thanks to a breathalizer thingy. He might have a job at an Outback Steakhouse, and he had found a new place to live over in Phoenixville. He had found the place on craigslist. A house on a few acres ("with a gazebo and everything!") owned by "a couple of guys who seem pretty nice." He was renting a room from them.
For sure, at this point, my antennae were so Up. Who were these two jokers that had cock blocked me? A couple of queens in Phoenixville with a gazebo for pete's sake. Who has a gazebo? (Although if Bucky was impressed by that, I guess I'll have to build a gazebo.)
I calmed myself down before I blew my cool. After all, Bucky exudes sexual ambiguity like you wouldn't believe. The boy just will not be pinned down. No doubt those guys were sitting in their gazebo right then endlessly debating "well is he or isn't he?", a conversation I have long since stopped having with myself.
And we talked about life and about writing and about books we had read and about California and about work and such.
Bucky and I both have the same conversational style, which I guess you could describe as meandering, but that would probably be giving it way too much credit. Many can't tolerate it, and so I do my best to rein it in, but with Bucky, I just let my thoughts and the conversation go wherever it will.
Pho and vietnamese spring rolls were a huge hit with Bucky. And I was glad of that. I like that he likes what I like. And I also got a charge out of introducing the boy to something new. Even if it was just a southeast asian cuisine. We were still talking up a storm when the restaurant staff stood in a line with their arms folded, all the other diners long since departed. Bucky and I headed back to where he had left his car at Starbucks. I was telling him the tale of how I dropped Extasy with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer and confused the effects of the drug with the experience of falling head over heels in love with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer ("Oh I can laugh about it now but at the time it was terrible..."). Bucky laughed with me at my recounting, and then paused and asked, "When did you first know you were gay?"
And my heart stopped. I almost drove right through a redlight I was so bent out of shape.
"I had a dream," I said.
And I told him the True Story Of My Gay Awakening.
I was fifteen years old and staying down at my grandfather's house in Olney, Philadelphia. My grandmother had died a year or so before, and my grandfather was distraught and broken. I would go down there whenever I had off school to look after him. Since my homelife at that time was awful, it was a convenient getaway. And there, sleeping in my big four poster bead in the front room, I had this dream.
In the dream, the world was coming to an end. The polar icecaps had melted, and the oceans were rising. In only a matter of time, all but the tallest mountain peaks would be underwater. I and my sister were part of a team of scientists who had been called together by the world's leaders to figure out how to save humanity. (You could tell we were scientists because we were all wearing white lab coats. I've since learned that scientists tend not to wear their white lab coats outside of their labs.) We all knew that the only reason that we were called together was so that the world's governments could prevent panic. We were just public relations. In fact, there was nothing we could do. It was all over. So we all sat around my grandparents dining room table, sending up trial balloons ("we could build a giant geodesic dome that would float on top of the waves" "Yeah. That might work." "Or, we could build giant pontoons to elevate some of the major cities." "Huh! Worth a try."). These were all half-hearted, because we all knew it was over.
Then, there was this rumbling sound. Suddenly, I was on the roof of the front porch outside the windows of my second floor front bedroom. My sister and the other scientists were down in the street. There, up Duncannon Avenue, above the rowhouses of Olney, there was this undulating blue-grey haze over the horizon line. It got darker and darker and more distinct. Then, there was a roaring sound, and a huge wall of water came surging down the street. I watched as my sister and all the other scientists were swept away in a flash.
And then, there was this roiling finger-like projection of the water, it rose like the head of a viper over me, then FWOOOOOSH, it swept over me. I vividly felt like when you go under a wave at the beach, not sure which direction was up, tossed by the surf. "I'm dying," I thought. I began to pray: "Please Lord Jesus! Please take me into Your Kingdom! Please Lord! Please!" And then, I felt this incredible peace and acceptance. It was okay. I would be alright.
And I woke up. The morning sun was streaming in through the windows of my bedroom. My dick was shooting like a geyser. "I'm peeing the bed," I thought. But it wasn't piss.
"I'm gay."
It was that simple. Just like that. No torturous questioning and wondering. It was just that simple. I'm gay.
Acceptance and self-possession.
"Huh," said Bucky, "well I'm bisexual."
At long last, now we were getting somewhere.
He told me about his first crush, when he was in 8th Grade, on an exchange student from Spain.
We were back at Starbucks now. Parked in my Jeep next to his car.
"Y'know," I said, "If you ever would want to be gay with me, I would totally be open to that. I liked you for years, Bucky. You're a great guy."
"I'd like that a lot," Bucky answered.
And so we kissed.
Bucky is a good kisser. A really good kisser. His lips are so soft, so sweet.
I was in heaven.
Bucky had to drive back to Phoenixville, so we said our goodbyes.
"And oh yeah," said Bucky, "One other thing I wanted to talk to you about."
And then Bucky proceeded to tell me about this pyramid marketing scheme ("great business opportunity") he was involved in and invited me to meet him tonight for coffee with "one of his business associates."
Oh hell.
One day I am going to take a belt to Bucky's ass and make it good and red for putting me through all this.
But not tonight. Tonight, I'm going to hear some bozo give me a spiel about some pyramid marketing scheme ("and you just sign up friends of yours as business associates and the money just rolls in!").
However, a thought has occurred to me. Maybe Bucky called on me (he must know lots of kids, right?) because he has some misgivings about getting involved in something like this and I'm the smartest guy he knows.
But we'll see.
Gotta run. Don't want to be late and make a bad impression on my new "business partners."
You remember him, right?
In October, 2003, this beautiful young man working behind the counter at Starbucks stopped me dead in my tracks. Many an evening I would flirt with him in my oh so subtle way on the porch when he was on his break. After a few months of that, he was off to Minnesota or somewhere in pursuit of this girl he met online. Then, back before Christmas, he re-appeared, told me the details of this homoerotic screenplay he was writing, and was once again fueling my masturbatory fantasies.
We met up for coffee, we talked about getting together for vietnamese food, I called and left a message, I never heard back.
End of story.
Until Wednesday, when I was shocked and surprised to get a phone call from him, asking if the offer of vietnamese still stood.
Absolutely it did.
We made plans to get together last night.
And then, after we said goodbye, but before he hung up, I heard him say, "Okay, so he's gonna meet me. I'll lay it all out for him at the table tomorrow night."
Lay what all out for me?
What gives?
When we met up last night at the Starbucks in Chalfont, Bucky was resplendent in his untucked white dress shirt and cargo pants. We got our respective coffees, then headed off in my Jeep to Pho Thai, the restaurant I had in mind. We talked on the way. Bucky was driving again thanks to a breathalizer thingy. He might have a job at an Outback Steakhouse, and he had found a new place to live over in Phoenixville. He had found the place on craigslist. A house on a few acres ("with a gazebo and everything!") owned by "a couple of guys who seem pretty nice." He was renting a room from them.
For sure, at this point, my antennae were so Up. Who were these two jokers that had cock blocked me? A couple of queens in Phoenixville with a gazebo for pete's sake. Who has a gazebo? (Although if Bucky was impressed by that, I guess I'll have to build a gazebo.)
I calmed myself down before I blew my cool. After all, Bucky exudes sexual ambiguity like you wouldn't believe. The boy just will not be pinned down. No doubt those guys were sitting in their gazebo right then endlessly debating "well is he or isn't he?", a conversation I have long since stopped having with myself.
And we talked about life and about writing and about books we had read and about California and about work and such.
Bucky and I both have the same conversational style, which I guess you could describe as meandering, but that would probably be giving it way too much credit. Many can't tolerate it, and so I do my best to rein it in, but with Bucky, I just let my thoughts and the conversation go wherever it will.
Pho and vietnamese spring rolls were a huge hit with Bucky. And I was glad of that. I like that he likes what I like. And I also got a charge out of introducing the boy to something new. Even if it was just a southeast asian cuisine. We were still talking up a storm when the restaurant staff stood in a line with their arms folded, all the other diners long since departed. Bucky and I headed back to where he had left his car at Starbucks. I was telling him the tale of how I dropped Extasy with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer and confused the effects of the drug with the experience of falling head over heels in love with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer ("Oh I can laugh about it now but at the time it was terrible..."). Bucky laughed with me at my recounting, and then paused and asked, "When did you first know you were gay?"
And my heart stopped. I almost drove right through a redlight I was so bent out of shape.
"I had a dream," I said.
And I told him the True Story Of My Gay Awakening.
I was fifteen years old and staying down at my grandfather's house in Olney, Philadelphia. My grandmother had died a year or so before, and my grandfather was distraught and broken. I would go down there whenever I had off school to look after him. Since my homelife at that time was awful, it was a convenient getaway. And there, sleeping in my big four poster bead in the front room, I had this dream.
In the dream, the world was coming to an end. The polar icecaps had melted, and the oceans were rising. In only a matter of time, all but the tallest mountain peaks would be underwater. I and my sister were part of a team of scientists who had been called together by the world's leaders to figure out how to save humanity. (You could tell we were scientists because we were all wearing white lab coats. I've since learned that scientists tend not to wear their white lab coats outside of their labs.) We all knew that the only reason that we were called together was so that the world's governments could prevent panic. We were just public relations. In fact, there was nothing we could do. It was all over. So we all sat around my grandparents dining room table, sending up trial balloons ("we could build a giant geodesic dome that would float on top of the waves" "Yeah. That might work." "Or, we could build giant pontoons to elevate some of the major cities." "Huh! Worth a try."). These were all half-hearted, because we all knew it was over.
Then, there was this rumbling sound. Suddenly, I was on the roof of the front porch outside the windows of my second floor front bedroom. My sister and the other scientists were down in the street. There, up Duncannon Avenue, above the rowhouses of Olney, there was this undulating blue-grey haze over the horizon line. It got darker and darker and more distinct. Then, there was a roaring sound, and a huge wall of water came surging down the street. I watched as my sister and all the other scientists were swept away in a flash.
And then, there was this roiling finger-like projection of the water, it rose like the head of a viper over me, then FWOOOOOSH, it swept over me. I vividly felt like when you go under a wave at the beach, not sure which direction was up, tossed by the surf. "I'm dying," I thought. I began to pray: "Please Lord Jesus! Please take me into Your Kingdom! Please Lord! Please!" And then, I felt this incredible peace and acceptance. It was okay. I would be alright.
And I woke up. The morning sun was streaming in through the windows of my bedroom. My dick was shooting like a geyser. "I'm peeing the bed," I thought. But it wasn't piss.
"I'm gay."
It was that simple. Just like that. No torturous questioning and wondering. It was just that simple. I'm gay.
Acceptance and self-possession.
"Huh," said Bucky, "well I'm bisexual."
At long last, now we were getting somewhere.
He told me about his first crush, when he was in 8th Grade, on an exchange student from Spain.
We were back at Starbucks now. Parked in my Jeep next to his car.
"Y'know," I said, "If you ever would want to be gay with me, I would totally be open to that. I liked you for years, Bucky. You're a great guy."
"I'd like that a lot," Bucky answered.
And so we kissed.
Bucky is a good kisser. A really good kisser. His lips are so soft, so sweet.
I was in heaven.
Bucky had to drive back to Phoenixville, so we said our goodbyes.
"And oh yeah," said Bucky, "One other thing I wanted to talk to you about."
And then Bucky proceeded to tell me about this pyramid marketing scheme ("great business opportunity") he was involved in and invited me to meet him tonight for coffee with "one of his business associates."
Oh hell.
One day I am going to take a belt to Bucky's ass and make it good and red for putting me through all this.
But not tonight. Tonight, I'm going to hear some bozo give me a spiel about some pyramid marketing scheme ("and you just sign up friends of yours as business associates and the money just rolls in!").
However, a thought has occurred to me. Maybe Bucky called on me (he must know lots of kids, right?) because he has some misgivings about getting involved in something like this and I'm the smartest guy he knows.
But we'll see.
Gotta run. Don't want to be late and make a bad impression on my new "business partners."
Friday, May 16, 2008
Come Buy My Crap!
Not the best day for a yard sale. It's cold and rainy here in Bucks County. But after weeks of preparation, this is the Big Event.
My brother and his wife--especially his wife--are reveling in it. I just wasn't cut out for this. This morning, when someone asked how much I wanted for some useless thing or other, plastic plant pot that was split up the side or something, I said, "Really? You'd buy this?"
And by "this morning," I really mean This Morning. The official start time was 9 AM, but people were showing up at 6:30. Sometimes they'll make comments like "I don't know where I'm gonna put this" or "I'm not sure just what I'll use this for" but they plunk down their money and cart it off. When one guy mused, "Something like this... you don't want to throw it away, because it might come in handy for something," I just wanted to say, "Au contraire, mon confrère! It is useless crap and you don't need it." But in that instance, I managed to restrain myself.
So for minimalist me, this is like being locked in an insane asylum. All these people are in dire need of the services of mental health professionals, and here I am helping them load stuff into their trunks.
And there must be an easier way to get rid of all of this. For the first few years I lived in NYC, every Wednesday night, I'd take my laundry down to the laundramat and spend the next couple of hours washing and drying and folding. A roommate pointed out to me that that exact same laundramat offered wash and fold services. I protested: Why would I pay someone to do something that I'm perfectly capable of doing myself?
Because, he explained, your time is valuable. If you imagine paying yourself minimum wage for doing your own laundry, right away you see that it's cheaper to outsource.
And he was right. (Also, along with breakfast and fresh cut flowers, fluff-and-fold is one of the great bargains of New York City.) (Or used to be.)
And after all the hours that my brother and his wife have put into this yard sale--you should see the pricing matrix they came up with, determining what costs 10¢, what costs a quarter, 50¢, and so on... It's like a thesis project in some diabolical MBA program--I'd be hard pressed to imagine that selling mismatched china would pay them anything resembling a decent amount. (And keep in mind, all of the proceeds go into the coffers of my father's estate.) But down in Florida, they spend their Fridays buying, "fixing up," and selling stuff at a local flea market.
Now, at the lunch break, business has been swift. Someone actually bought the goofy looking oak "Entertainment Center," which means that I have to think of a good way of preparing one of my baseball caps to eat because indeed the words, "if anybody buys that, I'll eat my hat."
And out the door goes some more of the Kramer Family Treasures.
Speaking of treasured possessions and the careless shedding thereof, I had an interesting dream the other night. I was going on some kind of retreat or off to do mission work or something with some kind of religious group. We were all piling onto a bus and stowing our luggage underneath. Someone pointed out to me that my footwear, my custom made Wesco harness boots, wouldn't work where we were going. So I took them off and was provided with a pair of booties to wear on the bus. I put my boots with the luggage to be stowed and boarded. Inside the bus, I watched as my boots sat forgotten on the curb. Then a homeless guy saw them, tried them on, and walked off in them. In the dream, I was nonplussed by that, thinking something along the lines of, "Well, I guess I needed them."
However, I woke up in a mini-panic, looking over to reassure myself that my boots were still there.
And they were.
But I continue to be a little unsettled. What did that mean? Leaving behind my boots? Is that even something I could do?
Perhaps the dream, like the yard sale, raises the question: getting rid of so much, what will I keep? What will I hold onto, carrying with me into the future.
The "Entertainment Center" can definitely go. But not my Wescos.
My brother and his wife--especially his wife--are reveling in it. I just wasn't cut out for this. This morning, when someone asked how much I wanted for some useless thing or other, plastic plant pot that was split up the side or something, I said, "Really? You'd buy this?"
And by "this morning," I really mean This Morning. The official start time was 9 AM, but people were showing up at 6:30. Sometimes they'll make comments like "I don't know where I'm gonna put this" or "I'm not sure just what I'll use this for" but they plunk down their money and cart it off. When one guy mused, "Something like this... you don't want to throw it away, because it might come in handy for something," I just wanted to say, "Au contraire, mon confrère! It is useless crap and you don't need it." But in that instance, I managed to restrain myself.
So for minimalist me, this is like being locked in an insane asylum. All these people are in dire need of the services of mental health professionals, and here I am helping them load stuff into their trunks.
And there must be an easier way to get rid of all of this. For the first few years I lived in NYC, every Wednesday night, I'd take my laundry down to the laundramat and spend the next couple of hours washing and drying and folding. A roommate pointed out to me that that exact same laundramat offered wash and fold services. I protested: Why would I pay someone to do something that I'm perfectly capable of doing myself?
Because, he explained, your time is valuable. If you imagine paying yourself minimum wage for doing your own laundry, right away you see that it's cheaper to outsource.
And he was right. (Also, along with breakfast and fresh cut flowers, fluff-and-fold is one of the great bargains of New York City.) (Or used to be.)
And after all the hours that my brother and his wife have put into this yard sale--you should see the pricing matrix they came up with, determining what costs 10¢, what costs a quarter, 50¢, and so on... It's like a thesis project in some diabolical MBA program--I'd be hard pressed to imagine that selling mismatched china would pay them anything resembling a decent amount. (And keep in mind, all of the proceeds go into the coffers of my father's estate.) But down in Florida, they spend their Fridays buying, "fixing up," and selling stuff at a local flea market.
Now, at the lunch break, business has been swift. Someone actually bought the goofy looking oak "Entertainment Center," which means that I have to think of a good way of preparing one of my baseball caps to eat because indeed the words, "if anybody buys that, I'll eat my hat."
And out the door goes some more of the Kramer Family Treasures.
Speaking of treasured possessions and the careless shedding thereof, I had an interesting dream the other night. I was going on some kind of retreat or off to do mission work or something with some kind of religious group. We were all piling onto a bus and stowing our luggage underneath. Someone pointed out to me that my footwear, my custom made Wesco harness boots, wouldn't work where we were going. So I took them off and was provided with a pair of booties to wear on the bus. I put my boots with the luggage to be stowed and boarded. Inside the bus, I watched as my boots sat forgotten on the curb. Then a homeless guy saw them, tried them on, and walked off in them. In the dream, I was nonplussed by that, thinking something along the lines of, "Well, I guess I needed them."
However, I woke up in a mini-panic, looking over to reassure myself that my boots were still there.
And they were.
But I continue to be a little unsettled. What did that mean? Leaving behind my boots? Is that even something I could do?
Perhaps the dream, like the yard sale, raises the question: getting rid of so much, what will I keep? What will I hold onto, carrying with me into the future.
The "Entertainment Center" can definitely go. But not my Wescos.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
In The Future...
Years ago, I was driving with My Ex, The Man I Left Behind, up that beautiful stretch of Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn where you have the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens (in all their glory) on one side of you and Prospect Park (in all it's glory) on the other side of you.
My Ex, The Man I Left Behind, was planning out our future. "So while you're in the seminary, I'll continue to work. When you're ordained, there will be a few years where you're an assistant priest before you get your own church. Hopefully you'll find a parish here in New York City, or maybe in New Mexico. I can probably find a teaching job without too much difficulty. Then, when you get your own parish as rector, I can stop working and devote myself fulltime to making art. If we save our money, you'll be able to retire from being a fulltime rector sometime after you're 55 but before you're 60, and we can retire somewhere with you taking on an assistantship somewhere..."
And about that point, I nearly drove off the road.
My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt light-headed. I couldn't breathe.
Oh. My. God.
He was right.
There it was. The rest of my life, laid out before me. It probably would unfold just as he said.
Scared the bejeezus out of me, being able to imagine, with a high degree of probability where I'd be and what I'd be doing next year, and five years from now, and ten years from now.
And oh yeah. That would all involve being in a relationship with a guy who yelled at me for something or other I did or didn't do just about every day.
And that was part of the reason that I fled.
But now, possibly for the first time ever, I'm experiencing an unknown future in a different way.
I'm afraid.
I've been having these... these... these ideas.
Along the lines of, "Well gosh, after I get the house fixed up so nice, it would be crazy to just go and leave it. Why not postpone putting it on the market for a year, stay here."
Which, I have to admit, is pretty reasonable.
But there's that irrational element that stops me from embracing that wholeheartedly.
I didn't realize it until the other night. Just as I was getting into bed, I realized that I had to piss. The bathroom I currently use is situated out in the front of the house, off the livingroom. (That's not the bathroom that I'm gonna make all fabulous and such, that's going to be made into just a simple powder room.) So that meant down the hall, through the livingroom, and into the bathroom. The house was dark, so I walked slowly, finding my way with my tentative footsteps. In the livingroom, I realized that I was charting a course to avoid colliding with the recliners. As in, the two La-Z-Boys that I had tossed into the dumpster in the driveway and that were by now off in some landfill somewhere.
That nighttime experience, finding my way through a house that was no more, clinging to what I knew and what was familiar, unnerved me.
Egad. Going back to school for Construction Management! Finding a place to live with a dog! And in New York City, a place that changes you when you live there. Am I grounded enough to take that on? Would I become distracted by all that there is to distract me there? And after NYC, what? Where? With whom? How?
Overwhelming.
And a lot is overwhelming these days.
Or at the very least, now and then I feel pretty whelmed.
The other day I had this landscape architect/horticulturist guy out to look the place over and make some suggestions for improvement and listen to mine.
I was feeling pretty whelmed when he left. "Buying plants is pretty addictive," he explained. "In fact, that's what keeps me in business," he added smiling. "You come to me, and you buy a bunch of plants, and you go home and plant them, and they look great. And it's very satisfying. And a natural reaction is to go out and buy more. But you don't realize that maintaining plants takes a lot of work. They all have to be watered and looked after. In ten years, left untended, you wouldn't be able to see your house. It would all be overgrown. So be careful of trying to make it look better by buying plants."
What I should focus on was to get a dumptruck full of topsoil and put it in the front lawn to get rid of the low spots that keep puddles a week after we get an inch of rain. ("Nobody wants to buy a house where you have to wait a week after it rains to mow the lawn.) And focus on the trees, as in pruning off all the branches up to the crown, opening up the space, and letting people know that the property has been cared for and tended to.
And he went on. Move this garden there. Transplant those rose of sharon to over there by the house. Plow this garden under since it's all naturalized and turn it into lawn.
And on and on.
When he arrived, I was proud of the perennials and annuals I had put in over the past couple of weeks. Gosh, I thought to myself, the place is starting to look pretty good! I think we've got that Curb Appeal Mojo going on! When he left, I just saw all the work that had to be done, so much work that had to be done, and a big brown pile of topsoil in the front yard for two months until grass grew there. And all the money that was going to take.
So yeah, I was whelmed.
Till I sat down and thought about it. Broke it down. Made a list of things I could do right away and things that could wait and we'll see how it goes.
And I'm gonna rein in my buying and planting.
Some.
Should I stay or should I go now? Asked the Clash.
Here's what I'm gonna do.
For ten days in June, I'm heading to Southern California. On the Second, I fly into San Diego. I'll stay a few days with Alpha and meet his new Significant Other, then on the 5th or so, I head up to LA to attend this way cool conference that Dwell Magazine is hosting. They have house tours! (And if anyone has any suggestions of somewhere nice to stay on the West Side, please post a comment!) Then, I head to Palm Springs to spend some searing hot days in the desert, soaking up the sun and worshipping Frei houses and hanging at that cruisy coffee place.
So here's my fantasy of what might go down during this trip. I'll here about a job, or a place to live, or something, and I'll be inspired to come back here, pack up my stuff, plop a For Sale sign out in the yard, and head off to start my new life in Southern California. All I think I need is one small dim star to hitch my wagon to.
But we'll see.
My Ex, The Man I Left Behind, was planning out our future. "So while you're in the seminary, I'll continue to work. When you're ordained, there will be a few years where you're an assistant priest before you get your own church. Hopefully you'll find a parish here in New York City, or maybe in New Mexico. I can probably find a teaching job without too much difficulty. Then, when you get your own parish as rector, I can stop working and devote myself fulltime to making art. If we save our money, you'll be able to retire from being a fulltime rector sometime after you're 55 but before you're 60, and we can retire somewhere with you taking on an assistantship somewhere..."
And about that point, I nearly drove off the road.
My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt light-headed. I couldn't breathe.
Oh. My. God.
He was right.
There it was. The rest of my life, laid out before me. It probably would unfold just as he said.
Scared the bejeezus out of me, being able to imagine, with a high degree of probability where I'd be and what I'd be doing next year, and five years from now, and ten years from now.
And oh yeah. That would all involve being in a relationship with a guy who yelled at me for something or other I did or didn't do just about every day.
And that was part of the reason that I fled.
But now, possibly for the first time ever, I'm experiencing an unknown future in a different way.
I'm afraid.
I've been having these... these... these ideas.
Along the lines of, "Well gosh, after I get the house fixed up so nice, it would be crazy to just go and leave it. Why not postpone putting it on the market for a year, stay here."
Which, I have to admit, is pretty reasonable.
But there's that irrational element that stops me from embracing that wholeheartedly.
I didn't realize it until the other night. Just as I was getting into bed, I realized that I had to piss. The bathroom I currently use is situated out in the front of the house, off the livingroom. (That's not the bathroom that I'm gonna make all fabulous and such, that's going to be made into just a simple powder room.) So that meant down the hall, through the livingroom, and into the bathroom. The house was dark, so I walked slowly, finding my way with my tentative footsteps. In the livingroom, I realized that I was charting a course to avoid colliding with the recliners. As in, the two La-Z-Boys that I had tossed into the dumpster in the driveway and that were by now off in some landfill somewhere.
That nighttime experience, finding my way through a house that was no more, clinging to what I knew and what was familiar, unnerved me.
Egad. Going back to school for Construction Management! Finding a place to live with a dog! And in New York City, a place that changes you when you live there. Am I grounded enough to take that on? Would I become distracted by all that there is to distract me there? And after NYC, what? Where? With whom? How?
Overwhelming.
And a lot is overwhelming these days.
Or at the very least, now and then I feel pretty whelmed.
The other day I had this landscape architect/horticulturist guy out to look the place over and make some suggestions for improvement and listen to mine.
I was feeling pretty whelmed when he left. "Buying plants is pretty addictive," he explained. "In fact, that's what keeps me in business," he added smiling. "You come to me, and you buy a bunch of plants, and you go home and plant them, and they look great. And it's very satisfying. And a natural reaction is to go out and buy more. But you don't realize that maintaining plants takes a lot of work. They all have to be watered and looked after. In ten years, left untended, you wouldn't be able to see your house. It would all be overgrown. So be careful of trying to make it look better by buying plants."
What I should focus on was to get a dumptruck full of topsoil and put it in the front lawn to get rid of the low spots that keep puddles a week after we get an inch of rain. ("Nobody wants to buy a house where you have to wait a week after it rains to mow the lawn.) And focus on the trees, as in pruning off all the branches up to the crown, opening up the space, and letting people know that the property has been cared for and tended to.
And he went on. Move this garden there. Transplant those rose of sharon to over there by the house. Plow this garden under since it's all naturalized and turn it into lawn.
And on and on.
When he arrived, I was proud of the perennials and annuals I had put in over the past couple of weeks. Gosh, I thought to myself, the place is starting to look pretty good! I think we've got that Curb Appeal Mojo going on! When he left, I just saw all the work that had to be done, so much work that had to be done, and a big brown pile of topsoil in the front yard for two months until grass grew there. And all the money that was going to take.
So yeah, I was whelmed.
Till I sat down and thought about it. Broke it down. Made a list of things I could do right away and things that could wait and we'll see how it goes.
And I'm gonna rein in my buying and planting.
Some.
Should I stay or should I go now? Asked the Clash.
Here's what I'm gonna do.
For ten days in June, I'm heading to Southern California. On the Second, I fly into San Diego. I'll stay a few days with Alpha and meet his new Significant Other, then on the 5th or so, I head up to LA to attend this way cool conference that Dwell Magazine is hosting. They have house tours! (And if anyone has any suggestions of somewhere nice to stay on the West Side, please post a comment!) Then, I head to Palm Springs to spend some searing hot days in the desert, soaking up the sun and worshipping Frei houses and hanging at that cruisy coffee place.
So here's my fantasy of what might go down during this trip. I'll here about a job, or a place to live, or something, and I'll be inspired to come back here, pack up my stuff, plop a For Sale sign out in the yard, and head off to start my new life in Southern California. All I think I need is one small dim star to hitch my wagon to.
But we'll see.
Friday, May 02, 2008
House & Garden
Loving this!
I wrote before, a while ago, about my ideas of what constitutes a "Bucks County Garden." The randomness of it, the natural merging seamlessly with the intentional, a lovely, low-maintenance disarray.
And now, I'm doing my best to make that happen. A bunch of annuals have been planted along the side of the house, including black-eyed susans, purple sage, flags, and the like. Two birch trees are awaiting planting along the driveway and I have some irises to go in somewhere near them. The organic Deer-B-Gone that I got at the garden center seems to be working and we may have hosta here for the first time in a decade or so. (I think I've discerned the Secret Ingredient in the Deer-B-Gone. It smells just like cleaning up Faithful Companion's piss.)
Tomorrow, I have a consultation with a horticulturist at Bucks County Gardens, and I hope to get from him some ideas of what I can plant in the low spots in the front lawn to dry them up, along the road under the white pines (ferns, I'm hoping), and what to do about a couple of Borders Gone Wild where the rose-of-sharon and hosta contend with poison ivy and pin oak saplings.
Having last settled into gardening in a twenty-five by forty back yard in Brooklyn, having all this acreage to deal with is a wee bit overwhelming. My strategy is to create different little "rooms" within the vastness the open spaces at the Old Homestead. There's the Vista When You Pull In The Driveway, the View From The Back Window, The Surroundings Of The Screened In Front Porch, The Eastern End Of The Front Lawn That Invites Wandering And Serendipitous Discovery, and Back By The Pond.
Oh. And then there's The North Side Of The Garage. That's going to be Firewood-Central. All the firewood will be neatly stacked there, instead of in the middle of the back yard, and there will be a chopping block for splitting and a sort of lumber yard were limbs and trees can be staged after I haul them out of the woods to be sawed up into logs. A nice lawn chair or two out there, since chopping wood is hard work it's better if you pace yourself and take a break now and then to sip some iced tea.
Right now, I'm really excited about the North Side Of The Garage project most of all. Y'see, Step One is to put down a bed of stone to even it all out over there. And the other day, I got a delivery of a half a dump truck full of stone. Step Two will be to level it all out.
And how, pray tell, is that going to happen?
I'll admit that I initially thought that would happen with shovel (check!), an iron rake (check!), and my young, strong back (uhhh...). But, my back isn't as young and strong as it once was. The guy who drove the stone truck didn't think much of the idea. And so, I went and rented some Heavy. Equipment.
Namely, one of these, the Kubota BX23. I have off on Wednesday, so it will be Mine All Mine for a whole day that day. I'm hoping that the distribution and leveling of the stone goes quickly so I can have some fun doing other stuff around here with the Kubota BX23. The possibilities seem endless. For instance, Wednesday would be a perfect day to dig a nice deep hole with that scoop thingy and plant a mailbox out at the end of the driveway. Or maybe dig a drainage ditch somewhere for some reason or other.
And gosh! What'll I wear? Tooling around on the Kubota BX23 would seem to require something pretty Carhartty, no? Perhaps there will be pictures taken of the event.
On the inside of the house, things progress, but without the immediate gratification that gardening is providing me with. It seems that some of the tile I ordered for my new bathroom won't be ready for shipment until May 24th, so the bathroom won't be going in anytime before then. In part that's a good thing, because once I have my soaking tub that holds sixty gallons of water and--something I've always wanted--a shower with a window, not to mention the beautiful tile work and the natural gauged slate floors, I'll never want to leave the house again for any reason whatsoever. Also, I really have to see about getting a Floor Guy in to tear up the carpet and see about putting down some new flooring (bamboo and cork, mon amour). However, I'm about to embark on a Murphy Brown-esque relationship with a painter, a guy I know from hanging on the porch of Starbucks named Gus. Gus will have the guest bedroom painted and ready for the impending arrival of my brother and his wife on Thursday. I'm really happy about that. Too, Gus is fine about working his way through the interior and the exterior of the house piecemeal over the next couple of months, giving me lots of time to figure out color schemes and such, and clear out furniture so he and his paint crew can work. Since I know and trust Gus, I'm cool with him coming in while I'm not here and setting to work, and so, just like on Murphy Brown, I'll be coming home from work and finding my livingroom a different color than it was when I left the house in the morning.
For the colors on the outside of the house, that's set. It's all going to be based around a Georgia O'Keefe painting, "Lake George Window." More or less. I love the soft blue-greens with the faded blacks and the pure whites. Alas, there's the pale yellow-green vinyl siding to contend with, but hopefully really strong colors will distract from that.
I'm having so much fun with this.
Maybe a little too much fun. If I bankrupt myself making this place beautiful to go on the market but then can't sell it because the real estate market is in the toilet, where will I be then?
Ah well. I'll take the long view. I make it beautiful and trust Providence, then move on to some new challenge.
I wrote before, a while ago, about my ideas of what constitutes a "Bucks County Garden." The randomness of it, the natural merging seamlessly with the intentional, a lovely, low-maintenance disarray.
And now, I'm doing my best to make that happen. A bunch of annuals have been planted along the side of the house, including black-eyed susans, purple sage, flags, and the like. Two birch trees are awaiting planting along the driveway and I have some irises to go in somewhere near them. The organic Deer-B-Gone that I got at the garden center seems to be working and we may have hosta here for the first time in a decade or so. (I think I've discerned the Secret Ingredient in the Deer-B-Gone. It smells just like cleaning up Faithful Companion's piss.)
Tomorrow, I have a consultation with a horticulturist at Bucks County Gardens, and I hope to get from him some ideas of what I can plant in the low spots in the front lawn to dry them up, along the road under the white pines (ferns, I'm hoping), and what to do about a couple of Borders Gone Wild where the rose-of-sharon and hosta contend with poison ivy and pin oak saplings.
Having last settled into gardening in a twenty-five by forty back yard in Brooklyn, having all this acreage to deal with is a wee bit overwhelming. My strategy is to create different little "rooms" within the vastness the open spaces at the Old Homestead. There's the Vista When You Pull In The Driveway, the View From The Back Window, The Surroundings Of The Screened In Front Porch, The Eastern End Of The Front Lawn That Invites Wandering And Serendipitous Discovery, and Back By The Pond.
Oh. And then there's The North Side Of The Garage. That's going to be Firewood-Central. All the firewood will be neatly stacked there, instead of in the middle of the back yard, and there will be a chopping block for splitting and a sort of lumber yard were limbs and trees can be staged after I haul them out of the woods to be sawed up into logs. A nice lawn chair or two out there, since chopping wood is hard work it's better if you pace yourself and take a break now and then to sip some iced tea.
Right now, I'm really excited about the North Side Of The Garage project most of all. Y'see, Step One is to put down a bed of stone to even it all out over there. And the other day, I got a delivery of a half a dump truck full of stone. Step Two will be to level it all out.
And how, pray tell, is that going to happen?
I'll admit that I initially thought that would happen with shovel (check!), an iron rake (check!), and my young, strong back (uhhh...). But, my back isn't as young and strong as it once was. The guy who drove the stone truck didn't think much of the idea. And so, I went and rented some Heavy. Equipment.
Namely, one of these, the Kubota BX23. I have off on Wednesday, so it will be Mine All Mine for a whole day that day. I'm hoping that the distribution and leveling of the stone goes quickly so I can have some fun doing other stuff around here with the Kubota BX23. The possibilities seem endless. For instance, Wednesday would be a perfect day to dig a nice deep hole with that scoop thingy and plant a mailbox out at the end of the driveway. Or maybe dig a drainage ditch somewhere for some reason or other.
And gosh! What'll I wear? Tooling around on the Kubota BX23 would seem to require something pretty Carhartty, no? Perhaps there will be pictures taken of the event.
On the inside of the house, things progress, but without the immediate gratification that gardening is providing me with. It seems that some of the tile I ordered for my new bathroom won't be ready for shipment until May 24th, so the bathroom won't be going in anytime before then. In part that's a good thing, because once I have my soaking tub that holds sixty gallons of water and--something I've always wanted--a shower with a window, not to mention the beautiful tile work and the natural gauged slate floors, I'll never want to leave the house again for any reason whatsoever. Also, I really have to see about getting a Floor Guy in to tear up the carpet and see about putting down some new flooring (bamboo and cork, mon amour). However, I'm about to embark on a Murphy Brown-esque relationship with a painter, a guy I know from hanging on the porch of Starbucks named Gus. Gus will have the guest bedroom painted and ready for the impending arrival of my brother and his wife on Thursday. I'm really happy about that. Too, Gus is fine about working his way through the interior and the exterior of the house piecemeal over the next couple of months, giving me lots of time to figure out color schemes and such, and clear out furniture so he and his paint crew can work. Since I know and trust Gus, I'm cool with him coming in while I'm not here and setting to work, and so, just like on Murphy Brown, I'll be coming home from work and finding my livingroom a different color than it was when I left the house in the morning.
For the colors on the outside of the house, that's set. It's all going to be based around a Georgia O'Keefe painting, "Lake George Window." More or less. I love the soft blue-greens with the faded blacks and the pure whites. Alas, there's the pale yellow-green vinyl siding to contend with, but hopefully really strong colors will distract from that.
I'm having so much fun with this.
Maybe a little too much fun. If I bankrupt myself making this place beautiful to go on the market but then can't sell it because the real estate market is in the toilet, where will I be then?
Ah well. I'll take the long view. I make it beautiful and trust Providence, then move on to some new challenge.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The House
Six-thirty!
It's six-thirty and the guy who came to install new windows in the kitchen, the laundry room, and my bedroom at eleven this morning is still here, still pounding away at something or other. I was hoping to get to the gym today, but clearly that's not going to happen.
And in many ways, this is just the start of it all. New bathroom, new powder room, new kitchen, the place painted inside and out, new floors. (Yes! I will have new floors! No matter what my brother thinks! The stained awful plastic carpet of a shade of blue that calls out for white french provincial furniture to be placed upon it must go. I will have cork and bamboo, dammit!)
For the last couple of days, I've been tossing a thought around in my head like a frisbee: maybe I'll delay putting the house on the market until next year. What's the rush? Maybe I'll spend a year living here, enjoying the place I've fixed up.
Per the current rules, I'm doing nothing with this thought, taking no action whatsoever. It's just a thought. Sometimes when it arises, it's quickly dismissed. Sometimes I'll sit with it for a while, noticing how it makes me feel.
But it makes me nervous. Design has proved to be my heroin indeed. If I wasn't trapped here all day with the guy installing the new windows, I'd have been off looking for a new lighting fixture for the kitchen. Because his keeping me here gave me time to reflect, I realized that I don't need a new lighting fixture for the kitchen.
At least not yet anyway.
I worry that being in this house means spending money on this house. There's always some new thing to tweak and, I hope, make better. But if I stay in the house too long, I won't have enough money to leave it.
Perhaps this is my father's ghost haunting me. Or the same ghost that haunted my father now haunting me.
He retired early from his job so he could work here at home. That meant planting and transplanting, painting, chopping down trees, cleaning the gutters, replacing the gutters, watering the lawn, building the tractor shed, digging pits around the basement windows... It was more than a full time job. My father resented being anywhere other than home, but especially on a "good day to get work done."
And lately, I know just how he felt. And working in America's Home Improvement Super Store sure doesn't help matters much. There I'll be, stopped dead in my tracks while I'm escorting a customer to where we have the plate hanging wire thingys over in Aisle 32 by the huge savings we're offering on Garage Storage Solutions.
For example, on Friday, I'm looking forward to painting the basement.
Let me repeat that: On Friday, I'm looking forward to painting the basement.
See what I mean?
I didn't say "playing softball" or "heading to the Eagle" or "hitting the beach" or "putting my kayak in the water for the first time this season," I said "painting the basement.
It will look beautiful. All clean and new and tidy.
And if there's time left over, I'll square up and rehang the screen doors on the front porch.
It's six-thirty and the guy who came to install new windows in the kitchen, the laundry room, and my bedroom at eleven this morning is still here, still pounding away at something or other. I was hoping to get to the gym today, but clearly that's not going to happen.
And in many ways, this is just the start of it all. New bathroom, new powder room, new kitchen, the place painted inside and out, new floors. (Yes! I will have new floors! No matter what my brother thinks! The stained awful plastic carpet of a shade of blue that calls out for white french provincial furniture to be placed upon it must go. I will have cork and bamboo, dammit!)
For the last couple of days, I've been tossing a thought around in my head like a frisbee: maybe I'll delay putting the house on the market until next year. What's the rush? Maybe I'll spend a year living here, enjoying the place I've fixed up.
Per the current rules, I'm doing nothing with this thought, taking no action whatsoever. It's just a thought. Sometimes when it arises, it's quickly dismissed. Sometimes I'll sit with it for a while, noticing how it makes me feel.
But it makes me nervous. Design has proved to be my heroin indeed. If I wasn't trapped here all day with the guy installing the new windows, I'd have been off looking for a new lighting fixture for the kitchen. Because his keeping me here gave me time to reflect, I realized that I don't need a new lighting fixture for the kitchen.
At least not yet anyway.
I worry that being in this house means spending money on this house. There's always some new thing to tweak and, I hope, make better. But if I stay in the house too long, I won't have enough money to leave it.
Perhaps this is my father's ghost haunting me. Or the same ghost that haunted my father now haunting me.
He retired early from his job so he could work here at home. That meant planting and transplanting, painting, chopping down trees, cleaning the gutters, replacing the gutters, watering the lawn, building the tractor shed, digging pits around the basement windows... It was more than a full time job. My father resented being anywhere other than home, but especially on a "good day to get work done."
And lately, I know just how he felt. And working in America's Home Improvement Super Store sure doesn't help matters much. There I'll be, stopped dead in my tracks while I'm escorting a customer to where we have the plate hanging wire thingys over in Aisle 32 by the huge savings we're offering on Garage Storage Solutions.
For example, on Friday, I'm looking forward to painting the basement.
Let me repeat that: On Friday, I'm looking forward to painting the basement.
See what I mean?
I didn't say "playing softball" or "heading to the Eagle" or "hitting the beach" or "putting my kayak in the water for the first time this season," I said "painting the basement.
It will look beautiful. All clean and new and tidy.
And if there's time left over, I'll square up and rehang the screen doors on the front porch.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
They Say We're Young And We Don't Know
I have to admit I found the piece in this past Sunday Times Magazine about gay twentysomethings in Massachusetts tying the know really interesting. Although, I wonder how much of the phenom' is not a gay marriage thing but a generational thing.
Y'see, I work with bunches of guys in their twenties. And they're all married. All of them!
It's spooky!
I'll be talking to one of these kids and he'll mention, "Yeah, the other night my wife and I..."
And, without taking a formal poll or anything, I'd say that guys I work with who are in their thirties? Not married by and large.
I think that in my college graduating class, there were maybe five people who got married before they hit thirty. And this was a Catholic college.
Something is going on here.
And whatever it is, it's just another thing that makes me feel old.
Y'see, I work with bunches of guys in their twenties. And they're all married. All of them!
It's spooky!
I'll be talking to one of these kids and he'll mention, "Yeah, the other night my wife and I..."
And, without taking a formal poll or anything, I'd say that guys I work with who are in their thirties? Not married by and large.
I think that in my college graduating class, there were maybe five people who got married before they hit thirty. And this was a Catholic college.
Something is going on here.
And whatever it is, it's just another thing that makes me feel old.
Ho(t) Me(n) Depot Gets Weird
I know!
No blogging!
What's with that?
Oh just take a guess.
All I do is work. And when I'm not working, I'm really really busy.
I could go on endlessly about "this thing that happened to me at work today," but I have always tried hard to make SingleTails Not That Kind Of Blog. But two recent items bear noting.
Okay. There I was at Ho(t) Me(n) Depot. It was a Saturday afternoon, a couple of weeks ago. Although Gardening was busy, not so the rest of the store. It seems that everybody was focusing on planting Spring bulbs and nobody was much interested in gussying up their bathrooms or kitchens. (Fools!)
When it's slow like that, I position myself in the center aisle of the store, right in front of the kitchen design center. A former fellow employee would refer to this as being a Wal-Mart Greeter, since it mostly involves smiling and saying hello to customers passing by and directing them to the aisle where they'll find whatever it is they're looking for.
Now, I was carrying the department phone. If'n someone calls the store they get one of those annoying menus, and one of the options is to be connected to one of the department, and if they select Kitchens and Baths, the portable phone in my apron pocket rings.
It's reeeeeeally annoying. There you'll be, busy with fetching down a bathtub from the overhead storage racks for an impatient customer, and the phone will go off. "Do you have...?" or "How much is...?" mostly. Now, since there's no way to put the phone on hold, you have to apologize to the customer your helping while you abandon them to go running through the aisles to answer the question of the caller.
So anyway, there I am, doing the Wal-Mart Greeter thing, and the phone rings.
Here's the conversation. Just about verbatim.
Me: Good Afternoon, this is Drew in Kitchen and Bath!
Caller: Hi, how are you, Drew?
Me: Pretty good. What can I do for you?
Caller: You're pretty well endowed, right?
Me: 'Scuse me?
Caller: Well from the looks of the way your filling out those pants your wearing, I'd say you're pretty well hung.
Me: Uhhh... So is there a Kitchen and Bath question that I can answer for you?
Caller: Not interested, huh? Okay.
Me: Only if it pertains to kitchens and bathrooms.
Caller: Okay. Just thought I'd ask. 'Bye.
My first thought: It was someone I knew having some fun at my expense.
Nope. No one I know would be aware of the complexities of the Ho(t) Me(n) Depot phone system to pull that off.
My second thought: It was one of my co-workers having some fun at my expense.
Uh uh. All of my co-workers who would pull anything like that are straight, and wouldn't be able to believably pull that off.
My third thought: Right now, standing there, I was the target of a voyeur. Who was probably watching me still, gauging my reaction.
Creepy. Infuriating. Flattering.
All at once.
I mean, did he know who I am? In certain circles, I'm Well Known. I've got creds. (Although not, admittedly, for being particularly well hung. I'm Standard Issue Six. Just like John Dillenger.)
But the mystery deepens. Must have been a current or former employee of Ho(t) Me(n) Depot. No one else would be able to navigate the phone system like that. But at the same time, someone who at least knew enough to know what department I worked in.
Very strange. I can't figure it out.
At the other end of the spectrum, today I worked with our store's own elected official. It was pretty slow today, but steady enough so I wasn't bored. So these two contractor guys--and, as it happens, pretty unappealing contractor guys, come up the aisle with their cart loaded down with shower doors or something. In response to my co-worker's question, "Do you need help?", one contractor guy said, "Are you a psychologist?"
"No," answered my co-worker, "But he sort of is."
(Later, in retrospect, I "got" it. Contractor guy was punning on the phrase, "needing help," using it to mean, contending with mental illness or delusion. Very witty, no? No.)
The contractor guy turned his attention to me.
"I need a psychologist," he said, "this guy I work with (indicating the other contractor with a thumb over his shoulder) is gay."
Egad!
Homophobia rears it's ugly head!
Right there in the middle of Ho(t) Me(n) Depot!
My standard retort is to say, "So have you heard they invented this stuff that turns straight guys into cock suckers? They call it 'beer.'" But I was at work. And we always have to be nice to the customers, so I let is slide, saying something mamby-pamby like, "Well, don't know that I have much to offer by way of a response there."
I think a dim light of recognition flashed on his otherwise blank face, and perhaps some aspect of his reptile brain registered the fact that, in fact, he had just addressed this to a Gin-You-Wine Homo.
Or not.
Who knows.
So it's sort of run the gamut lately.
Gay goings on at Ho(t) Me(n) Depot.
Although, last week, a call went out over the walkie-talkies, someone somewhere fielding a question from a customer they couldn't answer and appealing to all of us for help: "Do we have any pansies in the store?"
It took all I had not to answer, "Well, I'm over here in Kitchen and Bath..."
But I didn't.
No blogging!
What's with that?
Oh just take a guess.
All I do is work. And when I'm not working, I'm really really busy.
I could go on endlessly about "this thing that happened to me at work today," but I have always tried hard to make SingleTails Not That Kind Of Blog. But two recent items bear noting.
Okay. There I was at Ho(t) Me(n) Depot. It was a Saturday afternoon, a couple of weeks ago. Although Gardening was busy, not so the rest of the store. It seems that everybody was focusing on planting Spring bulbs and nobody was much interested in gussying up their bathrooms or kitchens. (Fools!)
When it's slow like that, I position myself in the center aisle of the store, right in front of the kitchen design center. A former fellow employee would refer to this as being a Wal-Mart Greeter, since it mostly involves smiling and saying hello to customers passing by and directing them to the aisle where they'll find whatever it is they're looking for.
Now, I was carrying the department phone. If'n someone calls the store they get one of those annoying menus, and one of the options is to be connected to one of the department, and if they select Kitchens and Baths, the portable phone in my apron pocket rings.
It's reeeeeeally annoying. There you'll be, busy with fetching down a bathtub from the overhead storage racks for an impatient customer, and the phone will go off. "Do you have...?" or "How much is...?" mostly. Now, since there's no way to put the phone on hold, you have to apologize to the customer your helping while you abandon them to go running through the aisles to answer the question of the caller.
So anyway, there I am, doing the Wal-Mart Greeter thing, and the phone rings.
Here's the conversation. Just about verbatim.
Me: Good Afternoon, this is Drew in Kitchen and Bath!
Caller: Hi, how are you, Drew?
Me: Pretty good. What can I do for you?
Caller: You're pretty well endowed, right?
Me: 'Scuse me?
Caller: Well from the looks of the way your filling out those pants your wearing, I'd say you're pretty well hung.
Me: Uhhh... So is there a Kitchen and Bath question that I can answer for you?
Caller: Not interested, huh? Okay.
Me: Only if it pertains to kitchens and bathrooms.
Caller: Okay. Just thought I'd ask. 'Bye.
My first thought: It was someone I knew having some fun at my expense.
Nope. No one I know would be aware of the complexities of the Ho(t) Me(n) Depot phone system to pull that off.
My second thought: It was one of my co-workers having some fun at my expense.
Uh uh. All of my co-workers who would pull anything like that are straight, and wouldn't be able to believably pull that off.
My third thought: Right now, standing there, I was the target of a voyeur. Who was probably watching me still, gauging my reaction.
Creepy. Infuriating. Flattering.
All at once.
I mean, did he know who I am? In certain circles, I'm Well Known. I've got creds. (Although not, admittedly, for being particularly well hung. I'm Standard Issue Six. Just like John Dillenger.)
But the mystery deepens. Must have been a current or former employee of Ho(t) Me(n) Depot. No one else would be able to navigate the phone system like that. But at the same time, someone who at least knew enough to know what department I worked in.
Very strange. I can't figure it out.
At the other end of the spectrum, today I worked with our store's own elected official. It was pretty slow today, but steady enough so I wasn't bored. So these two contractor guys--and, as it happens, pretty unappealing contractor guys, come up the aisle with their cart loaded down with shower doors or something. In response to my co-worker's question, "Do you need help?", one contractor guy said, "Are you a psychologist?"
"No," answered my co-worker, "But he sort of is."
(Later, in retrospect, I "got" it. Contractor guy was punning on the phrase, "needing help," using it to mean, contending with mental illness or delusion. Very witty, no? No.)
The contractor guy turned his attention to me.
"I need a psychologist," he said, "this guy I work with (indicating the other contractor with a thumb over his shoulder) is gay."
Egad!
Homophobia rears it's ugly head!
Right there in the middle of Ho(t) Me(n) Depot!
My standard retort is to say, "So have you heard they invented this stuff that turns straight guys into cock suckers? They call it 'beer.'" But I was at work. And we always have to be nice to the customers, so I let is slide, saying something mamby-pamby like, "Well, don't know that I have much to offer by way of a response there."
I think a dim light of recognition flashed on his otherwise blank face, and perhaps some aspect of his reptile brain registered the fact that, in fact, he had just addressed this to a Gin-You-Wine Homo.
Or not.
Who knows.
So it's sort of run the gamut lately.
Gay goings on at Ho(t) Me(n) Depot.
Although, last week, a call went out over the walkie-talkies, someone somewhere fielding a question from a customer they couldn't answer and appealing to all of us for help: "Do we have any pansies in the store?"
It took all I had not to answer, "Well, I'm over here in Kitchen and Bath..."
But I didn't.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Not Far From The Truth
Oh gosh.
This chillingly well observed offering is from The Onion.
Home Depot Honors Fallen Soldiers With Great Prices On Tools
This chillingly well observed offering is from The Onion.
Home Depot Honors Fallen Soldiers With Great Prices On Tools
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Sprung!
Freakin' finally!
Throughout the several gray cold months now past, I have made it day by day with one image front and center in my mind's eye: me sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown drinking an venti iced latté and smoking a nice cigar.
So I was thrilled to the very core of my being when I saw that the weather report was calling for the temperature to approach Eighty this week. The time had come! And it's still only April!
Okay, so Wednesday would have been the perfect day. I even had off work. But no. In the afternoon I had a meeting with the real estate brokers who will likely represent me in the sale of the house. Afterwards, I had to stop at the bank, and then I had to do some shopping and rush home to bake a cake. Each of those elements ended up taking twice as long as I thought they would.
So close, but no cigar. So to speak.
Finally yesterday.
It wasn't looking likely. I worked 6 a.m. to 3 p.m., and then I was hosting the Baron that evening for dinner and (the aforementioned) birthday cake. I ended up working later than planned, and as I was rushing out of Ho(t)me(n) Depot to head to the supermarket, I had another idea.
Y'see, I have recently discovered this really cool mexican restaurant in Plumsteadville of all places. I was hopeful going into the place, since there actually is something of a mexican population in Plumsteadville. The food was dee-lish, and smacked of a vague authenticity. So instead of treating the Baron to one of my home-cooked dinners, I would treat him to dinner at Mariachi Restaurant of Plumsteadville.
That, I realized, would give me the time I needed. So I headed to Doylestown, and there I was, sitting on the porch of Starbucks, drinking my iced venti latté (which I've taken to ordering without the ice), and smoking a nice CAO red label maduro robusto.
And watching the boys.
Per. Fect.
For me, that event marks the First Day of Spring. Not that day on the 22nd of March, which, as I recall, was cold and overcast. Such a recipe for complete and utter bliss. After a leisurely spent afternoon, I raced home like a bat out of hell to put the icing on the Baron's birthday cake.
And there my troubles began.
In the past, I've started with about two sticks of butter and added the confectioners sugar "to taste." Usually ending up adding about a cup and a half. Two cups if I was feeling pretty daring. The recipe I found called for three sticks of butter, and two pounds--as in two one pound boxes--of confectioners sugar.
Really?
I mean, really?
Yeah.
It seems that this is the combination that works. The sugar strands stretch and stretch and you end up with an immense volume of buttercream frosting. Whereas in the past, I had to scrape the bottom of the bowl to make sure I got complete coverage of the birthday cake, I had plenty.
As in more than plenty.
So I could gleefully eat dollops of frosting and not worry about not having enough. In fact, I had plenty left over.
But sadly, I had forgotten that at my advanced age, I really can't handle all that sugar.
My heart was palpitating. My face was flushed. My throat was dry. I was jittery and edgy. When the Baron arrived, he took one look at me and asked, "Are you okay?"
I explained that I'd just eaten enormous quantities of sugar, probably more sugar in the last hour than I've had cumulatively in the past five years of my life, and I was feeling the effects. And just be warned, I explained: soon, I would be crashing. The Baron steeled himself, preparing for the possibility of me falling asleep face first in my guacamole.
Luckily, the nice mexican food at El Mariachi did me well. (I loves me my starch!) And I managed to make it all the way through dinner in an upright position. But as soon as we got in the door, I had to tell the Baron that he would have to load up his sister's SUV that he had used to drive up here with the perennials I got him for his birthday himself, because I was going to bed.
And so I did. And was asleep almost immediately.
But not before smiling to myself and remembering that April 17th was the first day of 2008 that I got to enjoy by sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown drinking an iced latté and enjoying a cigar.
Throughout the several gray cold months now past, I have made it day by day with one image front and center in my mind's eye: me sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown drinking an venti iced latté and smoking a nice cigar.
So I was thrilled to the very core of my being when I saw that the weather report was calling for the temperature to approach Eighty this week. The time had come! And it's still only April!
Okay, so Wednesday would have been the perfect day. I even had off work. But no. In the afternoon I had a meeting with the real estate brokers who will likely represent me in the sale of the house. Afterwards, I had to stop at the bank, and then I had to do some shopping and rush home to bake a cake. Each of those elements ended up taking twice as long as I thought they would.
So close, but no cigar. So to speak.
Finally yesterday.
It wasn't looking likely. I worked 6 a.m. to 3 p.m., and then I was hosting the Baron that evening for dinner and (the aforementioned) birthday cake. I ended up working later than planned, and as I was rushing out of Ho(t)me(n) Depot to head to the supermarket, I had another idea.
Y'see, I have recently discovered this really cool mexican restaurant in Plumsteadville of all places. I was hopeful going into the place, since there actually is something of a mexican population in Plumsteadville. The food was dee-lish, and smacked of a vague authenticity. So instead of treating the Baron to one of my home-cooked dinners, I would treat him to dinner at Mariachi Restaurant of Plumsteadville.
That, I realized, would give me the time I needed. So I headed to Doylestown, and there I was, sitting on the porch of Starbucks, drinking my iced venti latté (which I've taken to ordering without the ice), and smoking a nice CAO red label maduro robusto.
And watching the boys.
Per. Fect.
For me, that event marks the First Day of Spring. Not that day on the 22nd of March, which, as I recall, was cold and overcast. Such a recipe for complete and utter bliss. After a leisurely spent afternoon, I raced home like a bat out of hell to put the icing on the Baron's birthday cake.
And there my troubles began.
In the past, I've started with about two sticks of butter and added the confectioners sugar "to taste." Usually ending up adding about a cup and a half. Two cups if I was feeling pretty daring. The recipe I found called for three sticks of butter, and two pounds--as in two one pound boxes--of confectioners sugar.
Really?
I mean, really?
Yeah.
It seems that this is the combination that works. The sugar strands stretch and stretch and you end up with an immense volume of buttercream frosting. Whereas in the past, I had to scrape the bottom of the bowl to make sure I got complete coverage of the birthday cake, I had plenty.
As in more than plenty.
So I could gleefully eat dollops of frosting and not worry about not having enough. In fact, I had plenty left over.
But sadly, I had forgotten that at my advanced age, I really can't handle all that sugar.
My heart was palpitating. My face was flushed. My throat was dry. I was jittery and edgy. When the Baron arrived, he took one look at me and asked, "Are you okay?"
I explained that I'd just eaten enormous quantities of sugar, probably more sugar in the last hour than I've had cumulatively in the past five years of my life, and I was feeling the effects. And just be warned, I explained: soon, I would be crashing. The Baron steeled himself, preparing for the possibility of me falling asleep face first in my guacamole.
Luckily, the nice mexican food at El Mariachi did me well. (I loves me my starch!) And I managed to make it all the way through dinner in an upright position. But as soon as we got in the door, I had to tell the Baron that he would have to load up his sister's SUV that he had used to drive up here with the perennials I got him for his birthday himself, because I was going to bed.
And so I did. And was asleep almost immediately.
But not before smiling to myself and remembering that April 17th was the first day of 2008 that I got to enjoy by sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown drinking an iced latté and enjoying a cigar.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
From The Bitter Commonwealth
I'm looking forward to watching the debates tonight, although I'll be busy baking a birthday cake for the Baron while I do so.
I have to say, it's pretty amazing having the Pennsylvania primary election be of any consequence. Bill Clinton was in Doylestown the other night. Hillary was at Quakertown High School last night. I ran into Caroline Kennedy (we had met previously) stumping for Obama outside Starbucks last month.
I have to admit, I'm fascinated by the Bitter controversy. On the one hand, talk about mountains out of molehills. But on the other, speaking as a pennsylvanian who "clings" to religion, Obama's tone and phrasing were pretty off.
Am I bitter?
Only when I think about it. About how real wages haven't increased for people who do the kind of work I do since 1973. About how the economy is so totally in the tank right now that the want-ads in the local paper amount to three-quarters of a column looking for assistant dog groomers and the like. About how our corporate masters at Ho(t)me(n) Depot are pressuring us to sign up customers for store credit cards (if you want to shut down that sales pitch, just ask, "What's the APR on that?"). About the war in Iraq that's just become a sucking vortex, devouring everything that was good and noble about our country.
All that I find terrifically embittering.
That said, I am naively looking to the current election to give me respite from these bitter, bitter draughts. I'd like to pick up the New York Times and see stories about the President doing things that don't make me scream.
I say "naively" because I don't imagine that any of the contenders are really going to provide the kind of remedy that the situation calls for. "If elected, I promise a massive redistribution of income!" Where probably not going to be hearing that, dig?
But I drifted to the conservative end of the spectrum during the Clinton years when it seemed to me that government of whatever stripe was incapable of solving any fundamental problems. All that could be done was some tinkering around the edges and making people momentarily feel better. And if that's the case, than the proper role of government--or at any rate, the one thing that government can do, is to instill good values in the citizenry, such as respect for other, self-reliance, pluralism, hard work, and responsibility. Politics, I decided, was a great big game. And it didn't really matter who was elected.
And then George W. Bush got elected.
At the outset, I viewed him benignly. How much damage can he do? He seemed like an affable dunce.
Omigod was I ever so wrong about anything ever?
So I've amended my take: The people we elect can't do a hell of a lot to make things better, but they can do a hell of a lot to make things worse.
Thus, I'm considering the matter deeply.
I have to admit that although I have my preferences, I'm agnostic on the Obama-Clinton choice. What I do want very much is for the Pennsylvania primary to be decisive, for the Democratic primary race to be over either way, and for the party to be able to focus on defeating John McCain (whom I like and admire and to whom I gave money in 2000 but who hasn't given me any indication that his presidency would be anything more than Bush's third term).
Anyway. I have a cake to bake.
But I like my tea bitter! Does that count?
But all the same, I'm naively looking
I have to say, it's pretty amazing having the Pennsylvania primary election be of any consequence. Bill Clinton was in Doylestown the other night. Hillary was at Quakertown High School last night. I ran into Caroline Kennedy (we had met previously) stumping for Obama outside Starbucks last month.
I have to admit, I'm fascinated by the Bitter controversy. On the one hand, talk about mountains out of molehills. But on the other, speaking as a pennsylvanian who "clings" to religion, Obama's tone and phrasing were pretty off.
Am I bitter?
Only when I think about it. About how real wages haven't increased for people who do the kind of work I do since 1973. About how the economy is so totally in the tank right now that the want-ads in the local paper amount to three-quarters of a column looking for assistant dog groomers and the like. About how our corporate masters at Ho(t)me(n) Depot are pressuring us to sign up customers for store credit cards (if you want to shut down that sales pitch, just ask, "What's the APR on that?"). About the war in Iraq that's just become a sucking vortex, devouring everything that was good and noble about our country.
All that I find terrifically embittering.
That said, I am naively looking to the current election to give me respite from these bitter, bitter draughts. I'd like to pick up the New York Times and see stories about the President doing things that don't make me scream.
I say "naively" because I don't imagine that any of the contenders are really going to provide the kind of remedy that the situation calls for. "If elected, I promise a massive redistribution of income!" Where probably not going to be hearing that, dig?
But I drifted to the conservative end of the spectrum during the Clinton years when it seemed to me that government of whatever stripe was incapable of solving any fundamental problems. All that could be done was some tinkering around the edges and making people momentarily feel better. And if that's the case, than the proper role of government--or at any rate, the one thing that government can do, is to instill good values in the citizenry, such as respect for other, self-reliance, pluralism, hard work, and responsibility. Politics, I decided, was a great big game. And it didn't really matter who was elected.
And then George W. Bush got elected.
At the outset, I viewed him benignly. How much damage can he do? He seemed like an affable dunce.
Omigod was I ever so wrong about anything ever?
So I've amended my take: The people we elect can't do a hell of a lot to make things better, but they can do a hell of a lot to make things worse.
Thus, I'm considering the matter deeply.
I have to admit that although I have my preferences, I'm agnostic on the Obama-Clinton choice. What I do want very much is for the Pennsylvania primary to be decisive, for the Democratic primary race to be over either way, and for the party to be able to focus on defeating John McCain (whom I like and admire and to whom I gave money in 2000 but who hasn't given me any indication that his presidency would be anything more than Bush's third term).
Anyway. I have a cake to bake.
But I like my tea bitter! Does that count?
But all the same, I'm naively looking
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