Yes We Are!
My former Senator, Chuck Schumer, is on This Week with George Stephanopoulos. Love that guy. Mostly.
When he was first elected to the Senate, the Times interviewed some of his constituents in his congressional district about what they thought of him. A couple of moms, sitting in a coffee place on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, had this to say: "We are a recycling, breast-feeding, non-spanking people, and Chuck Schumer is our congressman!"
God I miss Brooklyn. Best place I ever lived.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Crazy, Right?
Softball today.
It is sooooo good to be back in D Division. All about having a good time. Cheering on your team, and wishing the other team well, too. Because we're all struggling up the mountain called softball together.
And, of course, today was my pitching debut.
Yeah. Well.
It's a good thing there were no major league baseball scouts there.
They walked and they walked and they walked.
Pitching is hard! I mean, really hard!
It's weird though. I can do it. Perfect arc, and it just drops right into the glove of the catcher. And the thing is, I know before the ball even leaves my hand that that's gonna happen. But other times... Well, it's short, it's long it's outside, it's inside. Ball One. Ball Two. Ball Three. Take your base, batter.
Nowhere to go but up, I guess.
Hopefully, with some practice, I'll see some improvement.
We played in Bloomfield, New Jersey. Home of Jersey Guy, who's in Palm Springs this weekend. As I learned from my visits to Jersey Guy, Watsessing Park is an easy shot from home. Out I-78 to the Parkway, north on the Parkway to Exit 148, and the exit spits you out right there at the park. So, I decided not to use the gas to head into NYC with my fellow Ball Breakers after the game.
Instead, I went to hang out at Starbucks in Doylestown to see if Cigar Boy might show up.
And he didn't.
Where is he?
I know I know I know I know what you're thinking.
What is this all about? Am I nuts? I don't even know his name, for pete's sake.
Has the Good Ship Reality gone chugging out of my port?
Relax.
I did a check-in on all this with the Baron. And realized something interesting. Iven though I'm having this whole deal going on with Cigar Boy, at the same time, I have this sense of watching myself--safely--from a distance. So it's like I'm both heading down the rapids in my canoe and watching safely from the shore.
And I've gotta tell you, this feels great.
As careful readers know, I was getting seriously worried. I used to fall in love all the time. Get all crushed out on a guy. But then it stopped. Because Special Guy gave me so much, and raised the bar so high. Because when I was able to give my heart to Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer, it turned out that he's pretty careless with hearts. So maybe it was spent. Worn out. Gone.
Maybe what I was looking at from here on in was just going through the motions. Hoping that next time will be different.
But no.
Here I am. Pouring all my energies into this smokin hot boy. Imagining him and me, me and him. Trying to read him, from the little I know. Figure him out. Wondering what might go down.
And I realize it might come to nothing.
The Baron verrrry helpfully brought to my attention the many reasons why I didn't have a hope of this going anywhere. And overall, made some good points.
But something might come of it.
Well, that's not correct. Something already has.
I'm having fun.
Softball today.
It is sooooo good to be back in D Division. All about having a good time. Cheering on your team, and wishing the other team well, too. Because we're all struggling up the mountain called softball together.
And, of course, today was my pitching debut.
Yeah. Well.
It's a good thing there were no major league baseball scouts there.
They walked and they walked and they walked.
Pitching is hard! I mean, really hard!
It's weird though. I can do it. Perfect arc, and it just drops right into the glove of the catcher. And the thing is, I know before the ball even leaves my hand that that's gonna happen. But other times... Well, it's short, it's long it's outside, it's inside. Ball One. Ball Two. Ball Three. Take your base, batter.
Nowhere to go but up, I guess.
Hopefully, with some practice, I'll see some improvement.
We played in Bloomfield, New Jersey. Home of Jersey Guy, who's in Palm Springs this weekend. As I learned from my visits to Jersey Guy, Watsessing Park is an easy shot from home. Out I-78 to the Parkway, north on the Parkway to Exit 148, and the exit spits you out right there at the park. So, I decided not to use the gas to head into NYC with my fellow Ball Breakers after the game.
Instead, I went to hang out at Starbucks in Doylestown to see if Cigar Boy might show up.
And he didn't.
Where is he?
I know I know I know I know what you're thinking.
What is this all about? Am I nuts? I don't even know his name, for pete's sake.
Has the Good Ship Reality gone chugging out of my port?
Relax.
I did a check-in on all this with the Baron. And realized something interesting. Iven though I'm having this whole deal going on with Cigar Boy, at the same time, I have this sense of watching myself--safely--from a distance. So it's like I'm both heading down the rapids in my canoe and watching safely from the shore.
And I've gotta tell you, this feels great.
As careful readers know, I was getting seriously worried. I used to fall in love all the time. Get all crushed out on a guy. But then it stopped. Because Special Guy gave me so much, and raised the bar so high. Because when I was able to give my heart to Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer, it turned out that he's pretty careless with hearts. So maybe it was spent. Worn out. Gone.
Maybe what I was looking at from here on in was just going through the motions. Hoping that next time will be different.
But no.
Here I am. Pouring all my energies into this smokin hot boy. Imagining him and me, me and him. Trying to read him, from the little I know. Figure him out. Wondering what might go down.
And I realize it might come to nothing.
The Baron verrrry helpfully brought to my attention the many reasons why I didn't have a hope of this going anywhere. And overall, made some good points.
But something might come of it.
Well, that's not correct. Something already has.
I'm having fun.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Cigar Boy Update
Cigar Boy was a no show again today. When I pulled up, I saw, from a distance, a guy who could have been Cigar Boy and got all excited, but alas, it wasn't.
Dang.
And it wasn't all that warm today, so I wasn't very comfortable keeping my lonely vigil.
But some good news: this Monday, Starbucks is putting the chairs and tables out on the porch. So, I won't have to sit on the ground any more. And, that always brings out the crowds, thus upping my chances of meeting up with Cigar Boy and asking him out on a date.
Okay okay okay! Enough pissing and moaning, right? Not what you all tuned in for, I'm sure.
I'm not that bad off. I had church tonight. And I thanked God for the gift of my life. Things are good here. Just kinda maybe sorta hoping they get better. Cigar Boy better.
Oh. And speaking of prayer, send out a prayer for our friend Diabolique, who is recovering from having his spleen removed.
Cigar Boy was a no show again today. When I pulled up, I saw, from a distance, a guy who could have been Cigar Boy and got all excited, but alas, it wasn't.
Dang.
And it wasn't all that warm today, so I wasn't very comfortable keeping my lonely vigil.
But some good news: this Monday, Starbucks is putting the chairs and tables out on the porch. So, I won't have to sit on the ground any more. And, that always brings out the crowds, thus upping my chances of meeting up with Cigar Boy and asking him out on a date.
Okay okay okay! Enough pissing and moaning, right? Not what you all tuned in for, I'm sure.
I'm not that bad off. I had church tonight. And I thanked God for the gift of my life. Things are good here. Just kinda maybe sorta hoping they get better. Cigar Boy better.
Oh. And speaking of prayer, send out a prayer for our friend Diabolique, who is recovering from having his spleen removed.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Krush
Again today--as yesterday--Cigar Boy was a no show at Starbucks.
Giving me more time to think, and make connections.
"For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone."
I want to be loved. By someone I think worthy of loving.
In part, it's about affirmation. And it has everything to do with the difficulty I seem to be having in getting a new job. I thought it would be easy. Heck, with my resume? But for a couple of jobs where it would be something of a step down from what I've done in the past, I don't even get a call for an interview.
Am I, at age 41, over the hill? Are my best days behind me? Has my act grown tired? Am I played out?
And same with me getting all subby lately on Worldleathermen: "Pick me, Sir! Pick me!"
Cigar Boy looms largest. If I could just get him to get as crushed out on me as I seem to be getting on him.
How I would value that. How I would work to be worthy of that. I'd give everything.
Everything for the kind of love that prompts tattoos of names inscribed on hearts.
And part of the allure of Cigar Boy is the fact that in my experience, the young are particularly susceptible to that. I could do with some shooting fish in a barrel. So all day long at work, I'm dreaming about Cigar Boy.
Taking Cigar Boy to Beer Blast at the Dugout on Sunday afternoon. To Folsom Street East (maybe on a leash!). Explaining to him. Showing him. Encouraging him. Curling up next to him in bed. Seeing if I could talk him into tying him up tight, lighting up a cigar for him, and watching him smoke it.
Dreaming dreams.
"Your old men will dream dreams."
Is that all that's left for old men though? Like Ulysses, longing for one more voyage? One more opportunity to set sail for adventure? I'm getting tired of dating. I want to be struck by lightening.
How well I remember that day at the corner of Christopher and Bleecker. The sudden summer downpour. Special Guy and I taking shelter under the awning of the fresh cut flower stand. The woman asking me directions to the subway, and while I answered, Special Guy bought me a single red rose. He gave it to me, kissed me deeply and passionately, and asked, "Will you be boyfriends with me?"
What if I knew then what's becoming clear to me now: I may never feel that way again.
And guiding the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center through perilous waters. I may never know that success again either.
Like being an actor. You meet with incredible success, but it's no guarantee. You never know if your critically acclaimed performance in a hit play will be the last time you ever work.
I've learned my lesson. If I ever have another chance, I'll give my life to hold on to it.
Again today--as yesterday--Cigar Boy was a no show at Starbucks.
Giving me more time to think, and make connections.
"For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone."
I want to be loved. By someone I think worthy of loving.
In part, it's about affirmation. And it has everything to do with the difficulty I seem to be having in getting a new job. I thought it would be easy. Heck, with my resume? But for a couple of jobs where it would be something of a step down from what I've done in the past, I don't even get a call for an interview.
Am I, at age 41, over the hill? Are my best days behind me? Has my act grown tired? Am I played out?
And same with me getting all subby lately on Worldleathermen: "Pick me, Sir! Pick me!"
Cigar Boy looms largest. If I could just get him to get as crushed out on me as I seem to be getting on him.
How I would value that. How I would work to be worthy of that. I'd give everything.
Everything for the kind of love that prompts tattoos of names inscribed on hearts.
And part of the allure of Cigar Boy is the fact that in my experience, the young are particularly susceptible to that. I could do with some shooting fish in a barrel. So all day long at work, I'm dreaming about Cigar Boy.
Taking Cigar Boy to Beer Blast at the Dugout on Sunday afternoon. To Folsom Street East (maybe on a leash!). Explaining to him. Showing him. Encouraging him. Curling up next to him in bed. Seeing if I could talk him into tying him up tight, lighting up a cigar for him, and watching him smoke it.
Dreaming dreams.
"Your old men will dream dreams."
Is that all that's left for old men though? Like Ulysses, longing for one more voyage? One more opportunity to set sail for adventure? I'm getting tired of dating. I want to be struck by lightening.
How well I remember that day at the corner of Christopher and Bleecker. The sudden summer downpour. Special Guy and I taking shelter under the awning of the fresh cut flower stand. The woman asking me directions to the subway, and while I answered, Special Guy bought me a single red rose. He gave it to me, kissed me deeply and passionately, and asked, "Will you be boyfriends with me?"
What if I knew then what's becoming clear to me now: I may never feel that way again.
And guiding the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center through perilous waters. I may never know that success again either.
Like being an actor. You meet with incredible success, but it's no guarantee. You never know if your critically acclaimed performance in a hit play will be the last time you ever work.
I've learned my lesson. If I ever have another chance, I'll give my life to hold on to it.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Obsessed
Where did this come from?
I've always liked men. Bearded, beergutted, hirsute men.
Is it a function of getting older? Or just the company I keep at Starbucks?
Or maybe it's just Him.
But lately, now I'm noticing boys. As in "young men."
My friend The Baron has always been a fan of them. With their little bicep muscles like scoops of ice cream. I would scoff. "But there's no there there. What are you going to talk to him about, his course load at college?" The Baron wanted the boys, I wanted their dads.
But since I moved out here to the Howling Wilderness, perhaps I'm reliving in some ways the time I spent here growing up. The kind of boys that enthralled me in high school are doing it to me again. Only in high school they were a couple of years older than me, and now, I'm old enough to have sired them.
For example.
He's so hot! Mohawk. Baby fat over muscles. His eyes lit up when I told him how I helped the Circle Jerks unload their equipment from their van and they bought me a beer. And then one day at Starbucks we were talking. He was telling me about how he was learning machining at tech school. I asked him if he was graduating this year and looking for a job. And he said, "Nah, I'm a sophmore."
???
"How old are you?" I asked.
"I'm fifteen," he answered.
I backed off. Immediately. Not that I've ever been a master of seduction with anybody.
But now He happened on the scene.
Get this. A total little fireplug of a guy. Stocky. Big full lips. And He's been seen on the rialto (as I call the parking lot of Starbucks in Doylestown) smoking cigars.
You bet I've been eyeing Him.
So then, the other day, it was a beautiful day, and I'm sitting on the porch of Starbucks, reading the Times and enjoying my cigar. He was nearby, talking to his friends. They were talking about the current brouhaha over MySpace: kids putting too much information on their profiles and getting stalked by pervy 40 year olds. And they were pretty sure that what was behind the whole thing is the fact that kids use MySpace for the same reason that grownups have been using the internet for. Namely, hooking up. And then, He said it... "MySpace rocks! I met this guy on MySpace and damn! We had like fifty orgasms that night."
!!!
He's queer.
This smokin' hot boy is likes guys.
Okay. And dig. He must be at least 18 if he gets his cigars at the Classic Cigar Parlor where I do, because I know they card mercilessly.
And I can't stop thinking about Him. As in, planning the rest of my life around Him. I mean, what if He's not just gay, but kinky? And what if He's not just gay and kinky, but submissive??? Imagine the possibilities. Me with this hot cigar smoking boy on a leash...
Yeah I know I know I know.
Not like we haven't been down this road before, right? But all the same, I'd be grateful for the opportunity to sit and talk with him someday this summer, smoking cigars together. And letting him know that he's going to have a such a great time starting the moment he walks into his first bear bar.
Where did this come from?
I've always liked men. Bearded, beergutted, hirsute men.
Is it a function of getting older? Or just the company I keep at Starbucks?
Or maybe it's just Him.
But lately, now I'm noticing boys. As in "young men."
My friend The Baron has always been a fan of them. With their little bicep muscles like scoops of ice cream. I would scoff. "But there's no there there. What are you going to talk to him about, his course load at college?" The Baron wanted the boys, I wanted their dads.
But since I moved out here to the Howling Wilderness, perhaps I'm reliving in some ways the time I spent here growing up. The kind of boys that enthralled me in high school are doing it to me again. Only in high school they were a couple of years older than me, and now, I'm old enough to have sired them.
For example.
He's so hot! Mohawk. Baby fat over muscles. His eyes lit up when I told him how I helped the Circle Jerks unload their equipment from their van and they bought me a beer. And then one day at Starbucks we were talking. He was telling me about how he was learning machining at tech school. I asked him if he was graduating this year and looking for a job. And he said, "Nah, I'm a sophmore."
???
"How old are you?" I asked.
"I'm fifteen," he answered.
I backed off. Immediately. Not that I've ever been a master of seduction with anybody.
But now He happened on the scene.
Get this. A total little fireplug of a guy. Stocky. Big full lips. And He's been seen on the rialto (as I call the parking lot of Starbucks in Doylestown) smoking cigars.
You bet I've been eyeing Him.
So then, the other day, it was a beautiful day, and I'm sitting on the porch of Starbucks, reading the Times and enjoying my cigar. He was nearby, talking to his friends. They were talking about the current brouhaha over MySpace: kids putting too much information on their profiles and getting stalked by pervy 40 year olds. And they were pretty sure that what was behind the whole thing is the fact that kids use MySpace for the same reason that grownups have been using the internet for. Namely, hooking up. And then, He said it... "MySpace rocks! I met this guy on MySpace and damn! We had like fifty orgasms that night."
!!!
He's queer.
This smokin' hot boy is likes guys.
Okay. And dig. He must be at least 18 if he gets his cigars at the Classic Cigar Parlor where I do, because I know they card mercilessly.
And I can't stop thinking about Him. As in, planning the rest of my life around Him. I mean, what if He's not just gay, but kinky? And what if He's not just gay and kinky, but submissive??? Imagine the possibilities. Me with this hot cigar smoking boy on a leash...
Yeah I know I know I know.
Not like we haven't been down this road before, right? But all the same, I'd be grateful for the opportunity to sit and talk with him someday this summer, smoking cigars together. And letting him know that he's going to have a such a great time starting the moment he walks into his first bear bar.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
A Cry For Help
Help!!!
Okay.
Does anybody out there live in New England and have a truck with a decent sized bed? (At least 6'x6'.) Or, does anybody out there know anybody who has a truck who lives in New England?
Here's the deal.
Look at this beautiful cage...
I mean, Look at that!
Bet you've never seen one like that before, have you? Notice how the ample space on top can be used as a bondage table. And that classy pentagonal shape, huh? What a beauty!
And it's mine! All mine!
And for the past two years and eight months, it's been sitting--empty!--in a garage in Providence, Rhode Island.
I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to get it down here from Providence. (Pretty unprovidential, right?) And since I have the garage all cleaned out, I have a place to put it.
And put it to use.
Surely there must be some truck driving Good Samaritan out there who would be willing to help me out here. I'll give you gas money! I'll make you a dinner that will blow you away! I'll put you in the cage! I'll let you put me in the cage!
Anybody? Anybody?
If'n you can help out, drop something into the comments section below, or email me at drewkramer (at) mac (dot) com.
Please.
Please help.
I'll thank you. Countless boys will thank you.
My undying gratitude awaits!
Help!!!
Okay.
Does anybody out there live in New England and have a truck with a decent sized bed? (At least 6'x6'.) Or, does anybody out there know anybody who has a truck who lives in New England?
Here's the deal.
Look at this beautiful cage...
I mean, Look at that!
Bet you've never seen one like that before, have you? Notice how the ample space on top can be used as a bondage table. And that classy pentagonal shape, huh? What a beauty!
And it's mine! All mine!
And for the past two years and eight months, it's been sitting--empty!--in a garage in Providence, Rhode Island.
I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to get it down here from Providence. (Pretty unprovidential, right?) And since I have the garage all cleaned out, I have a place to put it.
And put it to use.
Surely there must be some truck driving Good Samaritan out there who would be willing to help me out here. I'll give you gas money! I'll make you a dinner that will blow you away! I'll put you in the cage! I'll let you put me in the cage!
Anybody? Anybody?
If'n you can help out, drop something into the comments section below, or email me at drewkramer (at) mac (dot) com.
Please.
Please help.
I'll thank you. Countless boys will thank you.
My undying gratitude awaits!
Hail Thee Festival Day!
When it comes to Holy Week, the Episcopal Church is just second to none. Positively wagnerian. Thursday through Saturday, every night is an increasing blow out. Liturgically speaking, that is. And I was down for the whole thing. I was in church last week way more than I was in the gym. (Although my weight is starting to climb back up, and on Tuesday, I did Astanga Yoga. I was sweating like a pig! It was literally pouring off me. My gym clothes were soaked. And the instructor, Bob, is a total hottie.)
Saturday, I managed to squeeze in both softball practice and the Great Vigil of Easter. After a cigar and an iced coffee on the grass pier, I sped home, changed clothes, and made it to church in plenty of time to get a good seat.
And I spent the bulk of softball practice on the pitcher's mound. And my fellow Ball Breakers were duly impressed with my efforts. I love being a pitcher. It's that center-of-attention thing, I think. Also, I look really mean. (!) And I seem to be unflusterable. Hope that lasts. If'n you know anything about baseball, you know that pitchers are prone to psychological terrors. One minute you're throwing 96 mile-per-hour fastballs, and the next minute you aren't sure you'll ever be able to put one over the plate again.
It's so much like whipping. Just like whipping. Just focus your attention on what you're aiming at, relax, wind up, throw. Don't let your mind get in the way, your body knows how to do it. Just like whipping.
And, NorskyBear presented me with the fabulous orange watch cap he knitted for me! I love my new orange watch cap. Alas, it does a really good job of keeping my head warm, so I won't be sporting it for several months (I hope). But look for me when I do!
And, Norsky and I talked about me sponsoring him for Inferno. Which I would gladly do. He's a great guy, and I've been a fan of his for years. In fact, if he were to ride out with me, I would be quite the speed demon. Having an Ossiffer in the car must have some privileges. Out on Randall's Island where we play, there seem to be no restrooms to speak of. I always keep a sharp lookout for when Norsky heads for the banks of the Bronx Kill to take a piss. I figure no cop is going to bust me for public urination as long as I'm doing it with another member of the force.
Sunday, I made a nice easter dinner for my dad (lambchops à la moutarde, bake potatoe, brussels sprouts). And actually managed to get some housecleaning done around here! Then, I headed for Montclair NJ for another date (that's four!) with Jersey Guy. We talked. We smoked cigars watching HGTV (Jersey is addicted to design, too). We got naked. It was so sweet. I sure am developing quite the soft spot for Jersey Guy.
So, despite the fact that with taxes and all, I have thirty two dollars left over of my paycheck and it's two weeks till the next payday, things are very good here.
Opening day is on Saturday! Wish me luck!
When it comes to Holy Week, the Episcopal Church is just second to none. Positively wagnerian. Thursday through Saturday, every night is an increasing blow out. Liturgically speaking, that is. And I was down for the whole thing. I was in church last week way more than I was in the gym. (Although my weight is starting to climb back up, and on Tuesday, I did Astanga Yoga. I was sweating like a pig! It was literally pouring off me. My gym clothes were soaked. And the instructor, Bob, is a total hottie.)
Saturday, I managed to squeeze in both softball practice and the Great Vigil of Easter. After a cigar and an iced coffee on the grass pier, I sped home, changed clothes, and made it to church in plenty of time to get a good seat.
And I spent the bulk of softball practice on the pitcher's mound. And my fellow Ball Breakers were duly impressed with my efforts. I love being a pitcher. It's that center-of-attention thing, I think. Also, I look really mean. (!) And I seem to be unflusterable. Hope that lasts. If'n you know anything about baseball, you know that pitchers are prone to psychological terrors. One minute you're throwing 96 mile-per-hour fastballs, and the next minute you aren't sure you'll ever be able to put one over the plate again.
It's so much like whipping. Just like whipping. Just focus your attention on what you're aiming at, relax, wind up, throw. Don't let your mind get in the way, your body knows how to do it. Just like whipping.
And, NorskyBear presented me with the fabulous orange watch cap he knitted for me! I love my new orange watch cap. Alas, it does a really good job of keeping my head warm, so I won't be sporting it for several months (I hope). But look for me when I do!
And, Norsky and I talked about me sponsoring him for Inferno. Which I would gladly do. He's a great guy, and I've been a fan of his for years. In fact, if he were to ride out with me, I would be quite the speed demon. Having an Ossiffer in the car must have some privileges. Out on Randall's Island where we play, there seem to be no restrooms to speak of. I always keep a sharp lookout for when Norsky heads for the banks of the Bronx Kill to take a piss. I figure no cop is going to bust me for public urination as long as I'm doing it with another member of the force.
Sunday, I made a nice easter dinner for my dad (lambchops à la moutarde, bake potatoe, brussels sprouts). And actually managed to get some housecleaning done around here! Then, I headed for Montclair NJ for another date (that's four!) with Jersey Guy. We talked. We smoked cigars watching HGTV (Jersey is addicted to design, too). We got naked. It was so sweet. I sure am developing quite the soft spot for Jersey Guy.
So, despite the fact that with taxes and all, I have thirty two dollars left over of my paycheck and it's two weeks till the next payday, things are very good here.
Opening day is on Saturday! Wish me luck!
Monday, April 10, 2006
Cool Thought From Our Indigenous Folks
Heard this on NPR...
The Innuit (I think it's the Innuit) believe that men and the animals were once pretty much all the brothers, all of the same tribe. But then, a chasm opened up in the earth, separating man from the animals. The chasm grew wider and wider, men on one side, and animals on the other. At the last moment, the dog abandoned his cousin, the wolf, and leapt across the chasm to join man.
Of course the did did!
For that, I'm gonna give Faithful Companion some lovin'!
Heard this on NPR...
The Innuit (I think it's the Innuit) believe that men and the animals were once pretty much all the brothers, all of the same tribe. But then, a chasm opened up in the earth, separating man from the animals. The chasm grew wider and wider, men on one side, and animals on the other. At the last moment, the dog abandoned his cousin, the wolf, and leapt across the chasm to join man.
Of course the did did!
For that, I'm gonna give Faithful Companion some lovin'!
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Arrividerci, Olney!
Forgot to tell you all about this.
Last weekend, I went down to Philadelphia to hang with the Baron. My route from here in the Howling Wilderness is to take 263 to 611, which turns into North Broad Street. It's pretty much a straight shot, thirty-five miles door to door.
And it takes me through North Philadelphia. A neighborhood that's largely African-American. Okay, almost entirely African-American.
So there I am, going from stoplight to stop light--back in the day, the lights were synchronized so if you went thirty miles per hour, you'd only hit every seventh or so--and I pull up next to this big SUV. And I notice that the driver of the SUV is totally hot. Fiftyish, chiseled features, steel gray hair... just a beautiful man.
And he caught me lookin'. And he smiled. And I smiled back at him. And he grinned at me and nodded hello. And I grinned at him, and gave him a woof.
And thought to myself... Well this is cool!
The light turns green, he takes off, I take off. But then, a couple of lights later, guess who pulls up next to me again.
He smiles at me. I smile at him. And then he gestures for me to roll down my window.
Okay. I'm game. So I roll down the window.
And hot SUV guy says to me... "Buon' Giorno! Parle italiano?"
???
I replied, "Si... parlo poco d'italiano, na molto."
"Bene! Vogli comprare una giubba? Una giubba bella! Di Giorgio Armani!"
Uh... "Giubba." Uh... Scarpe, cravate... Jacket! "Giubba" means jacket! He has a Giorgio Armani jacket he wants me to comprare. But I don't need a Giorgio Armani giubba.
"Ah Signor, mille grazie ma no. Per mi, no Giubba."
"Certo?"
"Si, certo, ma grazie."
The light turned green. A couple of blocks later he turned and I went straight.
And then it sort of dawned on me... I just had a conversation in Italian on North Broad Street.
What the hell?
When was the last time you negotiated for the purchase of a jacket in Italian? And how did he know I spoke Italian? And does he just do business with people who speak Italian? Does he drive through Philadelphia all day asking random strangers if they parle italiano? And wouldn't South Philadelphia, Land of Cheesesteaks And Organized Crime, be a better place to try that?
A mystery.
But I have to admit I felt pretty damned good about those three semesters of Italian I had in college. Verrrrry cosmopolitan.
It's a shame that in my three semesters of Italian, we didn't cover "get laid."
Forgot to tell you all about this.
Last weekend, I went down to Philadelphia to hang with the Baron. My route from here in the Howling Wilderness is to take 263 to 611, which turns into North Broad Street. It's pretty much a straight shot, thirty-five miles door to door.
And it takes me through North Philadelphia. A neighborhood that's largely African-American. Okay, almost entirely African-American.
So there I am, going from stoplight to stop light--back in the day, the lights were synchronized so if you went thirty miles per hour, you'd only hit every seventh or so--and I pull up next to this big SUV. And I notice that the driver of the SUV is totally hot. Fiftyish, chiseled features, steel gray hair... just a beautiful man.
And he caught me lookin'. And he smiled. And I smiled back at him. And he grinned at me and nodded hello. And I grinned at him, and gave him a woof.
And thought to myself... Well this is cool!
The light turns green, he takes off, I take off. But then, a couple of lights later, guess who pulls up next to me again.
He smiles at me. I smile at him. And then he gestures for me to roll down my window.
Okay. I'm game. So I roll down the window.
And hot SUV guy says to me... "Buon' Giorno! Parle italiano?"
???
I replied, "Si... parlo poco d'italiano, na molto."
"Bene! Vogli comprare una giubba? Una giubba bella! Di Giorgio Armani!"
Uh... "Giubba." Uh... Scarpe, cravate... Jacket! "Giubba" means jacket! He has a Giorgio Armani jacket he wants me to comprare. But I don't need a Giorgio Armani giubba.
"Ah Signor, mille grazie ma no. Per mi, no Giubba."
"Certo?"
"Si, certo, ma grazie."
The light turned green. A couple of blocks later he turned and I went straight.
And then it sort of dawned on me... I just had a conversation in Italian on North Broad Street.
What the hell?
When was the last time you negotiated for the purchase of a jacket in Italian? And how did he know I spoke Italian? And does he just do business with people who speak Italian? Does he drive through Philadelphia all day asking random strangers if they parle italiano? And wouldn't South Philadelphia, Land of Cheesesteaks And Organized Crime, be a better place to try that?
A mystery.
But I have to admit I felt pretty damned good about those three semesters of Italian I had in college. Verrrrry cosmopolitan.
It's a shame that in my three semesters of Italian, we didn't cover "get laid."
"Does A Bear Knit In The Woods?"
See! I really do read your comments!
And catching up on them today, I make the wonderful discovery that the cop on my softball team--not that one, the other one, the queer one who's smokin hot and seriously kinky, that one!--has a weblog!
Now, what would be the obsession of this hot, uniformed, world-class athlete, and exceptional pig?
Did you guess Knitting? Then you'd be right! Guess who's gonna be sporting an orange silk watch cap in the not too distant future? And you can see pictures of it on Norsky Bear's blog.
Read.
Drop to your knees.
Worship.
Do what the nice Norsky Bear tells you.
See! I really do read your comments!
And catching up on them today, I make the wonderful discovery that the cop on my softball team--not that one, the other one, the queer one who's smokin hot and seriously kinky, that one!--has a weblog!
Now, what would be the obsession of this hot, uniformed, world-class athlete, and exceptional pig?
Did you guess Knitting? Then you'd be right! Guess who's gonna be sporting an orange silk watch cap in the not too distant future? And you can see pictures of it on Norsky Bear's blog.
Read.
Drop to your knees.
Worship.
Do what the nice Norsky Bear tells you.
Slacking Is Wasted On The Young
An internet acquaintance, whom I'm sponsoring for Inferno this year, sent me email commenting on my Slacker piece. And he got me thinking more about the subject. Here, in part, is my reply email...
"As for the Slacker piece, there's a book that's really big in France right now, written by a 20-something française, called 'Bonjour Paresse.' (Paresse is the french word for laziness, although it has connotations more along the lines of languid. I love the wordplay, referencing 'Bonjour Tristesse,' or, as it's usually put in english, "Goodmorning, Heartache." I only saw a reference to it in an article about the student demonstrations over there right now, but it got me thinking.
"When I first moved to NYC, I was working for Ernst & Young, the largest professional services (mostly accounting) firm worldwide, in the legal department, as a paralegal. It didn't pay very well--althhough interestingly, I was making more there than I am now, almost twenty years later. I was a really good paralegal, which I used to say is like being the tallest building in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. So what? At one point, one of the lawyers I worked with took me aside and said she was really impressed with me, she knew I didn't make a lot there, and with a phone call she could get me a job working for a Big NYC Law Firm where I'd be making about $55,000/year. It took me no time at all to decline her offer. I just knew that if I was making $55,000/year, I'd be trapped in that dead-end job until I died. I'd be stuck, since you quickly get used to however much money you're making. And, as luck would have it, a year and a half later, I had what was probably the most satisfying job I've ever had, working for a member of the New York City Council. And I took a pay cut to go and work for him [g].
"So I think that these are ideas that have been kicking around in my head for a while now.
"And I think that I was moved in part to write because the same thoughts that you're thinking I've thought, too. In her late forties, my sister developed a strange, slowly debilitating, and ultimately fatal illness called Primary Pulmonary Hypertension. After she died, I found her diary among her effects. At one point, she was writing about how the worst part of what was happening to her was that slowly possibilities were being taken away: "I'll never be able to ride a horse again; I'll never be able to swim across Lake Nockamixon again; I'll never be able to fall in love again; I'll never be able to have sex again." It was heartbreaking to read, but I think that time does that to all of us. But, by way of compensation, we get the gift that we don't have when we're young: the present moment. (Young people only have the future.)
"I had a wonderful day today. After a slightly abbreviated night at the Bike Stop, the leather bar in Philadelphia, I managed to get six hours of sleep. Yesterday was cold and rainy, but today we have warm sun and clear blue Spring skies. I went to church for Palm Sunday, and then sat in Starbucks for a few hours and read the New York Times. Now, I'm going to make myself something to eat: split pea and ham soup (out of a can), to which I add toast and bleu cheese. A younger version of myself would be feeling bored and rammy. But I can let go of all the things I'm not doing, and haven't done. (Mostly. I have my eras of wistfulness.)"
An internet acquaintance, whom I'm sponsoring for Inferno this year, sent me email commenting on my Slacker piece. And he got me thinking more about the subject. Here, in part, is my reply email...
"As for the Slacker piece, there's a book that's really big in France right now, written by a 20-something française, called 'Bonjour Paresse.' (Paresse is the french word for laziness, although it has connotations more along the lines of languid. I love the wordplay, referencing 'Bonjour Tristesse,' or, as it's usually put in english, "Goodmorning, Heartache." I only saw a reference to it in an article about the student demonstrations over there right now, but it got me thinking.
"When I first moved to NYC, I was working for Ernst & Young, the largest professional services (mostly accounting) firm worldwide, in the legal department, as a paralegal. It didn't pay very well--althhough interestingly, I was making more there than I am now, almost twenty years later. I was a really good paralegal, which I used to say is like being the tallest building in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. So what? At one point, one of the lawyers I worked with took me aside and said she was really impressed with me, she knew I didn't make a lot there, and with a phone call she could get me a job working for a Big NYC Law Firm where I'd be making about $55,000/year. It took me no time at all to decline her offer. I just knew that if I was making $55,000/year, I'd be trapped in that dead-end job until I died. I'd be stuck, since you quickly get used to however much money you're making. And, as luck would have it, a year and a half later, I had what was probably the most satisfying job I've ever had, working for a member of the New York City Council. And I took a pay cut to go and work for him [g].
"So I think that these are ideas that have been kicking around in my head for a while now.
"And I think that I was moved in part to write because the same thoughts that you're thinking I've thought, too. In her late forties, my sister developed a strange, slowly debilitating, and ultimately fatal illness called Primary Pulmonary Hypertension. After she died, I found her diary among her effects. At one point, she was writing about how the worst part of what was happening to her was that slowly possibilities were being taken away: "I'll never be able to ride a horse again; I'll never be able to swim across Lake Nockamixon again; I'll never be able to fall in love again; I'll never be able to have sex again." It was heartbreaking to read, but I think that time does that to all of us. But, by way of compensation, we get the gift that we don't have when we're young: the present moment. (Young people only have the future.)
"I had a wonderful day today. After a slightly abbreviated night at the Bike Stop, the leather bar in Philadelphia, I managed to get six hours of sleep. Yesterday was cold and rainy, but today we have warm sun and clear blue Spring skies. I went to church for Palm Sunday, and then sat in Starbucks for a few hours and read the New York Times. Now, I'm going to make myself something to eat: split pea and ham soup (out of a can), to which I add toast and bleu cheese. A younger version of myself would be feeling bored and rammy. But I can let go of all the things I'm not doing, and haven't done. (Mostly. I have my eras of wistfulness.)"
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Slacker: A Manifesto
(Something I wrote t'other day at Starbucks. Enjoy!>
Technically, I'm a Baby boomer, albeit born on the cust. And if slacking is a generational experience, than technically I'm not one.
But I am, and I always have been, appauled by materialism, by conspicuous consumption. And, when I meet people who seem so driven, out to make a mint, to rise to the top of their professions like a comet lighting up the sky... I always think that somehow I didn't get that gene.
However, after considering the matter, I've come to the conclusion that this is a virtue rather than a vice. So now, I'm wondering, having embraced it, how can I do it well?
What does the Good Life look like for a slacker? And so, in no particular order...
Slacker Vacations
Forget about fabulous vacations with delux accommodations. For the most part, a slacker doesn't need to take a vacation because slackers live in cool places where there's already a lot to do. there's plenty to occupy you at home. But visiting friends who live in some other cool place makes a nice change.
Slacker Love
Mom: So thhis guy you've been dating for the past six months that's coming to your sister's wedding with you... what does he do for a living.
You: Hmmm... I'm not really sure.
Mom: ???
Slacker Threads
Clothes are practically disposable. Slackers buy at Old Navy. However, a few things in your closet that you really care about--basically works of art that your wear--that's cool.
Slacker Crib
Rent and share, baby! Rent and share. Talk to somebody with a mortgage and ask, 'Do you own the house, or does the house own you?' You wouldn't believe the work involved. There's always got to do something to the place. So much easier to just call the super. Dig? With the exception of books and music, there's not a lot of reason to have much stuff.
Slacker Work
It's means to an end. And the end had better be good. Like you get to see bands for free. Or you get to spend all your time outside. Or free coffee.
What if your job is fun? Careful! There's danger there. "Disengaged" is the usual slacker pose at work. If you're doing something fun, you risk compromising that. And you might get the soul sucked right out of you.
Slacker Eats
Hello, Burritos! Hello, Pho! Hello, Allou Mottor Gobi! Hello, Lasagna!
Don't go overboard with the foodie thing. Around the globe, people have devised healthy, nutritious, simple, flavorful things they eat every day. and in today's world, they're probably selling them for not a lot of money down the block from you. Mangia, Caro!
Slacker Ride
Stand clear of the closing doors! That's right: public transportation is way cool. Or something used. If it costs more than $1000 to fix it, get a new one. And run that one into the ground.
Slacker Hobbies
Slackers totally don't have hobbies. A hobby is a marketing device: you pay money and get the illusion that you have an interesting life. Who has time for that?
Slacker Retirement
Oh hell. I was having so much fun with this. Okay. How about this? Every year, try to get by on less and less. That way, when you're sixty-five, your monthly social security check will be like winning the lottery.
Slacker Toys
If you totally fall in love with something--a really cool watch, a vintage Indian, the kayak of your dreams, custom made boots... go for it. Don't feel bad. But you're not allowed if you know anybody else whho's got one. Or if you'll want everybody else to know you've got it. It's gotta be just for you.
Slacker Married With Children
Oh. Don't. Go. There.
You can't afford it.
Seriously.
It's so much work having a dog, and having a child is like Dog(1023 ). Truth! And that much more expensive, too. Okay. If you really feel like you have to have kids, you have to earn it. You hhave to go to law school, work for a big corporate defense firm, and when you're pulling down $250,000 and working eighty hour weeks and all your student loans are paid off, then you can go ahead and fulfill your urge for offspring.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I guess maybe I've been reading too much Vice Magazine lately.
(Something I wrote t'other day at Starbucks. Enjoy!>
Technically, I'm a Baby boomer, albeit born on the cust. And if slacking is a generational experience, than technically I'm not one.
But I am, and I always have been, appauled by materialism, by conspicuous consumption. And, when I meet people who seem so driven, out to make a mint, to rise to the top of their professions like a comet lighting up the sky... I always think that somehow I didn't get that gene.
However, after considering the matter, I've come to the conclusion that this is a virtue rather than a vice. So now, I'm wondering, having embraced it, how can I do it well?
What does the Good Life look like for a slacker? And so, in no particular order...
Slacker Vacations
Forget about fabulous vacations with delux accommodations. For the most part, a slacker doesn't need to take a vacation because slackers live in cool places where there's already a lot to do. there's plenty to occupy you at home. But visiting friends who live in some other cool place makes a nice change.
Slacker Love
Mom: So thhis guy you've been dating for the past six months that's coming to your sister's wedding with you... what does he do for a living.
You: Hmmm... I'm not really sure.
Mom: ???
Slacker Threads
Clothes are practically disposable. Slackers buy at Old Navy. However, a few things in your closet that you really care about--basically works of art that your wear--that's cool.
Slacker Crib
Rent and share, baby! Rent and share. Talk to somebody with a mortgage and ask, 'Do you own the house, or does the house own you?' You wouldn't believe the work involved. There's always got to do something to the place. So much easier to just call the super. Dig? With the exception of books and music, there's not a lot of reason to have much stuff.
Slacker Work
It's means to an end. And the end had better be good. Like you get to see bands for free. Or you get to spend all your time outside. Or free coffee.
What if your job is fun? Careful! There's danger there. "Disengaged" is the usual slacker pose at work. If you're doing something fun, you risk compromising that. And you might get the soul sucked right out of you.
Slacker Eats
Hello, Burritos! Hello, Pho! Hello, Allou Mottor Gobi! Hello, Lasagna!
Don't go overboard with the foodie thing. Around the globe, people have devised healthy, nutritious, simple, flavorful things they eat every day. and in today's world, they're probably selling them for not a lot of money down the block from you. Mangia, Caro!
Slacker Ride
Stand clear of the closing doors! That's right: public transportation is way cool. Or something used. If it costs more than $1000 to fix it, get a new one. And run that one into the ground.
Slacker Hobbies
Slackers totally don't have hobbies. A hobby is a marketing device: you pay money and get the illusion that you have an interesting life. Who has time for that?
Slacker Retirement
Oh hell. I was having so much fun with this. Okay. How about this? Every year, try to get by on less and less. That way, when you're sixty-five, your monthly social security check will be like winning the lottery.
Slacker Toys
If you totally fall in love with something--a really cool watch, a vintage Indian, the kayak of your dreams, custom made boots... go for it. Don't feel bad. But you're not allowed if you know anybody else whho's got one. Or if you'll want everybody else to know you've got it. It's gotta be just for you.
Slacker Married With Children
Oh. Don't. Go. There.
You can't afford it.
Seriously.
It's so much work having a dog, and having a child is like Dog(10
* * * * * * * * * * *
I guess maybe I've been reading too much Vice Magazine lately.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
When A Young Middle Aged Man's Fancy
Maybe it's the season. Maybe it's the fact that I'm getting laid lately. Maybe it's that damn final episode of 'Sex In The City.'
But lately I've been thinking about how nice it would be to buddy up. Have a steady eddie. Fall in love. All that.
At Starbucks this afternoon, after work, and before church (church rocks!), I spent some time doing... uh... some "Creative Visualization."
I don't think I'm being unreasonable here. Summoning as much modesty as I can, I think it's a mostly accurate description of me. So maybe I'll meet a guy whom it would also describe. And maybe he'll find something worthwhile in me...
Here's the list...
Smoke tolerant, at least • Sensualist • Kink appreciative • Kind, and a man who values kindness • Happy, as in, constitutionally • Laughs easily • Cowboy • Embodies masculine archetypes • Self-reliant and independent • Leatherman • Athletic... Physical... that kind of thing • Enjoys learning, trying new things, going new places • Top/Vers • Plucky • Open-minded • Sexually adventurous • Vivid, larger than life • Risk taker • Christian, or at least religious • Extraordinary looking (Not the same as "VGL." VGL doesn't do a lot for me. But ugly-hot makes me break a sweat) • Wearer of boots • Shaved head • Slacker/non-materialist, non-consumer values • Verbal • Unfussy • Outdoorsy
Now, I think that's casting the net pretty wide! And as a matter of fact, I met a man not so long ago that seems to be batting .100 so far.
So maybe it will be an interesting Spring and Summer.
Maybe it's the season. Maybe it's the fact that I'm getting laid lately. Maybe it's that damn final episode of 'Sex In The City.'
But lately I've been thinking about how nice it would be to buddy up. Have a steady eddie. Fall in love. All that.
At Starbucks this afternoon, after work, and before church (church rocks!), I spent some time doing... uh... some "Creative Visualization."
I don't think I'm being unreasonable here. Summoning as much modesty as I can, I think it's a mostly accurate description of me. So maybe I'll meet a guy whom it would also describe. And maybe he'll find something worthwhile in me...
Here's the list...
Smoke tolerant, at least • Sensualist • Kink appreciative • Kind, and a man who values kindness • Happy, as in, constitutionally • Laughs easily • Cowboy • Embodies masculine archetypes • Self-reliant and independent • Leatherman • Athletic... Physical... that kind of thing • Enjoys learning, trying new things, going new places • Top/Vers • Plucky • Open-minded • Sexually adventurous • Vivid, larger than life • Risk taker • Christian, or at least religious • Extraordinary looking (Not the same as "VGL." VGL doesn't do a lot for me. But ugly-hot makes me break a sweat) • Wearer of boots • Shaved head • Slacker/non-materialist, non-consumer values • Verbal • Unfussy • Outdoorsy
Now, I think that's casting the net pretty wide! And as a matter of fact, I met a man not so long ago that seems to be batting .100 so far.
So maybe it will be an interesting Spring and Summer.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Oh man.
On TBS, they're showing the final episode of 'Sex In The City.' The one where that incredible line is uttered...
""But the most exciting, challenging, and satisfying relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you meet someone who loves the you you love, then that's just fabulous."
Still floors me.
It's never the love you're looking for, it's the love that finds you.
On TBS, they're showing the final episode of 'Sex In The City.' The one where that incredible line is uttered...
""But the most exciting, challenging, and satisfying relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you meet someone who loves the you you love, then that's just fabulous."
Still floors me.
It's never the love you're looking for, it's the love that finds you.
Monday, April 03, 2006
A Couple Of Items
...I Like A Man In Uniform
In the All New, All Improved Ball Breakers (and man, did we have a great practice on Saturday!), there are now two cops and one firefighter. Bravest and Finest are In Da House!
(I'm beginning to wonder if there are cops and firefighters who aren't gay. At any rate, there can't be many.)
...This Is Your Brain. This Is Your Brain In Love
I'm finishing up a great book. It's "Why We Love: The Nature And Chemistry Of Romantic Love," by Helen Fisher. So dense I'm missing three quarters of it, so easily readable I keep on going. Did you know that if you want someone to fall in love with you, a good way to get that to happen is to do something scary and novel?
...Astrology? Biorhythms? Kiehl's Products? Yeah, Probably Kiehl's Products.
I got laid TWO WEEKENDS IN A ROW! And really good both times! That's just about unprecedented.
...Don't Get No Cooler
The non-profit agency I used to run, the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, is mentioned in the current Vice magazine. Mentioned in an authorative "if they say it's true, then it must be legit" kind of way. I hope the current folks in charge are getting in touch with Vice about some kind of fundraising opportunity. I sure would. Like Hansel in Zoolander, Vice is so Hot right now.
...Hail Thee Festival Day!
Next week is Holy Week! So that means that the Great Vigil Of Easter is coming up! The Easter Vigil service is to Episcopalians what the Super Bowl is to football fans. And isn't it interesting that when episcopalians go All Out, it involves bells and a dimmer switch?
...On A Somber Note
The Yankees look like they're gonna do really well this year. Uh oh.
...Inferno Countdown: Six Months
I have a sponsee! And unlike all my other sponsees, this one is actually going to show up at the event! It's a shame to break a perfect record, but still... And, by putting aside $20 a week, I have just about half the money I'll need for Session A this year. If I have to walk there, I'm going. And without all the Sturm und Drang of last year's financial panic.
...I Like A Man In Uniform
In the All New, All Improved Ball Breakers (and man, did we have a great practice on Saturday!), there are now two cops and one firefighter. Bravest and Finest are In Da House!
(I'm beginning to wonder if there are cops and firefighters who aren't gay. At any rate, there can't be many.)
...This Is Your Brain. This Is Your Brain In Love
I'm finishing up a great book. It's "Why We Love: The Nature And Chemistry Of Romantic Love," by Helen Fisher. So dense I'm missing three quarters of it, so easily readable I keep on going. Did you know that if you want someone to fall in love with you, a good way to get that to happen is to do something scary and novel?
...Astrology? Biorhythms? Kiehl's Products? Yeah, Probably Kiehl's Products.
I got laid TWO WEEKENDS IN A ROW! And really good both times! That's just about unprecedented.
...Don't Get No Cooler
The non-profit agency I used to run, the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, is mentioned in the current Vice magazine. Mentioned in an authorative "if they say it's true, then it must be legit" kind of way. I hope the current folks in charge are getting in touch with Vice about some kind of fundraising opportunity. I sure would. Like Hansel in Zoolander, Vice is so Hot right now.
...Hail Thee Festival Day!
Next week is Holy Week! So that means that the Great Vigil Of Easter is coming up! The Easter Vigil service is to Episcopalians what the Super Bowl is to football fans. And isn't it interesting that when episcopalians go All Out, it involves bells and a dimmer switch?
...On A Somber Note
The Yankees look like they're gonna do really well this year. Uh oh.
...Inferno Countdown: Six Months
I have a sponsee! And unlike all my other sponsees, this one is actually going to show up at the event! It's a shame to break a perfect record, but still... And, by putting aside $20 a week, I have just about half the money I'll need for Session A this year. If I have to walk there, I'm going. And without all the Sturm und Drang of last year's financial panic.
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