Wednesday, March 31, 2004

When Worlds Collide


So Nightingale swaggered over to me today. (Yeah. I broke a sweat.) He asked me how softball was going. And then he said, "Geez, it's been more then ten years since I was up in the city. I'd love to go up with you and see you play some time."

Am I up for spending a day with N. tooling around in NYC? Absolutely. Am I up for a game of softball? Always. But Nightingale and the Ball Breakers together?

Hmmm. I mean, I'm pretty sure that Nightingale knows that I'm a homo, and doesn't have a big problem with that. But my softball team... It would kinda be like taking someone who's big on the Pu Pu platter and airdropping him into a rural province of the People's Republic. It's the gayest gay thing of all gay things.

But y'know, I think that Nightingale would be up for it.

And I'd get to spend a day tooling around NYC with Nightingale.

Thanks, Jacques Barzun!


So after work, I stopped into Starbucks. Didn't have a lot of time. Our dishwasher went ker-plooie the other day, and my father asked me to stop off after work and get a new one. And we were doing our taxes tonight.

So anyway, I got my latte, found a seat, sat down, opened my journal, and for the first time fulfilled my New Year's resolution. That's it. I did some writing. For the second section of the book.

Not a lot. About three hundred words. But cool stuff.

Now what the hell does that have to do with the crumudgeonly sage of Columbia U.? Well, currently I'm reading The Collected Writings of Jacques Barzun. And it's really good. Barzun is a beautiful writer, and it's pithy and readable. But I wasn't in the mood for Jacques today, and so instead of reading, I did some writing.

And that felt great.

Tuesday, March 30, 2004

Le Coeur A Sa Raison

Felt a little blue today. The connection thing discussed below, to be sure. I am like a little leather baloon, unteathered and drifting.

But I realized another thing, too. Y'see, I really want to be in a relationship. And it's getting to the point that I want to be in any relationship. Well, not just any relationship. A power-imbalance relationship, so called. Now that presents something of a problem. I am not in a position--given the claims on my time right now, and... oh yeah... the fact that I live with my father--to be the Sir in said relationship. So that leaves me as the boy.

And I'm not thrilled with that. For one thing, my options are limited. Because I live here in Bucks County. The other night, I did a search on WorldLeathermen. (If you pay the $26.43 or whatever to become a member, the dynamic search feature is pretty exceptional. FYI.) So I searched on all the profiles with the keyword 'Sir,' in the United States, with the range of the role defined as 100% Active to 70% Active, and the age range from 37 to 69. Oh. And with Images on their profile, cause if you ain't got the testicular fortitude to put your face on the World Wide Internet, you're probably not someone I'm interested in.

Up came a raft of Sirs. Lots of 'em. But the locations in the profiles were dispiriting. Nests of them in Florida, Texas, California, Chicago, Boston, DC. A few in such farflung places as Wichita, Green Bay, Tulsa and the like. But within an hour and a half of me? Well, let's just say the pickings were pretty slim.

And, there's the Top Shelf issue.

Wuzzat? Something that Sylvia Plath wrote about, I can't remember whether it was in her journals or in The Bell Jar. She wrote in the context of going to college in the '50s. As a freshman co-ed, she had her pick of dates, from her fellow freshmen on up to the seniors. But, as a sophomore girl dating a freshman was simply not done, with every year, her options narrowed. Until, finally, she sat alone on the top shelf as a senior, having pretty much exhausted most of the possibilities in the previous three years.

Syl' opined that so it was with life. As you grow older, not only do your options narrow, but there are fewer and fewer people out there opting for you.

Now, I know that 'boy' is not a term defined by age in leatherdom, but c'mon. When I think about collaring a boy, I think of some well-formed, mature for his age but still impressionable younger man.

Cutting to the chase, not a forty year old.

Now, I'm verrrry un-ageist in my predilections. The men with whom I've had vanilla relationships have tended to be ten years my senior.

(Yo. What's up with that? How come it was never a problem finding a steady eddie in vaniladom? Okay. That's not valid. Special Guy was not a denizen of vanilladom.)



Bitch bitch bitch. Whine whine whine. Complain complain complain. You might as well be reading the blog of some fifteen year old.

Well, the hunt continues.

Monday, March 29, 2004

Who Am I?

I'm losing my sense of myself. Of who I am.

And now, I know what that's about. Same deal as before I went off to MAL.

I adapt in the twinkling of an eye to whatever man happens to be in my sites. He's a bottom boy? Well then I'm a Top. He's a Sir. Well I'm looking to be collared. He's a PnP hole breeding psycho? Well I'm... uh... let's talk.

This got me into a pickle last time around. So what might be the thread out of the labyrinthe? Hmmm. MAL did the trick then. Being around my own kind. Leathermen. That connection. That standing among my peers. That's what I need. P'r'aps I'll see about putting my pursuits on a back burner until this blows over.

Uh... Yeah. I mean... YEAH!

An interesting idea came my way today: Our need to be known often surpasses our need to be loved.

Now that strikes me as a true thing.

It's Been Fun!

I hope you've all enjoyed Singletails as much as I've enjoyed posting. But Singletails may be going away.

How come?

Well, Nightingale has shaved his head and grown a soulpatch. He looks hotter than ever. Amazing. Like a professional wrestler. But, of course, he's still the sweet and wonderful man he always was.

So... y'know... sooner or later I'm just gonna break. He'll breeze by with a cheery 'Good morning, Dutch!' and I'll drop my orbital sander and then drop him. And surely there is serious time attached to the sexual assault and battery of a family man and good citizen like Nightingale.


My row to hoe.

Sunday, March 28, 2004

Fun Doin's At The Supermarket

A Sunday to get things done. Burned the trash, cleaned up the yard, straightend up the kitchen. Then it was off to Starbucks,the gym, and grocery shopping. As I was heading out the door, my father told me that my brother and his wife were on their way over. But, the gym closes at 6 pm on Sunday's so I couldn't hang around to meet them.

But then, there I was picking out yogurt for my father in Clemons' Market, and who should come around the corner into the dairy aisle but my brother. He didn't spot me fifteen feet away, but I spotted him. I was inspired. I started singing along--really loud--with the piped in music. In this case, Petula Clark singing Downtown. There I was in the dairy aisle, singing "Dowwwwntown, we can go shopping when we're Dowwwwntown..."

Worked like a charm. My brother's face became this frozen mask. He looked straight ahead, staring at the cartons of milk in front of him. Then, put a half gallon in his basket and without glancing in my direction (you could almost hear is mind screaming don't-look-at-the-crazy-person-don't-look-at-the-crazy-person-don't-look-at-the-crazy-person) tried to beat a hasty retreat.

I called his name. He froze. Turned around. ...and then recognized me and broke into a grin. Very cool.


So yesterday, I was up at the crack of dawn and on the road. It was the first day of practice for Ty's Ballbreakers. Outside of the Dugout, where we meet up, I was a hell of a lot pluckier than my fellow teammates, most of whom had rolled out of bed and over to the Dugout. I met four of the New Guys on the team (one of whom is pretty spicey), and extended warm greetings to returning teammates. And then we all piled into our cars and headed up to Randall's Island.

It had rained on the way up, and it was drizzling outside of the Dugout, but when we got to Randall's Island, it was a great day for softball. Just beautiful.

We stretched. And ate donuts. And then spent time throwing the ball back and forth. Then came batting practice. We positioned ourselves out in the field, and one by one took turns in the batters box. One of the first balls came sailing out my way to where I was in right center field, I charged for it... and Yikes! My legs wouldn't do that. The ball dropped in the grass before I could get there, I scooped it up and fired it off to my cut-off man at second. Then, I turned to one of the other outfielders and said by way of explanation, "Y'know I'm turning forty this year."

That became my schtick for the day. When the ball went by me at the plate, when I missed an easy catch: y'know I'm turning forty this year.

And gosh, I'm turning forty this year!.

Now, I'm cool with that. A new decade. My life divides pretty neatly into decades. My teens, my twenties, my thirties. Each one is a novel in and of itself. inciting force, conflict, rising action, denoument, resolution. And I'm sort of feeling a kind of fin du siecle ennui. Time to start the next chapter. Solve the next great karmic riddle.

I made a good catch of a pop fly that came my way. I did pretty well when I took my turn at bat, just relaxing into it and clearing my mind, letting my body memory do the work. I got some really good hits.

Even though I'm turning forty this year.

Throughout the day, I had this sense (and all the twinges and aches in my body wouldn't let me forget) that I am, in fact, getting older. There will be less and less that I'm able to get my body to do. In every successive year, I won't be flying down the baselines like I did the year before. And then, one year, I'll have to hang it up. (Hopefully I'll be 78 or so then. Life without softball is a mistake.) I am getting older.

But there was a moment, while I was out there in the field, feeling the warm sun on me, hearing the campy banter of the Ballbreakers, feeling my muscles tense at the crack of the bat connecting with the ball, the comfort of my leather glove... I realized I was wrong. To take to the softball field is to leave time and the sorrows of age behind. It is to enter eternity. Whether I'm forty or eighty, when I lace up my cleats, grab my glove, and go trotting out into the grassy field, it will always always always be Eternal Softball Summer.

And when my heart beats for the last time, that's the way I'd like to spend that eternity. Out there, in the sunshine, playing softball.

Philly Teams Always Choke

One again, the local news is filled with images of tearful and dispirited fans leaving whatever sports venue. Yup, St. Joe's will not be in the Final Four.

It seems to be universally true. They get all the way to the playoffs, but then they choke. Philly teams always choke.

That'll take a lot of getting used to. I'm used to the Yankees. Will the Yankees pull it out against Atlanta and go on to the Series? Duh. Of course they will.

Nothin but heartache and ulcers for Philadelphia sports enthusiasts though.

Why I Hate The Intellectually Bankrupt American Left, Vol. LCCXCVII

Oh. My. God.

So I was just on the phone with an old college buddy of mine. Just talkin' about everything. Catching up. That kinda thing. We were talking about Selling Out. That, of course, was very much a concern for us when we were back in college. I opined that when we're pushing forty, the point is pretty much moot. Regardless of how you live or what you do, you are The Establishment.

And then, we got on the subject of Starbucks. My friend mentioned that he objected to Starbucks because of the way they collaborated with the Taliban in Afganistan.

Excuse me?

Yup, he claimed. When Starbucks opened up in Afganistan, they bought in to the mores there and had a separate room for men and women. Unfortunatly, the room for the women had no place to sit down, and it was dirty and not kept up very well.

I said, Are you telling me that Starbucks opened up a store in Kabul during the reign of the Taliban.

That's exactly what I was being told.

The source? My friend had taken a graduate course. There was a Women's Studies major who was in the course and she brought in an article about evil Starbucks evil collaboration with the Taliban at their store in Kabul.

I mean, there's so much wrong with this.

For one thing, I've never been to Kabul, but I have been to Moscow. And there was no Starbucks in Moscow. (I know. I looked.) So is it likely that Starbucks HQ would decide, "Yeah! Let's open up in this terrifically distressed area! We'll make a killing!" Like, there are Afganis who could slap down $3.50 for a cup of coffee? A web search turns up no evidence that Staburcks has ever had operations in Afganistan. I will eat my Wesco's if it can be demonstrated to me that this is not true.

So what's going on here?

Well, the anti-globalization folks hate Starbucks. They hated the Taliban (until U.S. forces toppled the Taliban, then the Taliban became victims of U.S. imperialism, I guess). So of course what they wanted to do was link those two great satans. Thus, this whole issue was fabricated, and anti-globilization wackos could smash the windows of Starbucks with a clear conscience because in doing so they were standing up for the rights of oppressed women in Afganistan.

Now, whenever I hear someone going on about what the Bush administration--or Haliburton, or that corporation that they all sit on the Board of Directors of, or John Ashcroft, or whatever--is really doing, I don't believe a blessed word of it.

Does this stuff come out of the American Right? Yeah. I mean, there's the Secret Gay Agenda (world domination, bay-beee!!!), Hilary practicing witchcraft, welfare queens, ,etc. But what you probably don't see a lot of is an entire class of a graduate seminar at a university outside of Philadelphia turned over to discussing this stuff as if it's fact, when the source was an article in a newspaper written by the Revolutionary Communist Youth Brigade or something.

I mean, it was taken for truth. Unquestioned. There was nobody there who was saying, "Now, that doesn't make any sense at all."

Too, this is another reason why my decision not to go to grad school was a really good one.

Thursday, March 25, 2004

The True Meaning of Friendship

...Special Guy sent me this. I forgot about his penchant for sending email jokes. However, his tend to be worth opening. I thought this was exceptional. I wish I could do counter-cross stitch (or whatever the hell it is). I'd love this on a sampler.

Here is a series of promises  that really speaks to true friendship!

1. When you are sad, I will get you drunk and will help you plot revenge  against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

2. When you are blue, I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

3. When you smile, I will know you finally got laid and give you a high  five.

4. When you are scared, I will rag you about it every chance I get.

5. When you are worried, I will tell you horrible stories about how much  worse it could be and to quit whining.

6. When you are confused, I will use small words and draw pictures to explain.

7. When you are sick, stay the hell away from me until you're well again.  I don't want whatever you have.

8. When you fall, I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.

This is my oath, I pledge 'til the end. Why, you may ask? Because you're  my  friend!

Send this to ten of your closest friends and get depressed because you can only think of two, and one of them is not speaking to you right now  anyway. 

Remember: A friend will help you move. A really good friend will help  you  move a body.

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

Jeeper Creepers

Oh yeah.

While taking Faithful Companion for his evening walk just now, the calls of spring peepers delighted my ears. At this point, they're a faint chirping in the fields along Tollgate Road. In a few weeks, they'll be all but deafening. And, it should prove to be a very noisy summer. Y'see, this year will mark the return of the seventeen year cicada.

Fun Fact: Did you know that hibernating cicada reappear in prime number years? Now, how do insects know what a prime number is? (FYI: A prime number is a number that is divisible only by one and itself. The first are two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, etc. Fermat's Last Theorum, solved a few years ago, had to do with the question of whether or not there exists a last prime number.)

Anyway. How does an insect know what a prime number is? Of course, they don't. But, by re-emerging in prime number years, they outwit any predators that would appear every two years, or three years, or whatever. Thus those wily cicada are keeping one step ahead of their predators.

How cool is that? Not to mention we'll have those cool carapaces littering the ground.

My D-I-V-O-R-C-E Becomes Final Today

Yesterday, I received in the mail an envelope from my Ex's place of employ. It contained on single sheet of paper: notification of the severing of our domestic partnership. I imagine that he decided to take care of this (it's been several years since I split), disliking loose ends as he does.

Ah well. This means I won't be able to fulfill a long-entertained fantasy: barging into his hospital room because I can. One of these days, I'll have to get around to changing my will. All I have still goes to him. Not too important as I'm not currently a property owner or anything, but I'd hate to see him take possession of my whips. That would truly be tragic.

Nah. I'll leave all I own to the Leather Archives and Museum. (You made your donation, right? Right???!!)

Tuesday, March 23, 2004


Cool! I've been asked to be a presenter at this year's TESFest. I'm going to present on chain bondage.

Okay. I'm totally thrilled. I'm honored. I'm excited. I feel affirmed. I'm tickled.

I gotta admit, whenever Edge gripes about being asked yet again to be a pinch-hit presenter, I sort of wince and think, "I'd be good on that topic..."

Well, now I have been asked. Chain bondage. I've done my best to make it sound fun and sexy. I hope there's a good turn out.


Monday, March 22, 2004

The Further Adventures of Delivery Guy!

Not only did I get to be Delivery Guy today, but I got to be Driver Guy, too! You got it right. They filled up the cube truck with cabinets, and so I was driving a van full of those cabinets which wouldn't fit. The trip was only over to Princeton, New Jersey. It was new construction, on a llama and alpaca farm (sort of accessory livestock, no?). The cabinets were a paint job. I guess what they were shooting for was a sort of burgundy red. But to my eye, it was purple. I dubbed it Barney's Kitchen when I saw it coming out of the spray room.

We were met at the site by the contractors who were doing the installation. There was a tall blond guy who was the Boss, and he had with him his helper.

His helper. Let's call him Fuckin' Eddie. Since that's how the Boss referred to him. As in, "Fuckin' Eddie. Look at these tools all over the place!"

Fuckin' Eddie was pretty sweet. A sturdy young man, with sort of dwarfish limbs that seemed undersized for his torso. Although he stood about 5' 8". He was just adorable.

Fuckin' Eddie and I did most of the lifting and hauling, getting the cabinets out of the truck and van and into the house. So I was able to get quite the eyeful. At one point, the Boss gave a sort of fake swat upside Fuckin' Eddie's head. That set my imagination going on all eight pistons.


That's the scene I'd like to do with Fuckin' Eddie. Put on the gloves and pulverize that sweet goofy face of his.

Oh yeah.

Ohhhhhhh yeahhhhhhh.

A knuckle sandwich for Fuckin' Eddie.

Today at work was a good day.

The Hootie Effect

Now that's interesting.

I recently bought the Hootie & The Blowfish cd. They're only cd, because of the untimely death of the vocalist (if memory serves). They hit it big, putting out a wildly successful album, and then that was it.

It's gorgeous. Lush instrumentation, and vocals smooth as Southern Comfort. And it's so grown up. All about relationships. The devils bargains that we make in the game of love.

Anyway. Driving home tonight, I had this... this... thought: just what am I missing out on by being a homo? I'm talking about women.

The relationships that are... um... 'discussed' in the songs are different than what I know. With two men--and, I assume, two women--you kinda know what's up with your partner. You're both put together essentially the same way. But in hetero relationships, there are unfathomable levels of complexity. You never quite know what makes this person tick, this person whom you love.

I mean fuck! What would that be like? You're lying in bed, your partner in your arms, and this woman will always be an unexplored and unchartable continent.


That would make life pretty interesting, huh?

Well, maybe I'm wrong about this. Maybe it's all the same with two people and one wash basin in the bathroom, no matter what combination of genitalia are involved.

Or maybe I should start hanging in straight bars.

Sunday, March 21, 2004

Georg Hegel Sez...

Just wound down the weekend with a great phone call from the Baron von Philadelphia. Just like ol' times, it resulted in yet another Great Theory of Human Nature! The Baron and I used to while away our days and nights together on the bohemian fringes of gay Philadelphia doing just that.

So here it is.

Georg Hegel observed in his work on logic that 'every affirmation is also a negation.' What that means is that when you say 'yes' to something, there is literally an entire universe of options that you are simultaneously saying no to.

At a certain point in our lives, we all figure that out. Up until that point, it's all a ball of confusion. Stress, anxiety, that feeling of being cornered and trapped. Most people figure that out within the context of a relationship. When you're dating someone when you're in your twenties, you're constantly aware of all the other people who seem to be interested in you. And you take a look at your True and Forever Love and think, 'Why am I with this... this... person who leaves his coffee cup out on the kitchen counter instead of putting it in the sink and putting water in it when I could be with him!' And with your job. And with where you're groing on vacation. And with taking the American Novel instead of Probability and Statistics.

But then, we get it. After you get it, then it's not actually hard to be aware that the 'yes' is, in fact, also a no to a universe of options, but to go ahead and say 'yes' anyway.

But, there are two kinds of people in the world: those that have figured it out, and those that haven't. Before you get it, it's all about confusion. Best to know who you're dealing with, particularly when the 'yes' involves a romantic entanglement.

(The preceeding has been brought to you by the Timeless Wisdom Department here at Singletails.)

I'm Sorry, Sir. I'd Like To Be Your Trophy Boy, But Y'See I Have A Softball Game So It'll Have To Wait Till September


On my drive back from the supermarket, I realized the obvious. Softball season starts up in a couple of weeks. That will mean that every Saturday morning--like morning, like 5 a.m., I'll drive up to NYC. I'll meet up with my team, head out to Randall's Island, play a couple of games, and then it's back to Ty's for the post-game pizza and beer. Then I'll meet up with friends of mine in the city, maybe have dinner, smoke a cigar on the pier while the sun sets, and then drive home, getting back here to the hinterlands around 11 p.m.

And, because I have to be up so early, that effectively knocks out Friday nights. And, because I need to be up for work on Monday morning, Sunday night's out. So there goes my date life.

For the greater good. The greater good being Softball! That'll be good. Good for me to forget about boys and Sirs and all for a while. Put it on ice for a while.

Ah... Softball.

Palm Springs Ho!

So I sent Special Guy an email. Along the lines of 'Hey! How goes it? How's your life in SF? Miss you!' Y'know. Sort of dangling a line in the water and seeing if there was a bite.

Well, today I got an email in reply. A veritable Koan of an email. It wasn't so much what Special Guy said, as what he didn't say. There was no 'let's keep in touch!' or 'it would be great to see you again!' kinda thing.

Well. That's kind of a given. Both Special Guy and I turned the page. What we had was wonderful, but it's for discussion in the past tense.

Right. Got that. All clear.

So, it would probably not be a good idea to trek across the country to a city that otherwise holds no attraction to me in the hopes that some spark will be rekindled. Special Guy and I have already told each other that what we had was beautiful. I told him I would probably never find another man like him. (I really did that! I expressed my feelings honestly and directly to the person who was the object of those feelings! Go me!)

So Palm Springs it is. Arrive on Saturday. Check into the Desert Bear Inn. Check out the local leather watering hole on Saturday night. Relax on Sunday and get my bearings in the town on Sunday. During the week, monday through Friday, plan some hiking, some horseback riding, a trip to San Diego. A trip to LA to see galleries. Maybe hit the beach. Eat some good food. Soak in a hot tub looking at the stars. Spend time in the desert. Maybe track down some Leather Navigator and WorldLeathermen contacts in those fair cities. That would be a pretty perfect week. Fly back on Sunday, recharged.

Some of you more astute readers may be wondering, since the Financial Crisis has been resolved, am I still going to forgo Inferno this year in favor of Delta?

And I'm not sure.

Here's the big thing that's weighing on my mind as I consider that. You have a duty assignment for Inferno. I've always done set-up. Set-up rocks! You get to meet and chat and work (hard!) with a bunch of the guys you're about spend the run with. It's pretty sweet.

But last year at Inferno, I was approached by a man we'll call FireMaster. FireMaster's bailiwig is transportation. He does it ably assisted by none other than Alpha. And he was thinking that it wouldn't be a bad idea to bring a third man onto the team. And since I drive, and since I'm buddies with Alpha, I would be a good candidate.

That would be so cool! Here's the pay-off for the duty: you get to meet all the guys at the airport! Beyond extending a warm welcome, getting the run off the on the right foot for them, you also get to scope out who you might want to play with. Why, it's like one of those reality game shows. You're basically meeting them one on one as they arrive.

And, since I enthusiastically agreed, I would hate to let FireMaster down.


I'll think about that.

Presidential Ineptitude


Looks like 60 Minutes will be Must See TV tonight.

Check this out.

Bush ignored warnings in the months leading up to September 11th. The White House wanted to pin the World Trade Center attacks on Iraq, viewing Al Quaeda as small potatoes. Clinton, by contrast, given similar warnings of an imminent terrorist threat in 1999, ordered his security advisors and intelligence apparatus to battlestations, and as a result, an Al Quaeda operative with plans to bomb LAX was stopped trying to cross the Canadian border with a car load of explosives.

Are these charges made by some powerless, partisan lefty member of Congress?


They're being made by a man who served as the first President Bush's top terrorism expert, who was kept on in the Clinton White House, and stayed to serve the former Governor of Texas, but saw his job ('terrorism czar') down-graded from being a Cabinet-level position after the innauguration.

It's always tough to tell in politics how these things will play out. No doubt Karl Rove has but to reach over and pull his file filled with all the dirt on this guy and get it into circulation before the cridibility will be questioned. And chances are, they've known or suspected for weeks that this was coming and they're all ready with a counter-offensive.

But, I find it weirdly reminiscent of learning that the Office of the Independent Counsel was questioning a former White House intern who may have had a sexual relationship with Bill Clinton. Only the issue there was what the President did with his penis, not gross and catastrophic mismanagement of national security.


Since softball practice was cancelled yesterday (those pussies! what's a little mud and snow on the field?), I headed down to Philadelphia, stopping into Kiehl's to replenish my supply of emoluments, grabbing dinner, and heading to the Bike Stop. On my drive down, I had this sense that "this is gonna be a good night." Nothing specific. But I just had the feeling that I'd be driving home in the wee hours with a smile on my face.

And it was a good night. Felt good to be tooling around the city. Philadelphia is soooo walkable. No need for trains or taxis. I got into the Bike Stop about 11 pm. And it was a good looking crowd that greeted me. Right off the bat, while I was catching up with PissBoss, I saw this cigar smoking Sir with his collared boy. I checked them out, and they checked me out.

Headed downstairs and got a beer, greeted a few guys I know. Sir and boy and I continued to sort of circle and sniff like dogs. Finally, I was standing against the wall, and Sir and boy positioned themselves ever-so-strategically in front of me. Sir was directly in front of me. He ever-so-strategically put one hand behind his back with a thumb in his belt loop, so it directly in front of my crotch.

I took the bait, moving closer till his fingertips brushed the bulge in my leathers. And that was kinda the ice breaker. They were in Philadelphia for the weekend from Massachusetts, staying at the local homo hotel. I got an invitation to head back to the room with them, and I was good with that. So off we went.

It was a lot of fun. Sir kinda barked orders, and boy and I did our best to comply. (Now fuck my boy some. Now suck my dick. Now suck my boy's dick.) That worked well. boy came, I came, Sir came. We chatted. I got dressed, got my car out of the parking lot, and headed north on Broad Street/611/263.

On the way I realized something. The scene was all about pig sex. And I was good with that. But I've always felt that I didn't quite have it together to be a sex pig. In part, I now see why.

Y'see, I have a hairtrigger sense of smell. In general, I don't like smells. Of any kind. Good smells, bad smells, whatever. Smells give me a sort of vertigo, the slightest smell is overwhelming, grabbing all my attention, robbing me of focus. When I get a whiff of something, it's like I was smacked in the head with a pillow. I reel. And in a weird way, they get in the way of sex. For example, I'm fine with sucking dick or drinking piss or munching butt, whatever. Until I smell something. Then I'm unnerved. I recoil. It's weird.

With food, too. I hate coconut, not so much because of the taste, but because of the smell that hits my nostrils as it's going in my mouth. Same with eggplant. Same with eggs, in fact, which I eat all the time.

Now, smells should be a turnon, right? They should be part of it? Not invasive.

Maybe I need to obtain a smelly jockstrap and jerk off with it over my face for a while. Or something. (LOL... I gotta admit, the thought of that makes me queasy as I write this.)

Unscented laundry detergent. Unscented shaving cream. Unscented candles. Unscented household products. Unscented sex.

If'n I wanna be a sex pig, I'll have to rearrange the way my brain processes smells.


I'm watching the Phils play the Twins. (Minnesota is up by two in the second inning on the strength of an unbelievable three home runs in the first.)

Anyway, Phillies coach Larry Bowa was just interviewed. he has about three days of scruff on his face.

Me: Woof!
Dad: What?
Me: Uh... Larry Bowa looks really good today.
Dad: He's the coach. He's not playing
Me: I'm not talking about how he's playing, Dad.
Dad: Oh. It looks to me like he needs a shave.
Me: I like that look.
Dad: You're kidding.
Me: I'm not kidding.
Dad: Well, there's no accounting for taste, I guess.

Friday, March 19, 2004

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Things are shaping up. Not LA vs. San Francisco, but San Francisco vs. Palm Springs. Y'see, with Palm Springs, I can get to LA (for Art) and San Diego (to see Alpha and go swimmin'). And I'll be in the desert.

Clearly, Palm Springs is coming out again. But San Fried Psycho is not out of the running. Uh uh. I'm gonna see if I have the testicular fortitude to track down Special Guy, suss him out. If he's all about 'When you comin' out here, Sweetheart?' then SF gets major points.

But we'll see.

Oh. Happy Vernal Equinox! Night and Day are the same length of time.

Decisions, Decisions!

Okay. I want to go on vacation the week of July Fourth. (And here's a new thing... I can afford to go on vacation the week of July Fourth!) So here's what I'm mulling...


In the Plus Column: I'd get (maybe) to spend time with Special Guy and Hooved Goose. Maybe make a day trip to the Russian River. And it's a place I've never been before. On the Downside... It's San Francisco. A place I've avoided lo these many years. It's gaygaygay, and in that weird insular way. Whenever I've heard San Franciscans rave about why they loved their city, it's left me cold. Still... maybe I should get a trip there under my belt. And I found what looks to be an interesting place to stay: the Black Stallion, and leather b-n-b in the heart of the Castro.


It's the desert! And we love the desert! Probably lots to see and do. And there's a leather guest house, albeit one that looks frighteningly like the seedy place I once stayed in Fort Lauderdale, called the Chapps Inn. And it seems to me that there's a good leather scene in Palm Springs. Don't think I know anyone there, though.


Get to see Alpha and a slew of other people I know. And they have the desert there, too. But I've been there before. A few times. It's pretty. But it's also dull. And very much a rich person's town. When I've had good food there, I paid a hell of a lot of money for it.


Hmmm. I love Los Angeles. There's great art. Amazing art. Wonderful art. I could make day trips to Palm Springs and to San Diego. Hmmm... And they have an ocean you can sorta swim in.

So, it looks to me as if it's a run off between San Francisco and Los Angeles.

Any thoughts from my readers?

Thursday, March 18, 2004

Horticultural Exploits

Ran into Farmer Guy at Starbucks again.


On our second encounter, I was sort of put off. He told a story about night-clubbing in Los Angeles up on E... Not what I'm up for.

But tonight, he was singing a different song. He moved back here when his father died. He gets up with the dawn to get his organic produce to market. He likes canoeing. He seems intrigued--although inexperienced--with Mondo Leather.

And he's really hot. Definitely one of the hottest men I've met since I moved here. Mr. Carharrts. Mr. Flannel Shirt. Mr. Work Boots.

And he's got a great nose. A really really sexy nose. (What's the Chinese character for nose? Maybe that would make a good tattoo...)

Questions? Yeah. I've got questions. What's his stand on the monogamy question? Is he available to date? Is he psychotic? Is he boring in bed?

I mean, several positive indicators so far. For one thing, although he's demonstrated lots of interest, he hasn't gotten all kinds of smarmy. He seems to have opted for asking questions and getting to know me rather than asking me over to look through seed catalogs.


So I'll play it as it lays. But the situation has possibilities.

Why Won't You Dance With Me? I Ain't No Limburger

Yup. It's a Jane Austen kind of a morning here.

"It is a fact universally recognized that any leatherman in possession of experience, wit, and fifty feet of rope must be in search of a steady eddie."

Yeah. I'm lonely. And angry.

What is up with me?

Well, that's the crux of the issue. It's me and my standards again. It would be all too easy to gripe about how I haven't met anyone decent, but that's not true. I've met plenty of guys. But not anyone of the caliber of Special Guy.

Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's a sign of emotional maturity on my part that I haven't embarked on countless bad relationships, saying 'Yes' just because someone expressed interest in me.

But maybe I'm afraid of something. Something along the lines of giving away my heart to someone who might not take good care of it.

They've identified homosexual behavior in rams. Male sheep will exhibit mating behavior towards other males. They haven't been successful in determining whether or not ewes are likewise homosexually inclined. Y'know why? Becase ewe mating behavior is basically standing still in the hopes that a nearby ram will get the idea and mount her.

That's me alright.

Maybe I should behave more like a ram and less like a ewe.

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

Close Call!

My Dad and I watched The Apprentice tonight. Troy, who's pretty dreamy, almost got fired. If Troy had gotten fired, I probably wouldn't be watching any more of The Apprentice.

I bet that Troy is a really slutty bottom. Up for anything. Fuckin' helium heels. "Oh yeah, Boss! Put it in me! Go deep, Boss. I wanna feel you shoot it in me. Breed me, Boss!"


Troy the boy.

I'd love to give it to Troy. And give it to him good. Feel my balls slapping up against Troy the boy's beautiful bubble butt.

"Tighten up that hole, boy. Give me a good ride now."

"Awww yessssSir!"

"And keep your hands off your dick, boy, I don't want you to cum and make me end before I'm ready. I might just be plowing you all night. See how many loads I can give you, fucker. How much junk I can put in your trunk."


Troy has it coming.


Y'think I'm watching too much tv?

Awnry. Again.

Ran into Farmer Guy at Starbucks. He really is easy on the eyes. He was scruffy today. Loved that. He's soon gonna be busy putting in peas. Then cabbage, radishes, and all of those early Spring crops.

Fuck man. I want him.

Thinking about the weird gay cruise thing at work today. Just sort of wondering 'now where did that come from?' I think it has something to do with turning forty.

This is odd. I've never minded getting older. I've welcomed it. I feel, truly, that I get better as I get older. But perhaps for the first time, I'm hearing Time's wing'd chariot drawing near.

"The gave is a cool and pleasant place, but none, I believe, do there embrace."

Mebbe that's why I'm so horny lately. Just what all did I glimpse during the scene with PunchPig last Wednesday? Perhaps it was a reminder of what really good play is, and how I'm not getting a lot of that out here in the hinterlands. Hell, when was the last time I whipped a man? I don't remember. No whipping this year at Inferno, so it must have been before then.

Out of my musings on the Big 4-0 at work today came a decision. I've gotta sit down with my father and have a talk. He's starting to get whiney when I head out on my various adventures on the weekends. And that's gotta stop. My message to him: Dad, I'm not getting any younger. I'll have plenty of time to sit home on Friday nights and watch television in a decade or two, but not now. Not yet.

After I took their Personality Test, I signed onto (Spurred on, no doubt, by the verrrry flattering portrait painted by the results of my personality test.) The site is geared towards relationships. I thought I did a nice job on my profile, but I received email yesterday that it was rejected. I talked about leather, I talked about favoring whipping, flogging, chain bondage, piss, and fisting in my S/M play. Probably had something to do with it.

When I received their email, my gut was, 'well fuck'em.' But now, I'm reconsidering. Maybe I should work up a more carefully worded profile, more palatable to vanilla perusers of

No no no. Wrong wrong wrong. Dumb move. Bad to even think that.


And I've been thinking a lot about Special Guy lately. I wonder how he's doing in San Francisco. I wonder if his cell phone number still works. I guess I could call his parents and ask for his contact information. Track him down. Maybe for the week I'm off in July I could head to San Francisco instead of San Diego.

Yeah, I know I've always had an aversion to san Francisco. San Fried Psycho. So many annoying people over the years have done me a big favor by getting out of my hair and moving there. Yeah yeah yeah. But I could spend some time with my buddy Hooved Goose, and see Special Guy. And check out the city. That cold, gay, leftist, Tina-feuled city.

Geez it would be great to see Special Guy again. I don't doubt that I've been replaced.

I'd like to tell him, well... I already have actually... that there's never been anyone like him in my life. And I'm coming to believe that there never will be again.

A Gay Cruise???!!

I know. You're snorting with derision. That's understandable.

I snort derisively when I hear someone mention a gay cruise, too. That's not my idea of a vacation. My idea of a vacation is to Travel. As in, hello Ho Chi Mihn City! Or Prague, Moscow, Belize, the Canadian Rockies, New Orleans, Portland... And it's all about unmediated, non-massed produced experience. It takes extensive research beforehand, and while you're there, keep your eyes and ears open for quirky stuff that only a handful of the alternative-lifestyling locals think is hip.

I had lunch in Taos, but spent a day and a night hiking up a butte outside of Abiquiue, New Mexico, where Georgia O'Keefe used to go for walks. I skipped the tourist choked Ring of Kerry and spent my time in the gorgeous desolation of Connaught and the Burren. And Georgia was amazing, with such highlights as meeting a creepy guy who had donated blood to Flannery O'Connor during her last illness, spending a week in August camping in the Okeefenokee swamp, and having fine barbeque experiences. I became a devote of the Sandunovskii Banya in Moscow, so much so that I once sat with the Moscovites who were regulars and snickered at the ineptitude of some touristii amerikanskii. Then there was my near-death experience in Death Valley ("Hi!" I said to the woman at the ranger station, "Can you suggest a hiking trail? I'll have about five hours." "Are you out of your mind?" came the reply, "It's 112 degrees outside. There's no hiking going on today." "Uh huh. Okay. Well, where could I fill up these gallon jugs with water?").

Okay. I'll readily admit that there's a seemy underbelly of adventure traveling. Namely, when you get back, you both make people jealous and demonstrate how smart and cool you are.

That's how the game is played, and it's a good game.

So when I woke up this morning, While in that not-quite-awake-not-quite-asleep stage, I was getting all excited about the idea of going on a Gay Cruise for my fortieth birthday in October.

I'd go, soak up the sun, work out at the gym, eat food, get drunk, maybe snorkle at some island where I'd meet exactly none of the locals (who would probably be brimming with resentment of the wealthy American homos who try to bed their teenage sons in exchange for ten dollars), and have sex with a gay cop from Tulsa, Oklahoma. And when I got back, I'd have no photos, no pottery made by local artisans, no cool new wardrobe additions that I'd never wear, and no but-can-you-top-this? stories to tell.

I'd have no unique memories, just the generic recollections I'd share with the thousands--nay millions of men who have also taken the same gay cruise as me. And there'd be all those tedious jokes those queens would be making about Julie, Isaac, Doc, Gofer, and the Captain.

So what's the draw? Well... It would be warm and sunny. I probably wouldn't be able to blog [g]. Relatively inexpensive. Easy to manage. The chances of scoring some boypussy are good. And difficult entanglements are easily avoided as it's a big ship.

I've always thought of gay cruises as the domain of unimaginative, middle-of-the-road homos who live in the suburbs of secondary cities in flyover land, for whom just being in the company of more than the fifteen guys they see at the seedy local gay bar constitutes a big thrill.


Am I that guy?

Tuesday, March 16, 2004



I've got it!

The thread out of the labyrinth of my tattoo search is a guy with whom I served on the Board of GMSMA. Coyote. Coyote is an amazing artist. I like his work as much as any I've seen, and more than a lot of it. Did a Google search but didn't come up with anything on-line for y'all to scoot over to.

Just sent an email to Coyote at the last email address I have for him. Hope it's well received.

Spring Snow

We got a couple of inches of snow here in the hinterlands, and yesterday the temperature was almost at 60 degrees. Such is March.

There was this great moment at work today. Or, more precisely, immediately after work. When the bell rang, we all punched out and headed out to the parking lot. There we all were, cleaning the snow off of our trucks, laughing, tossing snowballs at each other. Men will be boys.

Nightingale's attempts to lose his breathtakingly beautiful beachball beer gut are going well. He's lost 38 pounds in the past two weeks. He's 'eating right' and spending an hour walking fast every day. I'm teasing him: "Oh my God! Do you feel all right? You're wasting away!" I've dubbed him "Our own Calista Flockhart." He mentioned the other day that when he manages to lose the weight he wants to lose, he's planning on shaving his head "like you, Dutch."

Oh Woof! That'll make the loss of his physique easier for me to reckon with. He'll still be the hottest man in the shop in that case.

And another interesting thing on the work front. Okay. This is weird. A few months ago, one of my co-workers, apparently in an attempt to shock and horrify a new co-worker on the guys second day, posed the following question: "If you had this dead bitch who was fucking gorgeous right there and nobody was around, would you fuck her?" (It had its intended effect.) Since then, necrophilia has sort of become the favorite inside joke among us all. (The stock reply to 'How was your weekend?' is 'I didn't get to fuck any dead bitches, but it was okay.')

So anyway, the sick puppy of a co-worker who started this whole ball rolling came up to me and asked how I was liking sanding the cabinet door I was working on. "I'm loving it. I'm loving sanding this door," I replied in a flat monotone and with an expressionless face.

"Yeah?" he said, "Better than fucking a dead... body?"

Interesting. The standard trope is 'fucking a dead bitch.' But he didn't say bitch. He said body.

Now, I haven't come out and announced that I'm a homo, but I sure haven't done much to hide it. And I explained to my only female co-worker that the sticker on my jeep was a leather pride flag. And in response to Nightingale's story about how Felipe Rose, the guy in the Cherokee headdress in the Village People, once treated him to lunch, I responded by telling how a guy on my softball team was dating Felipe and Felipe broke up with him via email, and since that time, my fellow Ball Breaker has that wound reopened every time he hears the Village People.

So maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, but maybe it's pretty much become known in the shop that I'm a homo.

The sick puppy in question is racist, obviously sexist, and was almost suspended from high school for calling kids 'faggot.' But he doesn't seem to mind me much.

This is all pretty new to me. I've always been out at work before. It was always pretty much understood, if only because my places of employ have either been wildly homo friendly or at the very least worldly and sophisticated in that New York City kinda way. Like on 'Will & Grace' [g].

Interesting to see how this develops.

The tension is unbearable. I hope it lasts.

Take Me. Break Me. Remake Me.


I perceive hanges in my psyche. The result, no doubt, of touching the sublime with PunchPig last Wednesday night. For one thing, I'm horny. The helmuted little love soldier is standing at attention at the least provocation. And for another thing, I'm feeling really bottomy. Verrry sub.

Interesting. If my thinking is correct that my foray into cumdump fantasies scared me out of bottomspace, then perhaps I owe PunchPig another debt of gratitude: he's made bottomspace a place where I can feel safe and secure again.


Monday, March 15, 2004

The Further Adventures of Delivery Guy! (With The Obligatory Architecture and Design Criticism)

I had just started my day at the sanding table when I got the news that I'd be heading out on a delivery. Just a local trip. This, as always, came as welcome news. So Driver Guy and I headed out on the road. This time, it was a local delivery, and not to some toney suburb. We were taking a truck full of kitchen cabinets to humble little Kintnersville. So off we headed, north on Route 611.

We turned off the highway onto a local road, and off the local road onto a backroad. We came around a bend and I saw it. A perfect little house. A nice ranch, probably built in the Sixties. Clean lines, a low roof. And whaddya know? We turned into the driveway.

It really was perfect. Set well off the road, in the woods. Single story. Beautiful stone and verticle redwood exterior. And following Frank Lloyd Wright's dictum, it was built half way up the hill, rather than on top.

Inside it was filled with light, with great views. The scale and size of the rooms was modest. It was minimal in its decoration. Flagstone foyer and oakfloors.

I was absolutely cheered and delighted to learn that houses like this were to be found in the farther reaches of Bucks County.

But then we started to unload our cabinets. They were beautiful. Flawlessly built and finished. No expense had been spared. And they were wrong. *sigh* Mahogany with a dark finish. Elaborated with beadwork and what's known as dental crown moulding.

No no no no no no no. No.

Not for that house. I started to look with pity on the sweet couple who lived there. They didn't realize what a gem they had. And they were spending a fortune on cabinets that should have been going into some other house. Any other house.


After we made the delivery, which went smoothly, Driver Guy and I spent the whole day on the road, dropping off stuff for another job. The other job was a lot of fun. A young woman, seven months pregnant, was getting her dream kitchen. And I approved. It was a good kitchen.

Sunday, March 14, 2004


Thanks, Sting!

While I sat listening to the titilating tintinabulations of Sting, I got an idea for tattooing. An idea that I think might fly.

Chains. Chains all over. Lotsa chains. Chains of Love, specifically. That's the theme. Chains of love. Like a giant charm bracelet. The chains will encircle or be attached to other images that are important to me, images to mark significant points in my life, those moments when I came to a greater understanding of love.

Like Jacob Marley, only different. Marley told Scrooge that the chains he was forced to wear in the afterlife were forged when he walked the earth, all of his stinginess.

I remember really early in my life coming to the conclusion that love hurts, love ultimately causes pain. Hide my heart. That was what seventeen year old me decided.

Well, that didn't work.


Love does always ultimately end in pain. But love calls us to the things of this world. Love binds us. Holds us. Love hurts. Just like chain bondage.

I've bottomed in all the scenes that I do as a Top, but chain bondage is the big exception. ('Cause I'm the best there is, Bay-bee!) But in a way, I have. I get the scene from the inside even though I've never been chained up. To be held so tight, and so totally, but steel, which is practically eternal. And the chains hurt.

Recently, Lolita mentioned that she had heard Guy Baldwin in a workshop opine that most people drawn to S/M have abandonment issues.

Okay. Now, my immediate reaction was to discount it. It's the issue I have with the whole project of psychotherapy. I mean, does anybody not have abandonment issues? Okay okay okay. So probably there are Buddhist monks that don't have abandonment issues. But I think all the rest of us have abandonment issues. Abandonment issues are what ya might call part of the human condition. So... like... if everybody has abandonment issues, does anybody really have abandonment issues? Thus, it's no surprise that there were a lot of heads nodding in agreement when Guy said that. Everybody was thinking, "Gosh. I'm into S/M, and I have abandonment issues. So it must be true."


But to quote the Saturday Night Live skit 'Godfather Group Therapy,' "Vito, you're blocking."

An' maybe I am.

'Cause maybe that's what it's all about. One sure, solid relationship. Permanent as a steel collar secured with a padlock. Maybe that's what we're all looking for. The one who won't go away. The one who will always be there. The Sir who won't send us out the door. The boy who won't leave home. For good. For good. There certainly is an irreversible aspect to many of my fantasies.

But this raises a troubling issue.

Ultimately, it won't work. It's not gonna happen. We fail one another. Our burning burning love grows cold. We leave to pursue other opportunities. Or get left behind. Good, smart people do bad, stupid things and disappoint the people who care about them.

So, if that's what we're hoping to get out of S/M, doesn't that mean that we're all setting ourselves up for heartache and disappointment?

Doesn't seem that way to me.

I mean, sure. I spend enough time here and elsewhere wishing for Him. The Sir who will collar me or the slave who will belong to me. And I've sure heard that from just about everybody else I know. Huh. Maybe that's why we're all such suckers for the internet. So much easier to think "This Might Be HIM!" when we're dealing with the phantoms we encounter there.

But I haven't met many bitter and disappointed men who have walked away from S/M in disgust, hurt by the futility of their search.

Maybe it's the old Bait and Switch I've thought about before. We go out looking for HIM, but we find him. One good man, or at least, a man who can hold it together for a night or a weekend or a summer or a decade.

"S/M is the quest ofr excellence in ourselves and others." that's the quote with which I began this weblog. And perhaps it could be taken as the theme. Maybe that's the kernal of wisdom here. After all, we're not made to be excellent. Because we're not excellent. We're earthen vessels, but sometimes we contain pure gold. And maybe we get just enough gold to sustain us.

Chains of love.

Plus, I think it'll look really cool.


A guy I've been chatting with on AOL, a cigar guy from DC, asked me to go with him to a Sting concert on Friday night.

Downside: I met the guy only briefly at a party, what would it be like spending a whole night with him? Sting? Isn't that like soccer mom music? Could I have a future with a Sting fan? I'm sort of owing somebody who takes me to a concert, right? I mean, it's not like he sprung for latte or something?

On the Other Hand: I'm good for conversation with just about anybody. I like his early stuff. It's a concert! I love concerts! Yeah, and when I was solvent, I would have had no problem springing for a concert ticket.

So the equation balanced and I said yes.

A concert!

I was of the generation that reached the terrestrial apex of concert going. There was a whole thing about concerts. A whole subculture. There were Rules!

Rule Number One: Make buying the Tickets an Ordeal. As in, sleep over night in a sleeping bag outside of the Ticketron outlet. Here in Bucks County, that would be Kenny's Bookstore in Doylestown. In college, the place at the mall in Reading.
Rule Number Two: Travel in a Pack. You need to buy a block of six tickets. And figure out which of your friends to take with you to share the concert experience, from beginning to end.
Rule Number Three: Be Prepared. Oh yeah. Obtain--either by purchase or having someone making you a tape--the entire oevre of the artist in question. Listen to the artist in question obsessively.
Rule Number Four: Pick a Favorite Song. The Favorite Song should be relatively obscure. Something that doesn't get played on the radio. The point of the Favorite Song is when you go to the concert, the event will center on whether or not the artist in question plays the Favorite Song. Note: Do not have as a favorite song the same song as someone who you're going to the concert with, or else that means you're a couple and the Favorite Song becomes Your Song, the song that you'll listen to over and over again when you break up.
Rule Number Five: Let everyone know you're going to the concert. One effective way to achieve this is by writing "(Artist in Question) Rules!" on the paper bag cover of your schoolbooks. Your parents are not included in everybody if they're going to be a problem. If this is the case, tell them that you're spending the night with one of your fellow concert goers so you two can study for your midterms. That always works!
Rule Number Six: Get drunk on beer at the concert. It's never a problem buying beer at concert venues, or at least it wasn't back in the day.
Rule Number Seven: Your entire concert going experience will be organized around the Artist in Question playing your Favorite Song. Stay glued to your seat. If the Artist in Question plays your Favorite Song, yell to all your friends, "Omigod! This is totally my Favorite Song!".
Rule Number Eight: Flick your Bic! Whether you smoke or not, you have to bring a Bic lighter with you to the concert. When the Artist in Question says, "Thanks so much, Philadelphia! You've been great! G'night!", this is your signal to ignite your Bic lighter and hold it over your head, with your arm extended, until the Artist in Question returns to the stage.
Rule Number Nine: Buy Zee Tshirt. In my day, concert tshirts were printed on black and white (contrasting sleeves!) baseball shirts. You would wear the shirt As Is on the first schoolday after the concert. Then, you'd wash it with a lot of bleach or something to fade the design somewhat to give the impression that it's all you ever wear.
Rule Number Ten: Find out whose touring and start the cycle all over again.

Concerts I've seen...

  • The B-52s. My first concert. Of course, I didn't tell anyone I was going with that this was my first concert. I saw them several times after that. A kid in back of me in line pierced his own ear with a safety pin, bled profusely, and passed out. Cool! It was at the Philadelphia Zoo, a truly great concert venue. Most of the friends I met during the first semester of my freshman year at college I met because they saw me wearing my B-52s concert tshirt.
  • The Ramones. Amazing show. I only knew Rock'n'Roll High School before the show.
    The Go Go's. Oh yeah. Saw it with the gang I used to work with at Mother's Restaurant. Most of us were homos ('Skidmarks On My Heart' was the Favorite Song of one of my fellow concert goers). The median age was 30.
  • The Stray Cats. Everybody liked Brian Setzler, but I liked Slim Jim Fantom, the bassman.
    The Eurhythmics. Before there was Annie Lennox, there was the Eurhythmics. My friend Eva and I found great thrift shop clothes to wear to the concert, for Eva, a pink pillbox hat and a matching pink cape to go with it. So we were Jack and Jackie Kennedy that night.
  • The Clash. Yeah. I saw the Clash. With my sister. She liked the acapella group that opened, 24 Caret Soul. I made the tragic mistake of following up my really big cup of beer with a really big cup of Pepsi. That night, I had the worst gas I've ever had in my life. It was nightmarish.
  • Elton John. With my college girlfriend. (It's a long story what I was doing with a girlfriend in college.) He took a swig of water and spit it out all over one of the tech guys. The songs he wrote with Bernie Taupin are still among my favorites.
  • Tina Turner. Wearing my Tina Turner concert tshirt guaranteed conversation with every African American I encountered. ("Awright! Goddess Tina!") This did great things for the expansion of my multi-cultural experiences. And it provided an anomolous bonding moment with my stepmother when she said, "I think she does the best 'Proud Mary' better than anyone else." The fact that a seventy-year-old woman had heard of not only Tina Turner but Proud Mary floored me a little bit. I brought her back a keychain.
  • Bruce Springsteen. The Born in the USA Tour. At the Spectrum in Philadelphia. Best concert ever. Just amazing.
  • Billy Idol. When Billy Idol came crawling across the stage towards the audience through the haxe from the smoke machine, I got such a hardon. I wanted to fuck Billy so bad.
  • Stevie Nicks. Uh. Yeah. She did some of the Fleetwood Mac stuff.
  • Black Flag. Oh man. There was this punk scene in Philadelphia in the 'Eighties that was funfunfun. I've always liked Henry Rollins, the frontman, until he opens up his mouth.
  • Husker Du. Yep. Saw them, too. And more than fifteen years later, I found myself sitting and talking to Husker Du's frontman, Bob Mould, at the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street. That was nearly a loose-control-of-my-bladder moment. Bob Mould's two solo albums, 'Workbook' and 'Black Sheets of Rain' were the soundtrack of my life in the early 'Nineties.
  • Big Audio Dynamite. Very cool. Way cool. They're still rocking my iPod.
  • Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians. A quirky British guy. He had a song about frogs, I think.
  • 10,000 Maniacs. Oh yeah. I saw Natalie Merchant so many times. I still love her. And Robert Buck was one of the greatest Rock guitarists of all time. There are many, many Natalie songs that will make me choke up automatically.
  • REM. REM was--and is--totally my band. But it used to be that because I liked REM, I didn't have to worry about being cool. But, then they got popular. Saw them a lot. Like, a whole lot.
  • The Cranberries. A cub I was dating took me to see the Cranberries. But I broke up with him when he told me how he wanted to suck on the lead singer's feet, thus revealing himself to be both bisexual and a foot fetishist.

And now, Sting. I liked Sting. It was a good concert, very high energy. And the Tower Theater is a great venue. I last saw the Eurhythmics there. Sting did bring out the soccer moms, but they were sweet. Their husbands made a lot of trips to the lobby for beer though ("Okay, I'll go with you to the Sting concert, but you're the designated driver that night.") There's a lushness and expansiveness to his music I liked a lot. So it was a good night.

Scientifically Speaking...

Here are the results of my personality test...

You're smart, insightful, and have an insatiable curiosity about life. You have a vision for how you want your life to be, so you refuse to settle long-term for a boring job or doing something just because it's expected of you. Life should be "balanced" with plenty of time for fun, friends, spontaneity, and romance! You've always had lots of friends. You bring more time, understanding, and support to friendships than most men. You also have an emotional depth that most men lack. In fact, you're ready and able at this point in your life to experience romance and a powerful "spark" with someone special.

Well... Yeah.

Fuck Microsoft Internet Explorer.

Microsoft Internet Explorer totally sucks.

I hate Microsoft Internet Explorer.

There I was, about forty-five minutes into a blog posting, typing away. One of my better efforts, I think. I opened up a new window to do some fact-checking on Google, and my screen froze. Froze majorly. Nothing was working. I had to restart. The posting is lost. Vanished into cyberspace.


Hate that.

Thursday, March 11, 2004

Being and Becoming!

That's the distinction I was trying to make the other day, talking about my new outlook with the (soon-to-be) resolution of my financial distress.

Being and Becoming. Your life must be a work in progress, or it's nothing at all. With no money to do anything. ("Don't you see," asked Diabolique, "money is just energy?")

But it's got to be about what you're becoming. That is the key. I was stuck in just plain ol' being. Wake up. Drink tea. Go to work. Go to Starbucks. Hit the gym. Come home. Make dinner. Surf the web. Go to bed. Basically, breathing in and out.

After work today, I stopped at a tattoo place down in New Hope. Tragically, the walls were filled with the same designs you see every place. (Although I didn't see the chinese character for 'nose.') But I asked to speak to the artist. When he was free inking a rose on a woman's calf or something we had a talk. I told him I wanted work done. I had some ideas of images, but nothing firm. I wanted something dramatic. Arresting. One of a kind.

He suggested that I start by collecting ideas. I don't have to commit to something, but if I bring in some images to put on the table, he'd work with me to come up with a design.

That's when it all clicked. Yesssss... I've got to figure out what I'm becoming. The man I will be.



So today at work, I was working at the sanding table. Under the cover of the whine of the orbital sanders, I was singing to myself. Today, I happened to be singing Blondie songs. Love Debbie Harry.

I sang 'French Kissing in the USA,' and 'Heart of Glass,' and then I was singing 'The Tide is High.'

'The Tide is High' was used in the opening sequence of the movie 'Longtime Companion.' And suddenly, I thought of the closing sequence. Manipulative, to be sure, but always deeply affecting. To me anyway. It's the scene when they're out in the Pines, and up the stairs, just in time for tea, come all the guys who have died.

I don't believe in heaven, but if I'm wrong, I hope it's like that or I don't give a tinker's dam where I end up.

I suddenly thought of my sister. What I wouldn't give to have a day with her. At the beach, say. Or down on the wing dam in Lumberville. Or at the Sheepee. Or cooking with her.

So there I was, sanding a piece of crown molding, tearing up and sobbing.

Luckily, none of my co-workers noticed that I was crying.

That would've been harder to explain than a black eye.

So here I am, again, in touch with my feelings.

Thanks, PunchPig. I can't quite connect the dots, but I think it has something to do with the events of last night.


There's a new Scooby-Doo movie. I'm so glad. Do I go to see it alone? Or could I possibly rope someone into going with me?

Me and schlocky movies doesn't make sense to you? Cultured and over-educated Renaissance leatherman that I am? Think again.

Consider, my Darling, the avenues of philosophical inquiry raised by Scooby-Doo.

As a friend of mine put it, "Everything you need to know about life, you can learn from Scooby-Doo. Whenever you encounter something weird, mysterious, and seemingly paranormal, it probably is just about real estate.

"Now we'll pull of his mask and see who he really is...

...Donald Trump!!!"

"Right. And my plan would have worked if it wasn't for you meddling kids and your interfering dog."


What a great night.


Luckily, I got an early start, leaving the house at twenty minutes after five. Traffic was heavy on I-78, but I managed to maintain seventy-two miles per hour most of the way. Once through the Holland Tunnel (Hi, Holland Tunnel! Miss you like herpes!), things slowed down considerable as Hudson Street was a parking lot. After only one or two tours of the block, I managed to find parking. A quick stop at Starbucks for a latte, and I made it to the Center before the program got started. As I walked down Twelfth Street, I heard a guy repeating the mantra, "Marlboro five bucks... Five bucks for Marlboro... I got Marlboro for five bucks." Interesting. When I first moved to NYC, the streets were littered with drug dealers who kept up their own particular little rap, "Smoke. Smoke. Sens. Smoke. Smoke," selling oregano to NYU students. And now it's come to this. What hath Bloomberg wrought? And then, I ran into a politico I knew from my last job. Quick bout of gossiping--I still haven't been replaced, Boss Sunshine is in something of a political decline.

And then, I had arrived at the Center. The GMSMA meeting was in room 101. Wow. I used to facilitate ACT UP meetings in that room. Those walls have witnessed many important moments in my life. And now, they were gonna see another one.

Way cool.

There was PunchPig. There was everybody. A good crowd.

I said my hellos then ducked into a stairwell to change into my singlet. PunchPig liked the singlet. I liked that PunchPig liked the singlet. We started on time.

"W.C. Fields said never work with dogs or smalll children, but I think he would have included this guy in a singlet getting tied up," was PunchPig's opener, as JoeyRope, the current President of GMSMA did the honors and wove me into a nice, tight, secure, and immobilizing rope harnesss. PunchPig talked, taking care of the 'How To Make A Meatloaf' section of the program, then I did my little spiel--I couldn't talk with my hands!--about why I liked the scene, how it was about adrenaline rather than endorphins and how to work with that, and the scene we did last August. All very well received.

Then PunchPig talked some more. Explaining about the gear he had brough with him, the weights of various gloves, his preference for bare knuckles, that kind of thing. And as he talked, he incorporated a few jabs at me into what he was saying. In short order, the blah-blah-blah became less and less, and the punches I was taking became more and more.

And there I was. Tied in a chair wearing a slutty sweaty singlet in front of a crowd of eighty men getting punched in the face.

I did my best to stay in the Anger place, yelling through my mouthpiece, pounding my feet. PunchPig was great. He is such the magician, conjuring an intense and deep soul connection, even there on stage. He's a twisted, bearded Circe in wrestling togs, enticing and enchanting, turning me into a howling beast.

And I broke. I lay my head down on PunchPig's boxing gloved hand, and cried. The audience responded by laughing. As though I had just taken a prat fall. "They don't get it!" I thought, they think this is some kind of an act!" But I discharged this thought off into the void: that was nervous laughter. Their defenses were being penetrated, too. They got it all right.

True to form, PunchPig didn't let a few tears get in the way of messing up my face some more. Pow. Pow. Sock.

And then, it was done. I took the last blow of the evening. JoeyRope freed me from my bonds.

As the final Q&A started, I was glowing. I felt incandescent. Radiant. I jumped in for a few questions. Explained--only realizing it just then--that I would probably undergo a mild depression over the next couple of days.

I think we did our job. I think that eighty guys had a good evening out, got their five dollars worth, and now have a pretty good idea of what the scene is all about.

Very cool.

Then, Diabolique, PunchPig, and I repaired to the Village Den for a brief repast. I should have just hit the road, but I didn't want to let the evening end. PunchPig and Diabolique seemed to hit it off. We talked Deep Talk. What It All Means talk. It was like being in Moscow. Verrrrry russian. No small talk. What's it all mean? Who's your God?

Then, the Program Chair showed up and all of us walked to my car. Y'see, Program Chair asked me to lend my St. Andrews Cross to The Cause. In two weeks, GMSMA is having a Master of the Whip program with an amazing man from San Francisco. They need a cross. Mine is just gathering dust and mouse shit out in the garage, so I was only too happy to help out there. It's good that it will get some use.

I was considering heading up to NYC in two weeks for the Master of the Whip program.

Uh uh.

This morning, I'm totally whiped out. Hoping to get into work around nine, only losing two hours of my day. (I have forty five minutes of overtime, so I'll only be an hour and fifteen short in my paycheck.)

Anyway, time to hit the showers.

And dang. No black eye. Not a mark on me. Nothing to show for it except... well, except an intense rearranging of my interior landscape.

The shower calls.

Tuesday, March 09, 2004


What to wear to get punched in the face?


I've got a singlet!

I totally forgot I own a singlet. I never wear it. It's actually a discontinued line of Calvin Klein underwear. Discontinued, no doubt, because no one in their right mind would wear it anywhere. For one thing, it doesn't work at the gym. You might as well work out in Saran Wrap. It's that slutty. But here's the kicker. You can't pee in it.

Well... Actually, peeing in it is exactly what you can do. That's totally the danger. If you're wearing it under something, you have to totally strip down to whip it out.

So anyway. I had a thought.

Why the hell did I hold on to this thing I haven't worn in ten years? Well, y'see, not too long after I obtained it, I went through this Tie-Dying phase. I'd buy Ritt dyes at the supermarket and combine them. Black and blue. Black and green. Then tie them in interesting ways and die them.

Tie. Then dye. Get it? Got it? Good.

So I got this idea. PunchPig, y'see, is really into sweat. A few weeks ago, when I commented here about the heavy duty down comforter I knabbed from my father's linen closet that makes me sweat buckets at night and wake up soaked, PunchPig sent me a 'that is so hot' email.

Well guess what will be serving as pajamas tonight? And I'm using the heavy duty comforter.

Y'know, I wonder if I'm gonna wake up stained purple tomorrow? Yeah well. It's all about living on the edge.

But PunchPig is sure to love my stinky sweaty singlet.

Maybe that will make up for the absence of a mouthpiece.

Still haven't found the mouthpiece. And PunchPig loves me in the mouthpiece cuz it makes me look so stooopid.


I'm getting punched in the face tomorrow night!


Okay okay okay okay. Be cool. Just relax. It's fine. It's really fine, right? Yeah. It's fine.


Where's my mouthpiece? I can't find my mouthpiece!

Where is my mouthpiece???!!

Okay. Okay.


Okay. So that didn't work. Search frantically.

Okay. That didn't work either.


Oh. My. God. I'm getting punched in the face tomorrow night!



Counting Down

Yikes! This time tomorrow night, I'll be tied in a chair and taking whatever abuse PunchPig opts to dish out.

Tonight I'm gonna try to give some shape to what I want to say about the experience of getting punched in the face.

Aw heck. Why not? I'll do it here.


My experience as a bottom is not broad, but I think it's deep. I've been whipped, flogged, caged, and done verrrry painful endurance bondage. And been punched in the face. Getting punched in the face is like none of those other scenes.

The other scenes tend to be about endorphins. The key strategy for the bottom is processing the intense sensation of the scene. You breath deeply, you stay present and focused.

Not so with getting punched in the face.

Face punching is about adrenaline. Adrenaline is the neurochemical that governs the fight-or-flight response. It comes in when you're under attack. Higher brain functions shut down. And one of two things happen. You either get angry and aggressive or you get out of there. Fight or flight.

Anger tends to be the first response. Think about when you stub your toe. What's the immediate response? "Fuck!" Anger. That's the shot of adrenaline you get. It goes away pretty quickly when other sensory stimuli tell you that it's not an enemy, it's just the coffee table.

The last time PunchPig and I played... well, the other time, I didn't sustain the anger. I went right to pretty quickly into flight. Since I couldn't go anywhere, that meant a lot of begging and crying. Trying to get it to stop. Doing anything to get it to stop.

The best way I've found to stay in the place of anger is by yelling and screaming. Keeping it going. It builds and builds and builds.

Keep in mind, though, that it's six of one, a half dozen the other. Fight or flight. Just a matter of preference.

Here's the other key aspect of this scene: fear. No, not fear. Terror. Complete animal terror. Notice how when you flinch, what you're doing is protecting your head. And flinching is hard-wired. The most experienced boxers flinch when they get punched in the face. That's where your brain is, and that's what you want to protect, first and foremost. So it's not so much a punch to the face, as a blow to the head. And that's terrifying.

Anger. Fear. Terror.

Now that doesn't sound like a lot of fun, does it? What's the payoff?

The payoff is unbelievable. If you, like me, love roller coasters. Only, it's the ultimate rollercoaster ride. Because the thing that really scares you--the car you're in hurtling off the track and sending you sailing out into space--happens. But then, you walk away.

It's an experience at the very extremes. It's what you're really really afraid of, and you go right down the rabbit hole.

And it's also the transcendent part. Because throughout, you have this deep down secure knowledge that you'll be okay. You'll walk away from it all. And that's because you're turning yourself open, entrusting yourself, to the fundamental compassion of the man who is taking you on this journey. You feel yourself to be held and sustained, lovingly. You get to throw yourself off the cliff and fly, because there are strong arms that will catch you when you fall.


Eloquent, I hope. But I'm still reeeeeally scared!

Say a prayer tomorrow night.

Monday, March 08, 2004


It embarrasses me to even write this.

But I'm gonna.

For the past couple of weeks, I've occasionally seen this guy at Starbucks. (I know! I know! But this is serious this time!) He is really really hot. He could do porn. He looks kinda slutty. Bleached blond hair, contrasting color goatee. And when I've seen him there, he's wearing Carharrts.

So today, I got a chair in front of the fire. And what luck! Sitting in the twin of the chair by the fire is Apparently Homeless Guy. (Nice to look at, but verrry heterosexual.) And then, Drool Nap happened. I went out like a light.

Some time later, I awoke. And there was this sexy blond guy sitting in the chair where Apparently Homeless Guy had been sitting, leafing through a gardening magazine.

Eye hockey ensued.


He was wearing Carharrt bib overalls, a plaid flannel shirt, and a white thermal shirt underneath. And big ol' boots. My attention was drawn to his hand on the arm of the chair. It was rough. He worked with that hand. And he had dirt under his fingernails.

Oh. My. God. A sexy guy who works with his hands.

I guessed landscaper, and then inspiration hit. For a change.

"Are you a landscaper?" I asked.

And that broke the ice.

In fact, he's an organic farmer. He sells his stuff at a farmer's market in Doylestown and sells to various restaurants. But he does do some landscaping. He was just hired to do the patio of a restaurant.

That's exciting, I said. Unless it's a shade garden. Every time I've had the opportunity to put in a garden, it's been a shade garden. So lots of Hosta.

It turns out the patio has about nine square feet of part sun, and the rest is shade.

I asked if he went to Delaware Valley College. He did. I told him that my father had gone there, majoring in Poultry Management. He was an equine studies major, focusing on husbandry and care of foals (i.e., making horses get pregnant and then raising the baby horses).

We exchanged names. We shook hands. I had to get going. Roast pork tenderloin for dinner at the Ol' Homestead, and that takes time, and my father gets impatient.

Man oh man.

Okay. Let's review.

  • He's local.
  • The attraction is mutual.
  • He's sexy. A total hardon for me.
  • He's not one of those New Hope retail twinks.
  • He must be a smart guy to run his own business.
  • He works with his hands.
  • He likes horses.

I mean, definitely datable, right?

Way datable.

And maybe more.

So let's call him Farmer Guy.

And we'll see how it goes.

Putting on the Gloves

Whoa. In a mere forty eight hours I'll be fighting back butterflies in the stomach, getting ready to step into the ring--and be bound to a chair--with PunchPig.

I can't wait for it to be over!

Seriously. It's scary as hell going through it, but the minute it's over, it's great.

Last time, I didn't quite know what to expect. I was prepared to do pain processing (y'know, deep breathing and such). But it's not that kind of scene. No endorphins there. It's an adrenaline scene! And while trying to stay awake on a trip back from Philadelphia a few weeks back, I made the discovery that a good scream gets the adrenaline going.

I'd better let my contact on the Program Committee know that someone had better let the Center know that this Wednesday's program will be a verrrry noisy one. And, that calling 911 will not be necessary, no matter what it sounds like is going on in there.

Geez. Forty eight hours from now.

Sunday, March 07, 2004

Tattoo You

Went down to Philadelphia tonight to meet up with the Baron. After latte and conversation at Starbucks, but before we headed to get dinner, we made a tour of tattoo parlors on and off South Street.

Uh uh.

Saw nothing I liked. I'm trying to think of what the person would be like who would get a tattoo of Rosie, the Jetson's robot maid. I mean, those goofy Hotstuff the Little Devil I guess I can sort of understand. But Rosie, the Jetson's robot maid? There were also numerous selections of Chinese characters. Some of them--strength, courage, satori--I could see. But how about the Chinese character for 'nose.'

But mostly I was disappointed by the artists who were loitering about in the parlors I visited. I mean, they looked like their approach to what they were doing was, "this is a better gig than working at Kinko's."

P'raps I'm romanticizing things a bit much (Who? Me???!!), but I want to bond with the person that inks me. That's how it was when I got my first one fifteen years ago.

The Baron opines that when I got that tattoo all those years ago, getting a tattoo was still something that not a lot of people were doing. He said that a lot of the tattoo artists who were respected and who viewed what they were doing as something more than a job have gotten out of Center City, just because they were beseiged every weekend with witless hordes wanting Hotstuff the Little Red Devil tattooed on their calves.

So I don't think I'm going to find what I want in a sketchbook. I'll have to come up with my own design.

What to get, what to get. Boots appeal to me. As does chain. A whip. Another wolf. Hmmm. I'd really like to have extensive work done on one arm. What's known as a 'sleeve.' But I think that I would never be able to settle on something firgurative. So what about something abstract? Hmmm. Maybe I should look through some of the works of the Abstract Expressionists that I love so well.

If anybody has any ideas, do pass them on.


What's With Those Spammers?

Here's a mystery to ponder.

Spam isn't a huge problem for me. It takes me no time at all to cull the spam from my inbox.


Well, if the name in the FROM column is a combination of a hispanic given name and a verrrry non-hispanic family name, you're dealing with spam, and you can delete it unopened.

Juan Freeman
Consuela Higby
Oswaldo Capshaw
Fernando Moscowitz
Pilar Gottshalk

What's up with that?

Is at an attempt to rope in both latino dupes along with the anglo dupes?

It's a mystery.


Geez! What a day!

My father and I went to the bank and got all of that taken care of. This unexpected trip put a crimp in my Saturday plans.

the plan was that I would leave here at noon, and visit a Master in North Jersey. Leave there, and meet up with my softball team at 5 p.m. for our first team meeting of the season, grab something to eat, meet up with a pig from AOL at Starbucks at 7pm, head to a meet with a cigar guy from AOL at 8pm, then head to the GMSMA bar night and dungeon demo about 9pm.

Well... No.

I ended up getting to Master M's place in North Jersey at 2:30. We met, we talked, we played. (Play was simple, but satisfying: me in a sleepsack.) But it was reallllly rushed. At the end, it was 'okay, boy, get out of the sleepsack, get you clothes on, and hit the road."

Soooo, I did. Master M's directions were excellent. But I ended up getting to Ty's on Christopher Street at 5:30 p.m. And there they all were! My team mates. They waited for me. The meeting was brief. Basically updating our contact information. And tossing out the idea of going to a tournement other than Montreal over Labor Day. (Not sure that I could get away from work for a tournement anywhere. But we'll see.)

Then, I realized that I had neglected an crucial element in my day: eating food. So I and a few members of my team ran around the corner for a bite at Manatus.

Then, I darted off (late late late late... although only by ten minutes) to meet with the pig at Starbucks.

I rushed in, got my latte, sat down, surveyed my fellow Starbucks patrons... and no pig.


Ah well.

I cracked my book (Joan Didion's Political Fictions; an excellent read). At 8:15, I headed out into the night to meet up with the Cigar Guy.

Another flaw in my schedule. Just what was I thinking? "Hey! Good to meet you! How's it going? Gotta run! See ya online!"


We met, we smoked a cigar together. We got busy with some nip work and cock sucking, and it was 11:30.

So GMSMA was the thing I couldn't fit in. Would've been great to see everybody, since I won't quite be in a chatty mode four days from now when I show up at the Center in my singlet.

But that was a good day.

But man!

NYC is just... sensory overload. It's soooo much. It's not my city anymore. I feel that keenly when I'm there. This is where I belong now. Here in Bucks County. Sun, sky, trees, fields, moon, stars, river. This is where I feel grounded. Coming through the tunnel is like getting a bucket of ice water in the face. It wakes me up and gets my heart beating, but it puts me in a place emotionally where I can't stay for too long.

Anyway. What will today hold?

Saturday, March 06, 2004


My father and I just got back from the bank. Pre-Approved, Bay-beeee. Soon, all my problems will be solved.

I didn't realize how the financial crisis over the past couple of months had me totally, totally shut down with respect to possibilities. I was just stuck. I stopped thinking about the short term. What's the point? I can't afford it. That became my mantra. But now, within reason (we're only talking $10-an-hour here, I possibly can afford it.

So I'm thinking, again, about the possible.

And that took me to Welding Depot. I can get a welding machine for $68! I could probably set up a decent workshop out in the garage for under $200. And start making stuff.

So if you might be in the market for shackles, steel collars, or something more... elaborate, check back around July. When I ought to be operational.

Worm Moon

"Shine on... shine on Harvest Moon, up in the sky!
You know, I'll always love you in January February June or July..."

You've heard that, right? And maybe even bandied around the term 'Harvest Moon.'

But did you know--gosh, the things you learn reading SingleTails--that the full moon in each month has a special name attached to it?

The full moon in September (there I was, at Inferno, looking up at it, saying goodbye to Mark) is indeed the Harvest Moon. Reason being, the light of the full moon would give farmers some extra time to get their harvest in.

But, agricultural sorts of folks assign names to other full moons as well. There's the Hunter's Moon (October), the Cold Moon (December), the Buck Moon (July), the Wolf Moon (January), the Snow Moon (February), and the Strawberry Moon (June). When there are two full moons in a month, the second one is referred to as the Blue Moon. Which you've also heard of. And a bunch more. Here's the whole list, courtesy of the Old Farmer's Almanac. The names of moons have Native American derivation, but where picked up by the European settlers.

Anyway, tonight is the Full Moon. And the full moon in March has a name, too. As opposed to the names of the other moons, which could all sort of serve as titles for gay erotic short stories, tonight will be the Worm Moon. So whatever you get up to tonight, be sure to take a moment and honor the Worm and his Moon!

And, it looks like I'll be at the GMSMA dungeon demo at the Eagle tonight, after my softball team meeting, after I meet some hot pig for coffee, after I go and smoke a cigar with a guy in Chelsea, all of which is after my meeting with Memory Sir this afternoon.

Memory Sir.

Got an email from cubby this a.m. She thought the rote memory thing was totally whack. And wouldn't put up with it. Not play with the guy.

I'm kinda inclined to go through with it. But here's what I'm gonna do.

I come in the door, strip off my shirt, drop to my knees (wearing my kneepads, of course), and then speak Ex Temp. I'll express my gratitude, say I'm here to serve, tell how I'll strive to be present as I RECEIVE, that kinda thing. Use my own words--which I'm pretty attached to--in other words.

Heh heh heh.

I'm sort of taking control of giving up control. If things go well, he'll get the joke there. If not, well... I guess I'll get beat.

Friday, March 05, 2004


Nightingale, the guy I work with who has the hot beachball beer gut--well, one of the two guys I work with who have hot beachball beer guts--is on a diet, has taken up jogging, and has lost seventeen pounds!

My Lord! At this rate he'll waste away!

I'll have to start bringing donuts to work or something.