No 'Reaster Update
I just heard this on the television: "Light snow is falling across the Delaware Valley. We'll have live coverage on Action News."
Live coverage of falling snow? As opposed to, y'know... LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW???!!!
If I wasn't such an upbeat guy, I'd be in a pretty black mood right now.
Monday, February 28, 2005
No 'Reaster
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
No 'Reaster
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
West Virginia: Wild And Wonderful
The plan was that I was going to climb a mountain.
This was back in November. In honor of my fortieth birthday. Climb a mountain. That seemed like a good fortieth birthday thing to do. And on Worldleathermen, I ran across a guy who was a rock guide. We planned a weekend, but it had to be postponed. And this weekend was the first time we could make it happen.
So yesterday morning, I loaded up the jeep (including Faithful Companion) and headed towards West Virginia.
As you all know, I love a long road trip. Nothing clears the mind like several hours of unrelieved turnpike. And this trip involved 350 miles of that. Each way. Out the Pennsylvania Turnpike, south on I-81, West on I-70, south on I-68, west on 219 until it turned into Route 32, then a right onto Lanesville Road.
The trip was beautiful. When I was crossing the Susquehanna river, I saw a bald eagle, riding an updraft.
I remembered that among Native Americans, eagles were considered to be messengers of the Great Spirit. This was gonna be good. And then there were the knobs and hollers of Western Maryland and West Virginia. Such an incredible landscape. And I'd never seen it covered in snow before.
And speaking of the snow...
Okay. My directions read "look for the driveway on the left" when I turned off Lanesville Road. I passed three driveways on the right, but nothing on the left, so I just kept heading up the hill. The really steep hill. When I was just about at the top, suddenly, my jeep started going backwards. Even though I was in Drive. And with my foot on the gas pedal. Hitting the brake did nothing. Luckily the emergency brake managed to get me to a stop. But what the fuck do I do know?
Unnerstan, this narrow, icy road. No guardrail. Just a steep drop-off over the embankment. I decided to try for the last switchback so I could turn around. Once down at the foot of the hill, I'd give a call to the rock guide and have him come get me. Or something. Slowly, slowly--except when I went into a skid, I managed to back down to the switchback. I turned around, and slowly, slowly headed down the hill.
And things were going fine. Until I lost traction, went into a skid, and went right off the road. Toward the steep embankment side.
Oh hell.
I got clambered out and fetched Faithful Companion from the back. It looked like something out of a cartoon. My jeep was at about a forty five degree angle. The front left tire was down over the embankment, the rear right tire was about three feet off the ground. There was a wee little sapling stopping my jeep from heading down that ol' steep embankment. I grabbed my backpack and headed down the hill.
At this point, I realized that my directions must have been wrong. And sure enough, there was a driveway on the other side of the road fitting the description. And there to greet me at the door was my rock guide. (Let's call him 'Rocky,' shall we?)
Rocky greeted me warmly, and I explained my situation. So we needed a tow truck. Rocky called the local guys at Dave's Service Station. We headed back up the hill, and there was the tow truck to meet us. Those nice West Virginia good ol' boys greeted us and assessed the situation. The decided that they'd have to position their tow truck below my jeep on the hill, and loop the tow rope through a winch anchored to a locust tree. So they needed to back the tow truck past my jeep.
"Careful," I chimed in, "that road is really icy. It's easy to lose traction."
The tow truck, in reverse, went into a skid. Luckily, it stopped before it went over the embankment. Unluckily, it stopped because it collided with my jeep. And the think sticking out of the back that the tow rope comes off of? That big steel girder thing? That went right through my back window.
With a loud, sickening 'Pop.'
And my jeep went another four feet or so down the hill.
Oh. And I forgot. It wasn't the wee little sapling that stopped my jeep. There was a culvert (a steel pipe) sticking out of the embankment that caught my frame by about three-eighth of an inch. Now, the culvert had caught my rear axel.
Long (very long, sorry 'bout that, but I hope it was exciting, what with the near death of me and Faithful Companion all...) story short. They got the tow truck into position, they managed to haul my jeep back onto the road, and one of the good ol' boys was kind enough to drive my jeep back down to Rocky's driveway. At the bottom of the hill.
Oh man.
Y'know, I've always prided myself on keeping a cool head in a crisis. It's not the end of the world. That kinda thing. And I sure stood the test on Saturday night.
And Rocky was great. Dinner was ready. And he treated me to a nice massage.
This morning. Wherefore the mountain?
Well, y'know, that mountain will still be there. I had sort of had my life-endangering adventure for the weekend.
So Rocky made me breakfast, and we talked. And talked and talked and talked. Rocky is a pretty amazing guy.
Even though he's a lawyer! He kind of ditched a corporate job for being a rock guide. And I've never met a lawyer quite like him. There he was, quoting verse after verse of poetry. All of which merits repeating. But I'll hold it tight with this. It's Alfred Lord Tennyson's Ulysses. In the setting of the poem, Ulysses is returned to Ithaca's craggy shores. His journeys are ended. He's back home...
t little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads- you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Oh yeah.
Sweet.
So now, Faithful Companion and I are home once again. Not in Ithaca. But in Carversville. Ready for another journey.
The plan was that I was going to climb a mountain.
This was back in November. In honor of my fortieth birthday. Climb a mountain. That seemed like a good fortieth birthday thing to do. And on Worldleathermen, I ran across a guy who was a rock guide. We planned a weekend, but it had to be postponed. And this weekend was the first time we could make it happen.
So yesterday morning, I loaded up the jeep (including Faithful Companion) and headed towards West Virginia.
As you all know, I love a long road trip. Nothing clears the mind like several hours of unrelieved turnpike. And this trip involved 350 miles of that. Each way. Out the Pennsylvania Turnpike, south on I-81, West on I-70, south on I-68, west on 219 until it turned into Route 32, then a right onto Lanesville Road.
The trip was beautiful. When I was crossing the Susquehanna river, I saw a bald eagle, riding an updraft.
I remembered that among Native Americans, eagles were considered to be messengers of the Great Spirit. This was gonna be good. And then there were the knobs and hollers of Western Maryland and West Virginia. Such an incredible landscape. And I'd never seen it covered in snow before.
And speaking of the snow...
Okay. My directions read "look for the driveway on the left" when I turned off Lanesville Road. I passed three driveways on the right, but nothing on the left, so I just kept heading up the hill. The really steep hill. When I was just about at the top, suddenly, my jeep started going backwards. Even though I was in Drive. And with my foot on the gas pedal. Hitting the brake did nothing. Luckily the emergency brake managed to get me to a stop. But what the fuck do I do know?
Unnerstan, this narrow, icy road. No guardrail. Just a steep drop-off over the embankment. I decided to try for the last switchback so I could turn around. Once down at the foot of the hill, I'd give a call to the rock guide and have him come get me. Or something. Slowly, slowly--except when I went into a skid, I managed to back down to the switchback. I turned around, and slowly, slowly headed down the hill.
And things were going fine. Until I lost traction, went into a skid, and went right off the road. Toward the steep embankment side.
Oh hell.
I got clambered out and fetched Faithful Companion from the back. It looked like something out of a cartoon. My jeep was at about a forty five degree angle. The front left tire was down over the embankment, the rear right tire was about three feet off the ground. There was a wee little sapling stopping my jeep from heading down that ol' steep embankment. I grabbed my backpack and headed down the hill.
At this point, I realized that my directions must have been wrong. And sure enough, there was a driveway on the other side of the road fitting the description. And there to greet me at the door was my rock guide. (Let's call him 'Rocky,' shall we?)
Rocky greeted me warmly, and I explained my situation. So we needed a tow truck. Rocky called the local guys at Dave's Service Station. We headed back up the hill, and there was the tow truck to meet us. Those nice West Virginia good ol' boys greeted us and assessed the situation. The decided that they'd have to position their tow truck below my jeep on the hill, and loop the tow rope through a winch anchored to a locust tree. So they needed to back the tow truck past my jeep.
"Careful," I chimed in, "that road is really icy. It's easy to lose traction."
The tow truck, in reverse, went into a skid. Luckily, it stopped before it went over the embankment. Unluckily, it stopped because it collided with my jeep. And the think sticking out of the back that the tow rope comes off of? That big steel girder thing? That went right through my back window.
With a loud, sickening 'Pop.'
And my jeep went another four feet or so down the hill.
Oh. And I forgot. It wasn't the wee little sapling that stopped my jeep. There was a culvert (a steel pipe) sticking out of the embankment that caught my frame by about three-eighth of an inch. Now, the culvert had caught my rear axel.
Long (very long, sorry 'bout that, but I hope it was exciting, what with the near death of me and Faithful Companion all...) story short. They got the tow truck into position, they managed to haul my jeep back onto the road, and one of the good ol' boys was kind enough to drive my jeep back down to Rocky's driveway. At the bottom of the hill.
Oh man.
Y'know, I've always prided myself on keeping a cool head in a crisis. It's not the end of the world. That kinda thing. And I sure stood the test on Saturday night.
And Rocky was great. Dinner was ready. And he treated me to a nice massage.
This morning. Wherefore the mountain?
Well, y'know, that mountain will still be there. I had sort of had my life-endangering adventure for the weekend.
So Rocky made me breakfast, and we talked. And talked and talked and talked. Rocky is a pretty amazing guy.
Even though he's a lawyer! He kind of ditched a corporate job for being a rock guide. And I've never met a lawyer quite like him. There he was, quoting verse after verse of poetry. All of which merits repeating. But I'll hold it tight with this. It's Alfred Lord Tennyson's Ulysses. In the setting of the poem, Ulysses is returned to Ithaca's craggy shores. His journeys are ended. He's back home...
t little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads- you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Oh yeah.
Sweet.
So now, Faithful Companion and I are home once again. Not in Ithaca. But in Carversville. Ready for another journey.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Me And Dad
I've been getting sort of peevish with my father lately. Nothing big. Just keep thinking it would be nice to hear 'thank you' once in a while.
But tonight...
While we were eating dinner (my amazing meatloaf and scalloped potatoes), we had the tv on. This commercial came on. Maybe you've seen it. It involves Gladys Knight playing rugby. I'm a total sucker for athletic accomplishment, no matter how contrived and manipulative, and when Gladys takes the ball across the goal line... Well, let's just say that I teared up.
Okay. That's goofy. I know.
But anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I notice my father noticing me getting teary eyed.
And then... my father got teary eyed. He had to wipe his eyes with his napkin.
And so, I got even more teary eyed because my father got teary eyed.
Being the kind of men that we are (I am so much my father's son), I got up and put my plate in the dishwasher and my father added pepper to his dinner. And, y'know, neither of us acknowledged anything.
But I will always always cherish that moment.
The old guy loves me. He does.
I've been getting sort of peevish with my father lately. Nothing big. Just keep thinking it would be nice to hear 'thank you' once in a while.
But tonight...
While we were eating dinner (my amazing meatloaf and scalloped potatoes), we had the tv on. This commercial came on. Maybe you've seen it. It involves Gladys Knight playing rugby. I'm a total sucker for athletic accomplishment, no matter how contrived and manipulative, and when Gladys takes the ball across the goal line... Well, let's just say that I teared up.
Okay. That's goofy. I know.
But anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I notice my father noticing me getting teary eyed.
And then... my father got teary eyed. He had to wipe his eyes with his napkin.
And so, I got even more teary eyed because my father got teary eyed.
Being the kind of men that we are (I am so much my father's son), I got up and put my plate in the dishwasher and my father added pepper to his dinner. And, y'know, neither of us acknowledged anything.
But I will always always cherish that moment.
The old guy loves me. He does.
Stuck
Dang.
On the one hand, I'm consistently weighing in at 188-189 at the gym. On the other hand, after a steady climb, the needle doesn't seem to be budging. On the other hand, I'm getting some pretty favorable feedback on the state of the corpus. (Why just today, one of the sanding boys basically told me he wanted to be like me. He wants me to show him how to lift. So that's cool.)
But I swear, it's like Fate has decreed that like Moses and the Promised Land, I'll get to see but not cross the line of 190.
And I can't--I just can't--eat any more food. Every time I frickin' turn around I'm putting something in my mouth.
Ah well.
(Deep breath.)
It's not about the destination, it's about the journey. It's about spending time every day being in my body. The kinaesthetic value of stretching and lifting. That's what it's about.
And another interesting thing. I sort of feel that I've jumped up a tax bracket in terms of sexual attraction. Guys that I consider to be hot in that muscular kinda way are voicing the opinion that I'm hot. And finally it seems to be sinking in. Perhaps because I spent the first half of my life as a really skinny kid, I would still mentally take a look over my shoulder to see who they were talking about. I'm not doing that anymore. At least, not much.
But, that doesn't have much bearing on who I do and do not go to for a roll in the sweat-soaked sheets with. It's still all about the connection. And some other odd, quirky things. Odd, quirky things that I often find to be irresistable...
So, y'know... Go figure!
Dang.
On the one hand, I'm consistently weighing in at 188-189 at the gym. On the other hand, after a steady climb, the needle doesn't seem to be budging. On the other hand, I'm getting some pretty favorable feedback on the state of the corpus. (Why just today, one of the sanding boys basically told me he wanted to be like me. He wants me to show him how to lift. So that's cool.)
But I swear, it's like Fate has decreed that like Moses and the Promised Land, I'll get to see but not cross the line of 190.
And I can't--I just can't--eat any more food. Every time I frickin' turn around I'm putting something in my mouth.
Ah well.
(Deep breath.)
It's not about the destination, it's about the journey. It's about spending time every day being in my body. The kinaesthetic value of stretching and lifting. That's what it's about.
And another interesting thing. I sort of feel that I've jumped up a tax bracket in terms of sexual attraction. Guys that I consider to be hot in that muscular kinda way are voicing the opinion that I'm hot. And finally it seems to be sinking in. Perhaps because I spent the first half of my life as a really skinny kid, I would still mentally take a look over my shoulder to see who they were talking about. I'm not doing that anymore. At least, not much.
But, that doesn't have much bearing on who I do and do not go to for a roll in the sweat-soaked sheets with. It's still all about the connection. And some other odd, quirky things. Odd, quirky things that I often find to be irresistable...
- Neck Folds When men with shaved or close cropped hair have, at the napes of their necks, those folds of subcutaneous fat... well, my knees go week.
- Disproportionately Large Heads Omigod. This drives me nuts. Absolutely nuts. Always.
- Underbites *sigh*
- Fat Calves Like honey dew melons? I'm putty in your hands.
- Scars
- Exceptional Noses If I think you're hot when we meet, it's probably because of your nose.
- Befuddlement I always find this soooo winning on a man. Especially if you screw up your face when you're befuddled.
- Watch Caps Y'know, like longshoremen wear. Keep it on when we're having sex, okay?
- Commando! Neither briefs nor boxers, thanks!
- Enthusiasm Bordering On Impulse Control Disorder Just about regardless of the object. Singing along to the piped in music in the supermarket with joyful abandon? I do that, too!
- Weatherbeaten Exteriors When men have that years-in-the-sun look? Skin like tanned leather? All I can think about is there must be a nice meaty cock to go with it.
- Pig Eyes Those eyes that are sort of squinty and fleshy? Yessssss...
- Shiny Heads I aspire to this, but so far, no one has let me in on The Secret Formula.
- Hairy Hands This... this... guy... he works at the Block Buster in Doylestown...
- Old Clothes Especially with blotches of paint in interesting colors.
- Owners of Rescue Dogs And this sure has gotten me into trouble.
- Anti-Connoisseurship There was this guy I used to see at the LURE, and have subsequently gotten to know, and the thing I thought was hottest about him was that he drank Budweiser in a can.
- Being Handy Take out the wrench and fix my leaky fauced, and you can do anything with that wrench you want to.
- Bruce Springsteen Fans That scene in High Fidelity where John Cusack consults with the Boss about his woman problems? I was like touching myself.
- Orange As scarlet is to the bull, so is a man wearing orange to my penis.
- Trucks If the late Charles Nelson Reilly had propositioned me from the cab of his big black Dodge Ram Pickup truck, then I'd be his longtime companion today.
So, y'know... Go figure!
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Solomonic Wisdom In The Woodshop!
Okay. So at work today, one of the sandinista boys comes up to me and says, "Dutch, what do you think? If a guy is able to go down on himself, I say that's basically masturbation. But [sick boy] and [Old Timer] say that for a guy to do that, even to his own dick, it's gay. It's crossing the line. What do you say?"
I thought for a moment.
Well, if I could get a blow job any time I wanted... well, I probably wouldn't leave my house much at all. I agree it's 'crossing the line,' but guess what? Hello, line! Goodbye, line!"
Sandinista boy: "I'm with you, Dutch! Give me an indian outfit and make me a Village Person!"
Recruit recruit recruit!
Okay. So at work today, one of the sandinista boys comes up to me and says, "Dutch, what do you think? If a guy is able to go down on himself, I say that's basically masturbation. But [sick boy] and [Old Timer] say that for a guy to do that, even to his own dick, it's gay. It's crossing the line. What do you say?"
I thought for a moment.
Well, if I could get a blow job any time I wanted... well, I probably wouldn't leave my house much at all. I agree it's 'crossing the line,' but guess what? Hello, line! Goodbye, line!"
Sandinista boy: "I'm with you, Dutch! Give me an indian outfit and make me a Village Person!"
Recruit recruit recruit!
Monday, February 14, 2005
Run, Don't Walk!
This is verrry important.
It seems that Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel has made a heartwarming family comedy. It's called The Pacifier. He plays a Navy Seal and... oh like it matters.
Here's the skinny. Given the fact that I absolutely cannot get enough images of this man loaded into my gray matter, I am intent on prolonging the career of Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel for as long as possible.
Therefore, it is your bounden duty as a SingleTails reader--even the most casual reader--to go out an plunk down whatever they ask so you can perpetuate that. Even if you don't actually sit through this heartwarming family comedy (not my cup of tea either), I want Vin to do Major Box Office. I want to live in a world where people struggle to remember what movies Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise appeared in. This is really really REALLY important.
I mean Criminy. He's perfect. And I just know he's a major bottom. And a total pig. It's so obvious.
Anyway. You get my point, right?
Go see The Pacifier.
This is verrry important.
It seems that Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel has made a heartwarming family comedy. It's called The Pacifier. He plays a Navy Seal and... oh like it matters.
Here's the skinny. Given the fact that I absolutely cannot get enough images of this man loaded into my gray matter, I am intent on prolonging the career of Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel for as long as possible.
Therefore, it is your bounden duty as a SingleTails reader--even the most casual reader--to go out an plunk down whatever they ask so you can perpetuate that. Even if you don't actually sit through this heartwarming family comedy (not my cup of tea either), I want Vin to do Major Box Office. I want to live in a world where people struggle to remember what movies Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise appeared in. This is really really REALLY important.
I mean Criminy. He's perfect. And I just know he's a major bottom. And a total pig. It's so obvious.
Anyway. You get my point, right?
Go see The Pacifier.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
At The Gates
My Sir is in NYC this weekend, so as sure as heck I'm loading up the jeep to head up to the Gotham. And... and... quite the busy weekend planned! At 2 pm, there will be the first meeting of the year of my softball team, the Ball Breakers! (Please God, let the Big Apple Softball League come to their senses and knock us down to the D Division where we belong, and not put us through another season in the C Division!) Then, at 5 pm, I'm do for a photo shoot. I've been asked to do a centerfold for Newslink, the publication put out by GMSMA. And tomorrow, before I head home, I hope that Sir and I will be able to make our way up to Central Park to take in Cristo and Jeanne-Claude's Gates.
I've been waiting for the Gates most of my adult life. I've been a huge fan of Cristo's. And the idea of Central Park coming to life in the dead of winter... How cool is that?
And, they're orange. Well, "Saffron," but that's orange.
And orange is my favorite color. I painted an entire needle exchange orange.
When I was Executive Director of the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center in NYC, I contended with the relocation of our operation. And appointed myself In Charge of the design committee. As in, I was making all the design decisions. Unilaterally. And if anyone disagreed with it, they had to lump it.
The big decision I made was what color to paint the whole thing. There I was, meeting with our architects, going through paint chips. And I hit upon a Pratt and Lambert color, Salsa. It was this vibrant orange. A deep orange. Beautiful. My architects suggested it could be nice for an accent wall, or brim somewhere. They were a wee bit taken aback when I said that I wanted to paint the whole blessed thing Salsa. "That might be a little overpowering..."
It was a contentious staff meeting, too. Nobody was down with it. "People come here to relax!" That kind of thing. But not Richard. Richard got it. "Fabulous!" he said, "Orange is a healing color."
Orange is a healing color.
It so is.
And, in the hankie code, Orange is also the color used to flag "Anything Anytime Anywhere." The flag of Pig Nation is Orange, Bay-beee!
So I go now to be healed.
My Sir is in NYC this weekend, so as sure as heck I'm loading up the jeep to head up to the Gotham. And... and... quite the busy weekend planned! At 2 pm, there will be the first meeting of the year of my softball team, the Ball Breakers! (Please God, let the Big Apple Softball League come to their senses and knock us down to the D Division where we belong, and not put us through another season in the C Division!) Then, at 5 pm, I'm do for a photo shoot. I've been asked to do a centerfold for Newslink, the publication put out by GMSMA. And tomorrow, before I head home, I hope that Sir and I will be able to make our way up to Central Park to take in Cristo and Jeanne-Claude's Gates.
I've been waiting for the Gates most of my adult life. I've been a huge fan of Cristo's. And the idea of Central Park coming to life in the dead of winter... How cool is that?
And, they're orange. Well, "Saffron," but that's orange.
And orange is my favorite color. I painted an entire needle exchange orange.
When I was Executive Director of the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center in NYC, I contended with the relocation of our operation. And appointed myself In Charge of the design committee. As in, I was making all the design decisions. Unilaterally. And if anyone disagreed with it, they had to lump it.
The big decision I made was what color to paint the whole thing. There I was, meeting with our architects, going through paint chips. And I hit upon a Pratt and Lambert color, Salsa. It was this vibrant orange. A deep orange. Beautiful. My architects suggested it could be nice for an accent wall, or brim somewhere. They were a wee bit taken aback when I said that I wanted to paint the whole blessed thing Salsa. "That might be a little overpowering..."
It was a contentious staff meeting, too. Nobody was down with it. "People come here to relax!" That kind of thing. But not Richard. Richard got it. "Fabulous!" he said, "Orange is a healing color."
Orange is a healing color.
It so is.
And, in the hankie code, Orange is also the color used to flag "Anything Anytime Anywhere." The flag of Pig Nation is Orange, Bay-beee!
So I go now to be healed.
Can't Resist A Meme!
YOUR SENIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL
[What year was it?]
"Pot is great! Sex is free! We're the Class of '83!"
[What were your three favorite bands?]
The Pretenders, Bruce Springsteen, the B-52s
[What was your favorite outfit?]
Jeans and a tshirt
[What was up with your hair?]
I used to do this thing where I'd bend over and comb my hair when it was wet until it was dry...
The higher the hair, the closer to God!
[Who were your best friends?]
Dave, John, Stephanie, Margie, Ray...
[What did you do after school?]
I worked at Mother's Restaurant, in New Hope, Pennsylvania! And didn't do homework at all.
[Did you take the bus?]
Yes.
[Who did you have a crush on?]
Every guy who crossed my field of vision provoked extended bouts of compulsive masturbation
[Did you fight with your parents?]
Not fight really. Just sniped. We were all about sniping.
[Who did you have a celebrity crush on?]
Richard Gere, Don Johnson, Liberty Devito,
[Did you smoke cigarettes?]
Marlboro reds
[Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?]
When I went to school (I cut something like seventy days), I probably did.
[Did you have a 'clique']
Yes! And it was really fun! We were all failures who didn't fit in, total square pegs, and we banded together and had a hell of a lot more fun than anybody else! While they were off at the Mall, we were spinning labyrinthine webs of lies to our parents that would allow us to run off to NYC for the weekend and such.
[Did you have "The Max" like Zach Kelly and Slater?]
I have no idea what this refers to.
[Admit it, were you popular?]
I prompted more in the way of fear, concern, and sympathy than luminous appeal.
[Who did you want to be just like?]
My make-believe boyfriend, Rudy! He was a loner. He rode around the country on his Harley. He had tattoos.
Hey... Wait a minute...
[What did you want to be when you grew up?]
Away from there. *ahem* And 'there' would be 'here.'
[Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now?]
Dead or in prison.
YOUR SENIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL
[What year was it?]
"Pot is great! Sex is free! We're the Class of '83!"
[What were your three favorite bands?]
The Pretenders, Bruce Springsteen, the B-52s
[What was your favorite outfit?]
Jeans and a tshirt
[What was up with your hair?]
I used to do this thing where I'd bend over and comb my hair when it was wet until it was dry...
The higher the hair, the closer to God!
[Who were your best friends?]
Dave, John, Stephanie, Margie, Ray...
[What did you do after school?]
I worked at Mother's Restaurant, in New Hope, Pennsylvania! And didn't do homework at all.
[Did you take the bus?]
Yes.
[Who did you have a crush on?]
Every guy who crossed my field of vision provoked extended bouts of compulsive masturbation
[Did you fight with your parents?]
Not fight really. Just sniped. We were all about sniping.
[Who did you have a celebrity crush on?]
Richard Gere, Don Johnson, Liberty Devito,
[Did you smoke cigarettes?]
Marlboro reds
[Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?]
When I went to school (I cut something like seventy days), I probably did.
[Did you have a 'clique']
Yes! And it was really fun! We were all failures who didn't fit in, total square pegs, and we banded together and had a hell of a lot more fun than anybody else! While they were off at the Mall, we were spinning labyrinthine webs of lies to our parents that would allow us to run off to NYC for the weekend and such.
[Did you have "The Max" like Zach Kelly and Slater?]
I have no idea what this refers to.
[Admit it, were you popular?]
I prompted more in the way of fear, concern, and sympathy than luminous appeal.
[Who did you want to be just like?]
My make-believe boyfriend, Rudy! He was a loner. He rode around the country on his Harley. He had tattoos.
Hey... Wait a minute...
[What did you want to be when you grew up?]
Away from there. *ahem* And 'there' would be 'here.'
[Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now?]
Dead or in prison.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Hearts
So I come out of Starbuck's in Doylestown.
Right across the street is this place called The Paper Unicorn. It's a card store.
Now, card stores make me wince. Store-bought sentiments for Hallmark holidays.
But something came over me.
It's Valentine's Day on Monday! Valentine's Day! Love day! And I am blessed with so much love. Hallmark holiday or no, and even though I'm a day late and a dollar short (as usual), I decided I couldn't let Valentine's Day go by. I had some cards to send.
Now, I didn't find the cards I wanted. The Aztec art exhibit is still very much with me. And what I wanted was hearts. Think "Mexican Tattoos." Hearts with knives through them, dripping blood. Gray's Anatomy hearts, pierced by Cupid's arrow, again dripping blood.
Cuz that's the kinda love we're talking about.
Man love. Rough and raw and sweat-soaked. Testosterone fueled. Dangerous love. What if your boyfriend sees my whip marks? What if your parole officer finds out you left the state? You're sure you're eighteen, right? Passionate love. Sleepless nights and longing and yearning. Clenched teeth. Curled toes. Makin' lotsa noise. Wild love. "Seed me, you mutherfucking PIG!"
Funny thing. They had no cards like that!
But I did the best that I could.
As Chryssie Hyndes said, "When love walks in the room, everybody stand up!"
Now all I have to do is find the werewithal to mail the buggers.
So I come out of Starbuck's in Doylestown.
Right across the street is this place called The Paper Unicorn. It's a card store.
Now, card stores make me wince. Store-bought sentiments for Hallmark holidays.
But something came over me.
It's Valentine's Day on Monday! Valentine's Day! Love day! And I am blessed with so much love. Hallmark holiday or no, and even though I'm a day late and a dollar short (as usual), I decided I couldn't let Valentine's Day go by. I had some cards to send.
Now, I didn't find the cards I wanted. The Aztec art exhibit is still very much with me. And what I wanted was hearts. Think "Mexican Tattoos." Hearts with knives through them, dripping blood. Gray's Anatomy hearts, pierced by Cupid's arrow, again dripping blood.
Cuz that's the kinda love we're talking about.
Man love. Rough and raw and sweat-soaked. Testosterone fueled. Dangerous love. What if your boyfriend sees my whip marks? What if your parole officer finds out you left the state? You're sure you're eighteen, right? Passionate love. Sleepless nights and longing and yearning. Clenched teeth. Curled toes. Makin' lotsa noise. Wild love. "Seed me, you mutherfucking PIG!"
Funny thing. They had no cards like that!
But I did the best that I could.
As Chryssie Hyndes said, "When love walks in the room, everybody stand up!"
Now all I have to do is find the werewithal to mail the buggers.
A Step Back
I almost didn't go to the gym tonight!
I did, but it was hairy there for a minute. After work today, there was a long, sweet drool nap in one of the comfy chairs by the fire at Starbuck's. Listening to Russian Sacred music, reading James Hillman's The Soul Code. By the time I managed to finish a section (all of four pages), it was six fifteen. And as I'm heading to my car... well, that's another post.
Anyway, it was almost seven p.m. before I got going to the gym. Egads. And I thought... all those thoughts...
...You won't be able to go Saturday or Sunday, so might as well make it three days instead of just two.
...It's already pretty late. You'd better get home.
...Like one day is gonna make a difference?
...With your intestinal troubles, you won't be accomplishing anything anyway.
But, luckily, this image flashed in my mind. Me doing my wacko stretching routine.
People at my gym avoid eye contact after they've seen me at it. I, of course, love that. It's pretty out there. But I just love it. It's all these moves--some of which I remember from Yoga, some of which I picked up over the years from trainers or seeing someone else do it--and then there's the really out there ones that I plain invented.
But that was enough. Off I went.
And stretching was great. Barring illness or injury, I want to be able to do this stretching for my whole life. It just feels so good. And, if I keep it up, I will be able to do it for my whole life, as it will keep me limber.
Tonight was shoulders and triceps. I love working my back. As a whipsman, I appreciate a well muscled back. When you're confronted with protruding shoulder blades, or a vast pillowy expanse... what do you do with that? What do you aim for? But that wonderful topography of a muscled back. That is so sweet.
And biceps. My biceps workout rocked tonight. I start out with doing the speed rack. That's a routine where you start with heavy dumbells and do a quick set of ten, then, without pausing, drop the weight by five pounds, and do another set of ten, no pause, less weight, another set of ten. Eventually, there you are, struggling and straining to do bicep curls with a pair of twenty pould dumbells that feel like they might as well weigh 120 pounds. Usually, my starting off point is thirty pounds. But tonight, I started at forty. And the first set felt pretty good. But next up was thirty-five. And that's heavy. And then the thirties. And they're heavy. By the time I got down to the manageable twenty-fives, I was shot. It was a struggle.
And then came the twenties. I have never, ever worked so hard to squeeze out a set of ten bicep curls with twenty pound dumbells as I did tonight. Two more routines with biceps, and then I hit the showers.
In the locker room, I peeled off my shirt, and I was pretty awed by what I beheld in the mirror. Yowza! I may only weigh 187.2 pounds, but it's a gooood 187.2 pounds.
I will never be big. I will never overhear Chelsea boys on Eighth Avenue say "Damn! Look at the guns on him!" as I pass by.
But I do alright.
It's all about the journey, not the destination.
I almost didn't go to the gym tonight!
I did, but it was hairy there for a minute. After work today, there was a long, sweet drool nap in one of the comfy chairs by the fire at Starbuck's. Listening to Russian Sacred music, reading James Hillman's The Soul Code. By the time I managed to finish a section (all of four pages), it was six fifteen. And as I'm heading to my car... well, that's another post.
Anyway, it was almost seven p.m. before I got going to the gym. Egads. And I thought... all those thoughts...
...You won't be able to go Saturday or Sunday, so might as well make it three days instead of just two.
...It's already pretty late. You'd better get home.
...Like one day is gonna make a difference?
...With your intestinal troubles, you won't be accomplishing anything anyway.
But, luckily, this image flashed in my mind. Me doing my wacko stretching routine.
People at my gym avoid eye contact after they've seen me at it. I, of course, love that. It's pretty out there. But I just love it. It's all these moves--some of which I remember from Yoga, some of which I picked up over the years from trainers or seeing someone else do it--and then there's the really out there ones that I plain invented.
But that was enough. Off I went.
And stretching was great. Barring illness or injury, I want to be able to do this stretching for my whole life. It just feels so good. And, if I keep it up, I will be able to do it for my whole life, as it will keep me limber.
Tonight was shoulders and triceps. I love working my back. As a whipsman, I appreciate a well muscled back. When you're confronted with protruding shoulder blades, or a vast pillowy expanse... what do you do with that? What do you aim for? But that wonderful topography of a muscled back. That is so sweet.
And biceps. My biceps workout rocked tonight. I start out with doing the speed rack. That's a routine where you start with heavy dumbells and do a quick set of ten, then, without pausing, drop the weight by five pounds, and do another set of ten, no pause, less weight, another set of ten. Eventually, there you are, struggling and straining to do bicep curls with a pair of twenty pould dumbells that feel like they might as well weigh 120 pounds. Usually, my starting off point is thirty pounds. But tonight, I started at forty. And the first set felt pretty good. But next up was thirty-five. And that's heavy. And then the thirties. And they're heavy. By the time I got down to the manageable twenty-fives, I was shot. It was a struggle.
And then came the twenties. I have never, ever worked so hard to squeeze out a set of ten bicep curls with twenty pound dumbells as I did tonight. Two more routines with biceps, and then I hit the showers.
In the locker room, I peeled off my shirt, and I was pretty awed by what I beheld in the mirror. Yowza! I may only weigh 187.2 pounds, but it's a gooood 187.2 pounds.
I will never be big. I will never overhear Chelsea boys on Eighth Avenue say "Damn! Look at the guns on him!" as I pass by.
But I do alright.
It's all about the journey, not the destination.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
See... This Is How It Starts
Ahhh. Home safe and sound.
So after stopping to get gas, which came after the gym (chest and triceps!), which came after work, I headed to the supermarket to get stuff for dinner. Because I drink a lot of water at the gym, it's guaranteed that I'll be needing to pee when I hit the market. At theStupidFresh SuperFresh in Doylestown, this is not a problem. They have well appointed and convenient restrooms. But tonight, I had to go to the Clemen's Market in Plumsteadville. Now regular readers of SingleTails will recall that Clemen's Market is the nexus of woofy men. They're always there in force. But, alas, the restrooms at Clemen's leave much to be desired. You have to go through swinging doors labeled 'Employees Only' and 'Hairnets Required Beyond This Point', past these shelves of outdated merchandise, down around the corner behind the meat department cutting room, and enter the grungy men's room. And I did this in a hurry as I had to go really bad.
So I unzip and whip it out, and... uh oh.
For the past few days, I've been having intestinal problems. And that seemed to hit a low point just then. When I did the big muscle release, I shit my pants. Quite unexpectedly, I assure you. Cutting off the flow of piss, I sort of danced from the urinal into the stall to clean up.
I know.... Eeeeeeew!!!
It was runny. Although not an unpleasant shade of ochre.
Oh hell.
I debated just making a graceful exit without getting anything. But we really needed something for dinner. Inspecting in front of the mirror, I saw that indeed, I had a big wet spot on the seat of my pants. I was wearing loose cargo pants, so I did my best to arrange things so that my pants were bunched over my butt, and the telltale wetspot was concealed (mostly) in the folds.
I grabbed what was easiest, hot dogs and saurkraut, and made for the checkout line.
And sure enough, there was a woofy guy in front of me, and then another woofy guy got in line behind me. I did my best to act non-chalant.
I paid for my stuff and made for the door.
Once outside in the arctic chill, I felt a draft where I shouldn't. Looking down, I realized that my fly was wide open. And since I had my pants bunched up in the back, we're talkin' wide open. As in, arrestable.
I headed for my Jeep in the parking lot. Woofy guy, who was only getting a gallon of milk, was right behind me. And, it turned out, parked right next to me. At this point, I'm in a state of 'almost there-almost there-almost there...'
"Hey buddy," Woofy guy says to me, your gas cap is open.
And so it was. I had left the little door over the gas cap open when I stopped on the way.
"Thanks!" I called, closing it.
And I just had this... this... image of myself. Mr. Shitty Pants. Mr. Wide Open Fly. Mr. Leave Your Gas Cap Off. Buying hot dogs and saurkrauts.
Not, I guess, one of my finer moments.
And you thought I was such hot stuff, huh?
Ahhh. Home safe and sound.
So after stopping to get gas, which came after the gym (chest and triceps!), which came after work, I headed to the supermarket to get stuff for dinner. Because I drink a lot of water at the gym, it's guaranteed that I'll be needing to pee when I hit the market. At the
So I unzip and whip it out, and... uh oh.
For the past few days, I've been having intestinal problems. And that seemed to hit a low point just then. When I did the big muscle release, I shit my pants. Quite unexpectedly, I assure you. Cutting off the flow of piss, I sort of danced from the urinal into the stall to clean up.
I know.... Eeeeeeew!!!
It was runny. Although not an unpleasant shade of ochre.
Oh hell.
I debated just making a graceful exit without getting anything. But we really needed something for dinner. Inspecting in front of the mirror, I saw that indeed, I had a big wet spot on the seat of my pants. I was wearing loose cargo pants, so I did my best to arrange things so that my pants were bunched over my butt, and the telltale wetspot was concealed (mostly) in the folds.
I grabbed what was easiest, hot dogs and saurkraut, and made for the checkout line.
And sure enough, there was a woofy guy in front of me, and then another woofy guy got in line behind me. I did my best to act non-chalant.
I paid for my stuff and made for the door.
Once outside in the arctic chill, I felt a draft where I shouldn't. Looking down, I realized that my fly was wide open. And since I had my pants bunched up in the back, we're talkin' wide open. As in, arrestable.
I headed for my Jeep in the parking lot. Woofy guy, who was only getting a gallon of milk, was right behind me. And, it turned out, parked right next to me. At this point, I'm in a state of 'almost there-almost there-almost there...'
"Hey buddy," Woofy guy says to me, your gas cap is open.
And so it was. I had left the little door over the gas cap open when I stopped on the way.
"Thanks!" I called, closing it.
And I just had this... this... image of myself. Mr. Shitty Pants. Mr. Wide Open Fly. Mr. Leave Your Gas Cap Off. Buying hot dogs and saurkrauts.
Not, I guess, one of my finer moments.
And you thought I was such hot stuff, huh?
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
How I Gained Six Pounds In Eight Weeks!
Oh man.
So I've been good about getting to the gym. Better than I've been since moving out here to the hinterlands. Thanks in no small part to encouragement from my Sir.
Big suggested that I I do high reps and lower weights. And I had a whole new mindset. I decided that I'd only do the stuff I liked. None of the stuff that I didn't like. And I decided to make time for stretching. My kind of stretching. Drawing on my decades old experience of doing yoga, and some Pilades stuff I got from a trainer I worked with at one of my New York gyms, it's basically some time I spend feeling at home in my body.
And then I plunge into the weights. Slowly, over time, I've upped the amounts that I was lifting. And it still felt really good. Not like something I had to do, but something I wanted to do.
And I've been paying close attention to what I eat. Making sure I get enough protein.
And I had an idea. I dropped the amount of weights I was doing, but kept up on the amount I was eating. That's sure to put on the pounds, right?
When I started, my weight was 183. And I've added weight. Last week, I hopped on the scale, and I'd made it all the way up to 189.7.
That three tenths of a pound really pissed me off. I couldn't have 190? I've been doing everything I can for the past two months, and I couldn't get to 190? What is up with that?
So I'm sort of pissed off. Why can't I break 190? What am I doing wrong? What could I be doing instead? It's almost like it's ordained that I can't weigh 190.
*sigh*
So I'm open to suggestions.
Oh. "Juice" is not a suggestion. I've toyed with the idea plenty. But it makes your testicles shrink. Down to nothing. And mine are the sixe of apricots, and I like them like that.
But I'm all ears.
Oh man.
So I've been good about getting to the gym. Better than I've been since moving out here to the hinterlands. Thanks in no small part to encouragement from my Sir.
Big suggested that I I do high reps and lower weights. And I had a whole new mindset. I decided that I'd only do the stuff I liked. None of the stuff that I didn't like. And I decided to make time for stretching. My kind of stretching. Drawing on my decades old experience of doing yoga, and some Pilades stuff I got from a trainer I worked with at one of my New York gyms, it's basically some time I spend feeling at home in my body.
And then I plunge into the weights. Slowly, over time, I've upped the amounts that I was lifting. And it still felt really good. Not like something I had to do, but something I wanted to do.
And I've been paying close attention to what I eat. Making sure I get enough protein.
And I had an idea. I dropped the amount of weights I was doing, but kept up on the amount I was eating. That's sure to put on the pounds, right?
When I started, my weight was 183. And I've added weight. Last week, I hopped on the scale, and I'd made it all the way up to 189.7.
That three tenths of a pound really pissed me off. I couldn't have 190? I've been doing everything I can for the past two months, and I couldn't get to 190? What is up with that?
So I'm sort of pissed off. Why can't I break 190? What am I doing wrong? What could I be doing instead? It's almost like it's ordained that I can't weigh 190.
*sigh*
So I'm open to suggestions.
Oh. "Juice" is not a suggestion. I've toyed with the idea plenty. But it makes your testicles shrink. Down to nothing. And mine are the sixe of apricots, and I like them like that.
But I'm all ears.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Aztec Gold
Whazzis? I come back from sebatical and post once a week?
Sorry 'bout that.
Been... ...distracted lately. My Sunday night edge play guy from MAL had to make a trip to NYC. And was up for a whipping. From me. His first.
Imagine! It's not Delta or Inferno, it's not MAL, it's just a Saturday in February, and I get to whip a man! Unbelievable good fortune there, huh?
So on Saturday, I headed up to NYC. A bulging toybag in the back of the jeep. I found my way to his hotel, got all my gear up to the room, and we picked up where we left off three weeks ago. Verrrry deep stuff. As the sun was setting and the lights were coming up on the Chrysler Building outside the window of Room 1503, I put my restraints on his wrists, and got busy.
The warm up flogging seemed soooo... besides the point. Like inviting someone over for dinner and serving Campbell's Soup. It went quickly. When I started in with the whip, things quickly became amazing. Just joyous. He was lustful. There's no other word for it. Just lustful. He kept backing up. It drove him nuts when I would crack the whip just over the skin of his back. He wanted connection.
Often in a whipping scene, particularly when the man you're whipping is a first timer, you are supplying all the energy. You're throwing the whip, keeping your focus, maintaining the rhythm, but also coaching, comforting, encouraging. But I swear, this man was blazing with power. Radiant. And every time I connected, the power would just surge.
I stopped short of drawing blood. For varied reasons, some of which I can't guess at. I wanted to leave him wanting more. I wanted to leave me wanting more. I didn't want it to be complete. There was a fear there. Once you conquer Everest, what's left to you?
Luckily, the analogy is a bad one. It's not mountaineering we're talking about, it's whipping men, and every man has his own special gift to give, and every whipping scene has it's own special gifts from the gods to bestow as well.
But still. The energy there was almost too much. A wolf never eats his fill. If he does that, he'll might be too sluggish when the next lame doe wanders across his path.
We hit the Eagle that night. Not much different there. Then back to Room 1503 for bed.
This guy needs a nom-de-blog, No? And I've thought of one. The Necessary Man. Not quite sure why that's fitting, but it is.
Huh. Lots of Mystery this past weekend. Lots of Mystery. Let the Mystery be.
The next day, Sunday, we hit Starbucks and got ourselves some lunch at the Boathouse in Central Park. And then we went to the Guggenheim.
The Gugg' is having an exhibit of Aztec Art.
Run. Don't walk.
It's just extraordinary. Absolutely breathtaking. Wonderful stuff.
Their depictions of the human face have mostly the same expression. The eyes are wide open, and the mouth is gaping. It's fascinating. It could be a look of anguish, or it could be ecstatic rapture. Or, y'know, both.
The Aztecs were a warrior society. Consequently, it was all about male energy. All the gods in their pantheon were male deities. And the only time women were portrayed in the art represented, they were on their knees, hands raised with the palms out, a gesture of supplication.
And then, of course, there is the Ritual. The Ritual. Every year, (in their extraordinary calendar) a warrior was selected. He was brave, he was ferocious in battle, and he was beautiful. For one year, he would live as a god. Every thing he wanted was his. Nothing was denied him. And he was treated as a god. No one could look upon his face and live. His touch was healing. And then, when the year was over, he would climb to the top of a pyramid, and there a priest would cut out his living heart. He would become a god, he would be the sun. Apotheosis.
Tucked away in the exhibit at the Guggenheim is a collection of daggers, the blades made from precious stones. And one of them... well, it was amazing. The blade was made from a sort of pale reddish-brown stone. And the handle. Wow. It was in the shape of a male head, in profile. The mouth open, the face upturned, in an expression either of anguish, or ecstasy, or both.
Necessary Man and I, looking at it, we just knew. That was the knife. That was it.
Imagine. Imagine what it would be like. One year. Your life, your dreams and ambitions and hopes and desires, all met, but in the compressed time of one year. And at the end of the year, well, there's sort of the ultimate snuff scene. You climb the pyramid, step by step by step. And at the Top, you gaze at the sun. Lose yourself in the brilliance. And then, expertly, your heart is removed. And your blood washes down the sides of the pyramid. For all the people. For all the people.
But that year. What would that year be like? What are your wishes, dreams, and desires? I don't doubt that early on in your year, you'd go for all the obvious stuff. I want to have sex with him! I want to hear that piece of music played for me while I bathe in water scented with the most fragrant flowers! I want to gorge myself on chocolate!
But how long before you run through all of the obvious things? Then what? Like Faust, do you come to regret your bargain?
Maybe it becomes about 'I want all the poor to be fed.' Or, 'I want all children to know that they are loved.'
How would you spend those precious 365 days? 364. 363. 362. 361...
Huh.
The Aztecs were onto something.
Whazzis? I come back from sebatical and post once a week?
Sorry 'bout that.
Been... ...distracted lately. My Sunday night edge play guy from MAL had to make a trip to NYC. And was up for a whipping. From me. His first.
Imagine! It's not Delta or Inferno, it's not MAL, it's just a Saturday in February, and I get to whip a man! Unbelievable good fortune there, huh?
So on Saturday, I headed up to NYC. A bulging toybag in the back of the jeep. I found my way to his hotel, got all my gear up to the room, and we picked up where we left off three weeks ago. Verrrry deep stuff. As the sun was setting and the lights were coming up on the Chrysler Building outside the window of Room 1503, I put my restraints on his wrists, and got busy.
The warm up flogging seemed soooo... besides the point. Like inviting someone over for dinner and serving Campbell's Soup. It went quickly. When I started in with the whip, things quickly became amazing. Just joyous. He was lustful. There's no other word for it. Just lustful. He kept backing up. It drove him nuts when I would crack the whip just over the skin of his back. He wanted connection.
Often in a whipping scene, particularly when the man you're whipping is a first timer, you are supplying all the energy. You're throwing the whip, keeping your focus, maintaining the rhythm, but also coaching, comforting, encouraging. But I swear, this man was blazing with power. Radiant. And every time I connected, the power would just surge.
I stopped short of drawing blood. For varied reasons, some of which I can't guess at. I wanted to leave him wanting more. I wanted to leave me wanting more. I didn't want it to be complete. There was a fear there. Once you conquer Everest, what's left to you?
Luckily, the analogy is a bad one. It's not mountaineering we're talking about, it's whipping men, and every man has his own special gift to give, and every whipping scene has it's own special gifts from the gods to bestow as well.
But still. The energy there was almost too much. A wolf never eats his fill. If he does that, he'll might be too sluggish when the next lame doe wanders across his path.
We hit the Eagle that night. Not much different there. Then back to Room 1503 for bed.
This guy needs a nom-de-blog, No? And I've thought of one. The Necessary Man. Not quite sure why that's fitting, but it is.
Huh. Lots of Mystery this past weekend. Lots of Mystery. Let the Mystery be.
The next day, Sunday, we hit Starbucks and got ourselves some lunch at the Boathouse in Central Park. And then we went to the Guggenheim.
The Gugg' is having an exhibit of Aztec Art.
Run. Don't walk.
It's just extraordinary. Absolutely breathtaking. Wonderful stuff.
Their depictions of the human face have mostly the same expression. The eyes are wide open, and the mouth is gaping. It's fascinating. It could be a look of anguish, or it could be ecstatic rapture. Or, y'know, both.
The Aztecs were a warrior society. Consequently, it was all about male energy. All the gods in their pantheon were male deities. And the only time women were portrayed in the art represented, they were on their knees, hands raised with the palms out, a gesture of supplication.
And then, of course, there is the Ritual. The Ritual. Every year, (in their extraordinary calendar) a warrior was selected. He was brave, he was ferocious in battle, and he was beautiful. For one year, he would live as a god. Every thing he wanted was his. Nothing was denied him. And he was treated as a god. No one could look upon his face and live. His touch was healing. And then, when the year was over, he would climb to the top of a pyramid, and there a priest would cut out his living heart. He would become a god, he would be the sun. Apotheosis.
Tucked away in the exhibit at the Guggenheim is a collection of daggers, the blades made from precious stones. And one of them... well, it was amazing. The blade was made from a sort of pale reddish-brown stone. And the handle. Wow. It was in the shape of a male head, in profile. The mouth open, the face upturned, in an expression either of anguish, or ecstasy, or both.
Necessary Man and I, looking at it, we just knew. That was the knife. That was it.
Imagine. Imagine what it would be like. One year. Your life, your dreams and ambitions and hopes and desires, all met, but in the compressed time of one year. And at the end of the year, well, there's sort of the ultimate snuff scene. You climb the pyramid, step by step by step. And at the Top, you gaze at the sun. Lose yourself in the brilliance. And then, expertly, your heart is removed. And your blood washes down the sides of the pyramid. For all the people. For all the people.
But that year. What would that year be like? What are your wishes, dreams, and desires? I don't doubt that early on in your year, you'd go for all the obvious stuff. I want to have sex with him! I want to hear that piece of music played for me while I bathe in water scented with the most fragrant flowers! I want to gorge myself on chocolate!
But how long before you run through all of the obvious things? Then what? Like Faust, do you come to regret your bargain?
Maybe it becomes about 'I want all the poor to be fed.' Or, 'I want all children to know that they are loved.'
How would you spend those precious 365 days? 364. 363. 362. 361...
Huh.
The Aztecs were onto something.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Fly Iggles, Fly!
Look who has Super Bowl Fever...
Or... y'know... not.
Today at work, there was a big to-do on the Super Bowl. (For the sports-impaired, Philadelphia's own Eagles--locally pronounced 'Iggles'--are going up against the New England Patriots this Sunday in the Super Bowl.) There was much wearin' o' the Eagles jerseys, much paintin' o' the faces, much spontaneous cheers. And, the Powers That Be bought us all lunch in a kind of 'tailgate party' thing. Luckily, they didn't make us eat it outside.
Prizes were given out for the 'Best Costume' and the 'Best Decorated Vehicle.'
So I ran out and plopped down my hard-earned cash for the green and white fright wig, right?
Are you out of your mind?
No. What happened was... Well, let's just say that when the man who signs your paychecks asks you to wear a fright wig, you wear the fright wig. Capesce?
But, I have to say that I think the fright wig doesn't look half bad on me. A guy I work with made a reference to Pam Grier, and I knew that it had to become Mine. So I left work wearing it.
Now that must be odd, tooling around Doylestown in a green and white fright wig, huh?
Not a bit. I didn't even stand out in the crowd. Or rather, the sea of green and white. People complemented me on my 'Spirit' and said things like, 'things like that is why we're gonna win!'
What's the big deal? I mean, it's not like the Cubs are in the World Series or something? I mean, this is football, not baseball.
I get football in theory, but it doesn't do a lot for me to watch a game. For one thing, there's all that padding. You can't see what the players look like, until they flash the stills. And then I'm trying to match up the face I just saw with the number... And I can't follow the plays. It just looks like a hive of bees to me. And it used to be a great working class sport, but then it got all kindsa corporate. Like basketball, I just get the idea that those guys are out there for the money. Not the love of the game. Watch a minor league baseball team play sometime. Guys who are making ten thousand or so a year, most of whom have realized that they're probably not going to be called up into the majors any time soon. But they just love the game. So they're giving up career and families and getting out there. That's sweet. That's baseball.
And, the Pats are the odds on favorite to win. New England is something of a football dynasty. They have this innovative, sort of Microsoft-like approach to the game. And it works for them. If the Eagles manage to pull it out, it will be (yet another) nail in the coffin of Rush Limbaugh's credibility, as he was fired as a host of Monday Night Football when he opined that Philadelphia quarterback Donovan McNabb got his job only through affirmative action or something. McNabb is one of the only African-American quarterbacks in the NFL, but contrary to Rush's bloviating, he's proven himself to also be one of the best, if not the best.
(Because of the whole uniforms and padding thing, I have no idea what Donovan McNabb looks like, or if he's woofy.)
But anyway, it's Super Bowl weekend here in the Delaware Valley. I probably won't be tuning in, but I will want to know the final score.
And that could only mean that baseball season is weeks away!
Look who has Super Bowl Fever...
Or... y'know... not.
Today at work, there was a big to-do on the Super Bowl. (For the sports-impaired, Philadelphia's own Eagles--locally pronounced 'Iggles'--are going up against the New England Patriots this Sunday in the Super Bowl.) There was much wearin' o' the Eagles jerseys, much paintin' o' the faces, much spontaneous cheers. And, the Powers That Be bought us all lunch in a kind of 'tailgate party' thing. Luckily, they didn't make us eat it outside.
Prizes were given out for the 'Best Costume' and the 'Best Decorated Vehicle.'
So I ran out and plopped down my hard-earned cash for the green and white fright wig, right?
Are you out of your mind?
No. What happened was... Well, let's just say that when the man who signs your paychecks asks you to wear a fright wig, you wear the fright wig. Capesce?
But, I have to say that I think the fright wig doesn't look half bad on me. A guy I work with made a reference to Pam Grier, and I knew that it had to become Mine. So I left work wearing it.
Now that must be odd, tooling around Doylestown in a green and white fright wig, huh?
Not a bit. I didn't even stand out in the crowd. Or rather, the sea of green and white. People complemented me on my 'Spirit' and said things like, 'things like that is why we're gonna win!'
What's the big deal? I mean, it's not like the Cubs are in the World Series or something? I mean, this is football, not baseball.
I get football in theory, but it doesn't do a lot for me to watch a game. For one thing, there's all that padding. You can't see what the players look like, until they flash the stills. And then I'm trying to match up the face I just saw with the number... And I can't follow the plays. It just looks like a hive of bees to me. And it used to be a great working class sport, but then it got all kindsa corporate. Like basketball, I just get the idea that those guys are out there for the money. Not the love of the game. Watch a minor league baseball team play sometime. Guys who are making ten thousand or so a year, most of whom have realized that they're probably not going to be called up into the majors any time soon. But they just love the game. So they're giving up career and families and getting out there. That's sweet. That's baseball.
And, the Pats are the odds on favorite to win. New England is something of a football dynasty. They have this innovative, sort of Microsoft-like approach to the game. And it works for them. If the Eagles manage to pull it out, it will be (yet another) nail in the coffin of Rush Limbaugh's credibility, as he was fired as a host of Monday Night Football when he opined that Philadelphia quarterback Donovan McNabb got his job only through affirmative action or something. McNabb is one of the only African-American quarterbacks in the NFL, but contrary to Rush's bloviating, he's proven himself to also be one of the best, if not the best.
(Because of the whole uniforms and padding thing, I have no idea what Donovan McNabb looks like, or if he's woofy.)
But anyway, it's Super Bowl weekend here in the Delaware Valley. I probably won't be tuning in, but I will want to know the final score.
And that could only mean that baseball season is weeks away!
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