2007: This Was The Year That Was

"Oh man," I said to the Baron, "this year is really kicking my ass!"

And in many respects, it did. Poverty! Toil! Pain! Desperation! Rejection! Now, I'd add a qualifier along the lines of "relatively speaking" to the Poverty, Toil, Pain, and Desperation, the Rejection thing stands. Man! What was that? Crazy.

Somebody once said that looking back, you don't remember the periods of your life when you were happy, but only the hard times. But I think that somebody was wrong. At least in my case.

I have a clear recollection of sending out all those resumes and not hearing anything back, or going on those interviews only to hear, "Sorry," but I wouldn't say that's what I remember.

I remember seeing 300 with the New York boys of Leather. I remember sitting poolside with the members of my SM-Spirituality Discussion Group. I remember the great time I had doing my workshop on flogging and whipping at CLAW. I remember the sweet delight of JPZapper and DogToppers great July dungeon party. I remember Each And Every inning of Each And Every game of this golden season of playing softball with the Ball Breakers. I remember days at the beach and smoking cigars on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown. I remember working at a steel mill. I remember how being unemployed gave me lots of time to devote to the gym, and how round about August I had the body I've always wanted. For a month or so. And damn! If I knew in advance that I could only do one SM scene the whole year, then I think I would have picked marching Man of Discipline out into the woods, stringing him up between two trees, and whipping him to my heart's content.



So here's the wrap up.

Best Movie Yeah, I loved 300. And I had a great time with Hairspray, but I think the honors for the best movie that I saw all year wouldhave to go to the only movie I saw without the benefit of freshly baked cookies, Into The Wild. I think I want the DVD.

Best TV Heroes! Heroes Heroes Heroes! See that guy hanging on every episode? The one who calls Tuesday "H-Day Minus Six"? That would be me. Ever'buddy on my softball team was wild about Buffy, but that never did a lot for me. But Save The Cheerleader, Save The World pushes all of my buttons.

Best Book Check it out. C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, brought into my life by none other than 'bastian.

Low Point (For All Of Us) 2007 did for us homos what Bill Clinton's second term did for heterosexuals. There I was, greeted on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown by a table full of my straight guy buddies with the inquiry, "So... Uh... Foot tapping?" Sheesh! Things I thought I'd never have to explain and elaborate on, huh?

High Point (For All Of Us) Although there are certainly more than a few unfulfilled promises there, was I the only one who breathed a sigh of relief when the Democrats took control of both houses of Congress and installed Nancy Pelosi as the Speaker? I just felt a little bit like, "Oh cool. I don't have to emigrate to Canada after all."

Low Point (For Me Personally) Remember hot tub guy? Yeah, him. What a dick. And I'm not talking anatomically. And the moment in which I realized that all the time, energy, and attention I had invested in that drug-addled bozo was for nought was not one I'd like to recall.

High Point (For Me Personally) When the demented and psychologically unbalanced Board of Directors of my Previous Place of emPloyment gave me the boot--uhhh... in the six months I was there I brought in over $400,000--I responded with grace and dignity. Which really knocked them on their sorry asses. I didn't know I had it in me! One of my finest moments.

The Journey And The Destination! San Diego! Palm Springs! Alpha! Dinner with Roadkill! The inside of an Alexander House! All those great Richard Neutra buildings! The Barracks! The Best Mexican Food Ever! Kumquats right off the tree! What a great trip that was.

Best Wardrobe Acquisition For a change, no cows had to die for me to look good! The prize goes to my chocolate brown Puma warm-up suit. Look for me to be featuring it down at MAL. In a sea of black leather, there I'll be. As I'm fond of telling myself, at this point in my life, I have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all myself.

Best Unforeseen Development Hands down, me in the orange apron.

Music! I was a little disappointed by Lucinda Williams' West. But I sure liked the latest offering from the Dixie Chicks. But I think the music that had the greatest impact on me this year was the 300 soundtrack.

"He's the Creative Type." The presentation I did on SM as a Spiritual Journey for MAsT was wonderful, but I think the creative output that gave me the most pleasure this year was keeping warm last winter by writing the Great (Gay) American (Erotic) (Werewolf) Novel(la). And I'm pleased to report that a sequel is taking shape in my head.

Favorite News Item Of The Year I was home with my father. He always has the television on, and in the morning, it's often set to CNN. That morning, the junior senator from Illinois held a rally on the steps of the old state house in Springfield to announce his candidacy. And the speech he gave was some of the best political oratory I've ever heard. Not saying that I'm a Barak guy. But overall, the Democratic field is just pretty darn amazing. Particularly stacked up against the Republicans. And the serious Democratic nominee could be either a woman or an african-american. That day, to my mind was the start of Oh no way. In San Francisco, a tiger kills one man and mauls two others. And they think the tiger was probably stalking around the City By The Bay for several hours. A tiger! I bet that neither of the two guys who got mauled while they were eating at a restaurant thought, "Gosh! I hope I don't get mauled by a tiger today!" when they left the house that morning. That is just plain amazing.

The more astute longtime readers might recall my favorite news story that I would look forward to every winter. It always happened at least once, always running along the same lines: kids throwing snowballs at cars, some guy who's carrying gets out of his car and shoots a kid. Amongst the casualties of global warming is kids throwing snowballs at cars and thus getting shot for that. But a man-eating tiger running around San Francisco sure makes the loss of that easier.


Y'know, in years past, putting together Best and Worst lists has been pretty easy. But this year hasn't been so much characterized by significant events. Rather, it's been the whole journey. With only a few exceptions, each individual day was pretty much like any other, cleaved as they were almost down the middle by the Time Before Ho(t)me(n) Depot and the Time After Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Either I was moping about the house getting my resume rejected or I was rushing home from Ho(t)me(n) Depot to report to all of you about how I tricked a hot boy into saying "So I need to grease up my hole real good" and similar shenanigans. (Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there seemed to be this rash of guys with movie star good looks. It was weird. So a guy wearing a sweatshirt identifying him as an employee of Shelby & Sons Plumbing Contractors came in buying some PVC, and he looked a hell of a lot more like a guy who would play a plumber in a movie than he did an actual real life plumber. And that kept happening! All day long today was like Ho(t)me(n) Depot 90210! Anyway.)

So I think that the key aspect of this posting might be more along the lines of 2007: What I Learned.

This year, I attained Middle Age. I became a Middle Aged Man.

Most notably, I can't change down the baseline with my previous speed. I am now faced with the challenge of developing a Nice Quick Trot.

But so much more.

O pity the young! There you are, late 20's, early 30's, climbing the ladder of success, rung by rung, hand over hand. All the lights turn green, all the doors open as you appraoch. Naturally, you assume that this is because you're you. Sweet, wonderful, talented, charmbing, vigorous you! But no, it's just the happenstance of your year of birth. Fortune won't always be smiling at you. At a certain point, she'll turn her attention to one of those many fresh-faced, bright-eyed young'n's coming up behind you. Although it feels like Supreme Injustice worthy of shaking your fists at the Heavens, it's not really. It's just the way of things.

It is to be hoped that you made the best of things while you had the chance, but probably not. What's the point of being young if you don't squander your gifts?

Cormac McCarthy offers that every man has two important tasks facing him: find work he enjoys and someone he likes to live with. And I would add to that that many of us get distracted from these two important tasks with all those green lights and opening doors. (I sure did.) But mercifully, my episode of shaking my fists at the Heavens at the unfairness of it all was brief. Lasting maybe a couple of days. A week at most.

But pretty quickly I came to a realization: this is my life.

It's that simple.

The alarm rings, you get out of bed, and you head out to do what you gotta do. I take care of business. I pay cash. I do my best. And in every situation, I do my best to be kind. Friendship, relaxing with a good cigar, owning a dog, sweat, the turn of the seasons, some thought that's new to me, trying to grasp the import of some dream as it vanishes on waking... Finding joy in these small things.

Oh. And one more. Writing and being read. Here on SingleTails. When I was about eleven I set out to write a novel. And managed to get about thirty pages out. The effort was derailed when I gave the unfinished manuscript to my sister to read (Never let anybody read it until it's done) and she laughed because I had confused the name of one of my characters, Arthur, with the word Author. (Great artists are never understood by their big sisters! O that I had known that then!) And I think that all things considered, 2007 hasn't been a bad year for SingleTails.

So all the best to all of you for 2008. No idea what the New Year's Resolution is going to be yet. And, of course, as recent history has proven to me, no idea what the next twelve months hold in store. But you can read all about it here.

All my love,

Drew

I Become A Transparent Eyeball

I haven't thought about this for years, and for no reason I can point to, it popped into my head. In Tenth Grade English, my teacher, Mr. Jimmerson, who was a total hippie, read it to all of us. It's a (very) short essay written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, with the title "Nature." I could be wrong, but I think I've also seen it referred to as "Crossing Boston Common."

Way back then when I was sixteen, it left me baffled. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. And that central image, the "transparent eyeball," got me all caught up, thinking of a cartoonish big thing with all those red capillaries and the nerve stem coming out the back...

But now, all these years later, I know what old Ralph Waldo is talking about. I guess that's what Tenth Grade English is all about. If Mr. Jimmerson is out there somewhere, I hope he senses some good vibrations that I'm sending out to him tonight.

Anyway. Here 't'is...

Standing on the bare ground, my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball-I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me-I am part or particle of God.The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances-master or servant, is then a trifle, and a disturbance. I am a lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I have something more connate and dear than in the streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.

Christmas Dinner

While I was channel surfing this morning, I hit on Good Morning America. I think they were discussing how to make a low calorie Christmas dinner or something. "Okay," said a perky woman, not that awful Rachel Ray thank the Lord, "so here we have ham, brussels sprouts, and potatoes. The makings of a classic Christmas Dinner!"

Egad! I thought, that's just what I'm making.

And so I did.

I made the ham with cumberland sauce; sauteed the brussels sprouts with bacon, butter, and chicken stock; and did up my mashed potatoes with lots of butter and milk. It definitely was not low calorie. But it was damn good.

The cumberland sauce was new to me. Got it right out of The Joy Of Cooking. That stuff rocks. It'll be a long time before I have ham without it.

And Dwelt Among Us

Church was packed last night! And there were all these hot boys! It took Christmas Eve for services not to coincide with me working at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, but so be it.

When I got home, after making myself some nice hot chocolate, I settled in so that Faithful Companion and I could have our annual Christmas Eve Ritual. As we all know, from Midnight until 1 a.m. on Christmas Eve, all animals can talk. Here's how it went.

"Okay! It's midnight!"

(Faithful Companion looks at me expectantly.)

"That's right! Here's your big chance! What do you have to say for yourself?"

(He rests his head on my knee.)

"Anything to offer? Nothing at all? No complaints? No words of gratitude for all I do for you?"

(Faithful Companion observes me thoughtfully.)

"Any words of advice? You know me better than anybody. Anything I could be doing differently? Maybe more walks?"

(He wags his tail.)

"Well, if anything comes up, you've got fifty-three more minutes, okay?"

At about 12:30, I we went to bed.

2007: This Was The Year That Was

"Oh man," I said to the Baron, "this year is really kicking my ass!"

And in many respects, it did. Poverty! Toil! Pain! Desperation! Rejection! Now, I'd add a qualifier along the lines of "relatively speaking" to the Poverty, Toil, Pain, and Desperation, the Rejection thing stands. Man! What was that? Crazy.

Somebody once said that looking back, you don't remember the periods of your life when you were happy, but only the hard times. But I think that somebody was wrong. At least in my case.

I have a clear recollection of sending out all those resumes and not hearing anything back, or going on those interviews only to hear, "Sorry," but I wouldn't say that's what I remember.

I remember seeing 300 with the New York boys of Leather. I remember sitting poolside with the members of my SM-Spirituality Discussion Group. I remember the great time I had doing my workshop on flogging and whipping at CLAW. I remember the sweet delight of JPZapper and DogToppers great July dungeon party. I remember Each And Every inning of Each And Every game of this golden season of playing softball with the Ball Breakers. I remember days at the beach and smoking cigars on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown. I remember working at a steel mill. I remember how being unemployed gave me lots of time to devote to the gym, and how round about August I had the body I've always wanted. For a month or so. And damn! If I knew in advance that I could only do one SM scene the whole year, then I think I would have picked marching Man of Discipline out into the woods, stringing him up between two trees, and whipping him to my heart's content.



So here's the wrap up.

Best Movie Yeah, I loved 300. And I had a great time with Hairspray, but I think the honors for the best movie that I saw all year wouldhave to go to the only movie I saw without the benefit of freshly baked cookies, Into The Wild. I think I want the DVD.

Best TV Heroes! Heroes Heroes Heroes! See that guy hanging on every episode? The one who calls Tuesday "H-Day Minus Six"? That would be me. Ever'buddy on my softball team was wild about Buffy, but that never did a lot for me. But Save The Cheerleader, Save The World pushes all of my buttons.

Best Book Check it out. C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, brought into my life by none other than 'bastian.

Low Point (For All Of Us) 2007 did for us homos what Bill Clinton's second term did for heterosexuals. There I was, greeted on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown by a table full of my straight guy buddies with the inquiry, "So... Uh... Foot tapping?" Sheesh! Things I thought I'd never have to explain and elaborate on, huh?

High Point (For All Of Us) Although there are certainly more than a few unfulfilled promises there, was I the only one who breathed a sigh of relief when the Democrats took control of both houses of Congress and installed Nancy Pelosi as the Speaker? I just felt a little bit like, "Oh cool. I don't have to emigrate to Canada after all."

Low Point (For Me Personally) Remember hot tub guy? Yeah, him. What a dick. And I'm not talking anatomically. And the moment in which I realized that all the time, energy, and attention I had invested in that drug-addled bozo was for nought was not one I'd like to recall.

High Point (For Me Personally) When the demented and psychologically unbalanced Board of Directors of my Previous Place of emPloyment gave me the boot--uhhh... in the six months I was there I brought in over $400,000--I responded with grace and dignity. Which really knocked them on their sorry asses. I didn't know I had it in me! One of my finest moments.

The Journey And The Destination! San Diego! Palm Springs! Alpha! Dinner with Roadkill! The inside of an Alexander House! All those great Richard Neutra buildings! The Barracks! The Best Mexican Food Ever! Kumquats right off the tree! What a great trip that was.

Best Wardrobe Acquisition For a change, no cows had to die for me to look good! The prize goes to my chocolate brown Puma warm-up suit. Look for me to be featuring it down at MAL. In a sea of black leather, there I'll be. As I'm fond of telling myself, at this point in my life, I have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all myself.

Best Unforeseen Development Hands down, me in the orange apron.

Music! I was a little disappointed by Lucinda Williams' West. But I sure liked the latest offering from the Dixie Chicks. But I think the music that had the greatest impact on me this year was the 300 soundtrack.

"He's the Creative Type." The presentation I did on SM as a Spiritual Journey for MAsT was wonderful, but I think the creative output that gave me the most pleasure this year was keeping warm last winter by writing the Great (Gay) American (Erotic) (Werewolf) Novel(la). And I'm pleased to report that a sequel is taking shape in my head.

Favorite News Item Of The Year I was home with my father. He always has the television on, and in the morning, it's often set to CNN. That morning, the junior senator from Illinois held a rally on the steps of the old state house in Springfield to announce his candidacy. And the speech he gave was some of the best political oratory I've ever heard. Not saying that I'm a Barak guy. But overall, the Democratic field is just pretty darn amazing. Particularly stacked up against the Republicans. And the serious Democratic nominee could be either a woman or an african-american. That day, to my mind was the start of Oh no way. In San Francisco, a tiger kills one man and mauls two others. And they think the tiger was probably stalking around the City By The Bay for several hours. A tiger! I bet that neither of the two guys who got mauled while they were eating at a restaurant thought, "Gosh! I hope I don't get mauled by a tiger today!" when they left the house that morning. That is just plain amazing.

The more astute longtime readers might recall my favorite news story that I would look forward to every winter. It always happened at least once, always running along the same lines: kids throwing snowballs at cars, some guy who's carrying gets out of his car and shoots a kid. Amongst the casualties of global warming is kids throwing snowballs at cars and thus getting shot for that. But a man-eating tiger running around San Francisco sure makes the loss of that easier.


Y'know, in years past, putting together Best and Worst lists has been pretty easy. But this year hasn't been so much characterized by significant events. Rather, it's been the whole journey. With only a few exceptions, each individual day was pretty much like any other, cleaved as they were almost down the middle by the Time Before Ho(t)me(n) Depot and the Time After Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Either I was moping about the house getting my resume rejected or I was rushing home from Ho(t)me(n) Depot to report to all of you about how I tricked a hot boy into saying "So I need to grease up my hole real good" and similar shenanigans. (Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there seemed to be this rash of guys with movie star good looks. It was weird. So a guy wearing a sweatshirt identifying him as an employee of Shelby & Sons Plumbing Contractors came in buying some PVC, and he looked a hell of a lot more like a guy who would play a plumber in a movie than he did an actual real life plumber. And that kept happening! All day long today was like Ho(t)me(n) Depot 90210! Anyway.)

So I think that the key aspect of this posting might be more along the lines of 2007: What I Learned.

This year, I attained Middle Age. I became a Middle Aged Man.

Most notably, I can't change down the baseline with my previous speed. I am now faced with the challenge of developing a Nice Quick Trot.

But so much more.

O pity the young! There you are, late 20's, early 30's, climbing the ladder of success, rung by rung, hand over hand. All the lights turn green, all the doors open as you appraoch. Naturally, you assume that this is because you're you. Sweet, wonderful, talented, charmbing, vigorous you! But no, it's just the happenstance of your year of birth. Fortune won't always be smiling at you. At a certain point, she'll turn her attention to one of those many fresh-faced, bright-eyed young'n's coming up behind you. Although it feels like Supreme Injustice worthy of shaking your fists at the Heavens, it's not really. It's just the way of things.

It is to be hoped that you made the best of things while you had the chance, but probably not. What's the point of being young if you don't squander your gifts?

Cormac McCarthy offers that every man has two important tasks facing him: find work he enjoys and someone he likes to live with. And I would add to that that many of us get distracted from these two important tasks with all those green lights and opening doors. (I sure did.) But mercifully, my episode of shaking my fists at the Heavens at the unfairness of it all was brief. Lasting maybe a couple of days. A week at most.

But pretty quickly I came to a realization: this is my life.

It's that simple.

The alarm rings, you get out of bed, and you head out to do what you gotta do. I take care of business. I pay cash. I do my best. And in every situation, I do my best to be kind. Friendship, relaxing with a good cigar, owning a dog, sweat, the turn of the seasons, some thought that's new to me, trying to grasp the import of some dream as it vanishes on waking... Finding joy in these small things.

Oh. And one more. Writing and being read. Here on SingleTails. When I was about eleven I set out to write a novel. And managed to get about thirty pages out. The effort was derailed when I gave the unfinished manuscript to my sister to read (Never let anybody read it until it's done) and she laughed because I had confused the name of one of my characters, Arthur, with the word Author. (Great artists are never understood by their big sisters! O that I had known that then!) And I think that all things considered, 2007 hasn't been a bad year for SingleTails.

So all the best to all of you for 2008. No idea what the New Year's Resolution is going to be yet. And, of course, as recent history has proven to me, no idea what the next twelve months hold in store. But you can read all about it here.

All my love,

Drew

Pot and Lid

Saturday went like clockwork.

Left work, hit the grocery store, got home, took a nap, woke up, made dinner for my father, and headed west to Pottstown, PA to attend the Christmas party at the home of JPZapper and DogTopper. I got there a little later than planned and the party was in full swing, but there was still plenty of ham and shrimp cocktail left. (Y'know that Tanqueray commercial where the guy is unbecomingly scarfing down shrimp cocktail by the wee fistful? That's me. That's so me. I have no idea what it is about shrimp cocktail. Not like it's hard to come by or anything. They sell these shrimp rings at my local SuperFresh StoopidFresh for a mere $6.99 or so. But when I'm at a party and I see shrimp cocktail, I immediately get this weird gollum-like greediness: I want all that shrimp cocktail for myself and I get upset if someone else starts filling their plate.)

And I got to hang out with the other guys that I know from there. Male of Datt and Male fame grabbed me under the mistletoe and wanted a kiss. I happily obliged, and then said, "And I also have a spring of mistletoe on my belt buckle!" (I didn't, but I might look into that.) Male asked me what was up, and I told him excitedly about a chain bondage demo I did at this trans nightclub down in Philadelphia, interjecting, "Oh right! You were there, too!" Because honestly, other than the joys of Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there isn't a lot going on. But such is life.

When I gobbled up the last of the potstickers (yum!) I realized that I hadn't checked out the food in the parlor sufficiently, and headed in to correct that. Alas, only brie and swiss cheese, not my favorites. I know I know I know, because I'm a gay man I'm supposed to like brie, because apparently it tastes Just Like Cum. But I don't. And I'm not too wild about the taste of cum either.

But I noticed a guy sitting in the corner, and I realized I knew him.

It was Warrior.

I first met Warrior and his Master, Hammer, years ago when I went through GMSMA's Novices Special Interest Group. During one of the final sessions, we visited Hammer and Warrior to see the scene they did so well: strapping. While Warrior warmed up with various stretches, Hammer told us about his love of applying a leather strap to a lean, muscular man. For him, there was nothing better. And into his life, the leathergods saw fit to bring Warrior, a lean and muscular man (a dancer and choreographer of great renown, in fact), who loved to get strapped. Hammer restrained Warrior with his arms akimbo and went to work on him, using the end of a thick leather belt with the end doubled back on itself to form a sort of handle. The strap was about a foot long, maybe less. When Hammer got going, the sound was rhythmic, like someone clapping his hands. He was constantly circling Warrior, changing his focus from arms to chest to thighs to butt to back. It was beautiful. It struck me at the time that it was like watching a virtuoso play a musical instrument. And indeed it was.

Hammer and Warrior also made a huge impression on me in that when they met, two men in the fullness of life, they found in each other so much of what they were each seeking. For every pot, there's a lid, but only once in a great while do the respective pot and lid find themselves in the same place at the same time. But in the case of Hammer and Warrior, they did.

And that gave me great hope.

It was great seeing Warrior. I sat in the chair next to him (with some conveniently place M&Ms), and we talked. Mostly about travel, the places we'd been and what we did there. Warrior has traveled much more than I have as his dancing has taken him all over the world. But I, of course, have only seen the sights a guy can see from Brooklyn Heights. Well, not quite. Warrior mentioned that Hammer hated the fact that Warrior had to be on the road so much, but reconciled himself to that. He mentioned that he was hoping to get to Taiwan, which seems to be towards the top of his list of The Best Places I've Been the way Moscow is with me. Possibly a teaching engagement, which would mean that he'd be there for an extended period of time.

"Oh gosh," I said, "Poor Hammer! Does he know you'll be off in Taiwan?"

"Oh," Warrior answered, "You don't know. Hammer died in November. Prostate cancer."

I didn't know. And I was pretty floored by that. In a way, it didn't seem possible, for a number of reasons.

I said all the things that you say to someone who has recently experienced a terrible loss. Warrior said all the things you say when you've recently experienced a terrible loss.

And then, Warrior mentioned just how grateful he felt, deep down under his grief was this profound feeling of gratitude. For twelve wonderful years, he and Hammer had been together, pot and lid, lid and pot. And not everyone gets that. At all, little less twelve years of it.

I told him about Special Guy, whose picture I still carry in my wallet. We were together for five months. Five wonderful months. I may not have Special Guy anymore, but I'll always have those five wonderful months. And that's more than a lot of people ever get in life. Some people don't get much more than a week. Or a night. Or nothing at all.

During my five months with Special Guy, I wasn't quite aware of what was going down. I just knew that I was dating this really great guy. This guy who liked me. This guy who I liked spending time with, even if that meant lying next to him in bed talking because his back was out. For Hammer and Warrior though, it was different. They did know. I don't doubt that every blessed day they thought, "Holy Cow! Another day with him!"

Right up until the last day.

Pot and lid, lid and pot.

Life is pretty interesting when you think about it, huh?

Just An Idea

I want to have a Gay Slur Dinner Party!

The menu would include...

Fruit Salad,

Tenderloin of Beef (a.k.a. Tube Steak) and Braised Fennel (called Finocchio in Italian, and ask an italian-american friend or acquaintance what else are called by that name),

and for dessert, Cream Puffs!

Discarded ideas include Froot Loops and Salmon (Light In Your) Loaf(ers).

As a centerpiece on the table, a nice bouquet of pansies.

Any other ideas?

Just In Case You're Wondering...

The Starbucks on State Street in Newtown, PA has the hottest boy baristas (boy-ristas?).

Bar none.

Nuff said.

What I'm Not Getting For Christmas This Year

"So what are you not getting for Christmas this year?"

The question was posed, and it was an interesting one. If you think about it, what you are getting--especially if you know you're getting it five days before The Day, is sort of beside the point. But what you're not getting... definitionally, that's the stuff of dreams.

So what is the Man Who Denies Himself Nothing not getting? I thought and thought. There's the iPhone, but whatever. I'm fine with my BlackBerry. And cigars are always good with me, although I'm ridiculously particular about cigars. Wine and liquor are mostly wasted on me. Lobster and raw oysters are welcome, but logistically difficult.

But by Not Thinking About It, I thought of it. Something I've always always wanted: a straight razor head shave. Finished off with something like Bay Rum. And old school barbers I've visited have included a sort of backrub in the whole barbering experience. This is particularly welcome. Why isn't it done anymore? One guy I went to had a sort of vibrating pad he laid across my shoulders, providing that Magic Fingers kinda massage and some heat. After a head shave (the clippers kind that I used to favor when I was still going to barbers instead of taking care of myself in the shower every morning with a triple blade), it's bliss.

So here's what I'm not getting for Christmas this year: A straight razor head shave followed by a gentle backrub until I fall asleep.

That would be perfect.

So.

What are you not getting for Christmas this year?

A Myth Exploded: Homo Depot

So.

Home Depot is as gay as a Barbra Streisand Film Festival, huh? So Homo Depot even garnered a mention on Will & Grace, huh?

On what planet?

Perhaps you've noticed that I refer to my place of employ as Ho(t)me(n) Depot here on SingleTails. Because it is. This will be evident to the most casual visitor. (Just today, there was this 6'3" built inked slab of muscle with a Marine horseshoe buzzcut wandering through Hardware, though not, alas, Aisle 31, the Rope and Chain aisle.) Hot Men, we got. Homos, not so much.

In fact, I am the only homo at my Ho(t)me(n) Depot. There are a couple of probable lesbians, but I'm the only gay male on the payroll. EVEN THOUGH there are a few guys there whom you would THINK are homos, they aren't. I'm it.

And I'm way too humble to say that I alone put the Homo in Homo Depot. I don't think I even make a dent.

There is, however, this Way Disconcerting experience, which goes down about once a week.

I'll run into him in the (Bonfire Of The) Vanities Aisle or the Bath Accessories Aisle. There he'll be, flapping his hands at the wrists, complaining that the fixture he's after only comes in chrome and brushed nickel (SO ten minutes ago!) and not Antique Bronze. But just as tears are welling up in my eyes and I'm about to give the Top Secret Handshake by which we identify each other--I know that's not near my favorite flavor, but still!--along will come The Wife. As in, an actual biological woman. She'll explain that she's just no good at getting things "to match," but luckily she married a man who seems to have "a knack" for that kind of thing. One woman even cheerfully and without any discernible irony offered that her husband picks out her clothes for her. Every day.

I swear, Montgomeryville, PA seems to be stuck in some kind of time warp, forever trapped in about 1958 or so. And there's even this guy I work with who will drop into a five minute conversation the fact that he Loves Football about four times and who keeps a big framed picture of he and his decade-or-so-older-than-him wife on his desk even though that's not allowed. (Protestething too much, I'd say.) And he's a total flamer if there ever was one.

And I think this explains, in part, all that I manage to get away with when I'm blatantly flirting with my Carhartt wearing tradesmen customers, even going so far as to offer up an appreciative "Woof!" now and then well within earshot: y'see, even if I were to flounce around in a tutu with a cigarette holder securing a Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light clenched in my teeth, it wouldn't dawn on them that given the choice between oysters and mussels, I'm a mussel man. Homos are just not anywhere on their radar. Because homos aren't in Montgomeryville, Pennsylvania. At all.

So how did this happen?

And it's such a marked contrast to the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown, a mere ten miles up 202, where the openly gay fifteen year old high school sophomores greet their straight male buddies by saying, "Hey handsome man! Give me some sugar!," and said straight male buddies will oblige by giving them a hug and a little peck on the cheek. Man! Is it a Brave New World coming down the pike or what?

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. These days, I'm all about Looking rather than Touching. And in the midst of playing my daily game of Who-Would-I-Most-Like-To-See-Bound-Gagged-Helpless-And-Begging-For-Mercy-But-Wanting-It-SO-Bad, the guy would break into my reveries and ask, "So, what time to you get off today?" That would ruin everything.

But I just want to make one thing clear: the sobriquet Homo Depot is unfounded. There ain't no homo in your Depot, no matter how much you'd like it to be otherwise.

Putey-Poot

Since I had the honors of being Time Magazine's Man Of The Year last year, I was interested to see who would join the elite ranks of Time's Men Of The Year this year. (Okay, so technically I shared that honor with every other human being on the planet, but when I looked in the reflective surface of my issue of Time Magazine, I didn't see any of you people; I just saw me.)

And it's Vladimir Putin!

Call me a crazy-assed, ignerint, gaywad, proto-fascist, dork--but please, not to my face--but I like the guy.

In 1999 and 2000, I had the opportunity to travel to Moscow, capital of the Russian Federation, and provide a russian NGO with technical assistance to launch an HIV prevention initiative. In total, I made three trips over there, and I have to say that Moscow was the most amazing place I've ever been. It's a beautiful city, steeped in history. The russian people are a soulful, doleful bunch. Sit down next to somebody in the lounge of a banya and right away you're talking about What It All Means.

And the history.

I read John Reed's Ten Days That Shook The World, the book that inspired Warren Beatty's movie Reds, prior to my first trip, and so I got off the plane ready to be steeped. At what other point in human history has a people taken it upon itself to shape their own destiny on such a scale as transpired during the Russian Revolution? Okay. So the results were pretty tragic in many respects, but still, gotta give credit for pluck, huh?

And I remember having lunch with a woman who was serving as my translator. About my age, we started comparing notes on our reminiscences of life in our respective countries during the 1980s. I told her about how I was sure that Soviet missiles were on the launchpads, ready to strike, about the nuclear non-proliferation movement, and about the fear and paranoia that pervaded the Reagan years. She told me that the russians saw the United States as unprincipled cowboys, hellbent on destroying the Soviet Union. In the worldview of her and her countrymen, the US was the crazy person in the room with the gun. We had a poignant moment when the same thought hit us at the same time: thank God the missiles never left the launchpad, and so fifteen years later, both of us could be sitting here in the Alexander Gardens outside the Kremlin on a beautiful day in June.

And also, once I got to know a russian, I would ask them what they remembered from 1991. Back then, the Old Guard decided that Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms had gone far enough and it was time to return to the Bad Old Days. Tanks rolled through the streets but the people of Moscow put their lives on the line to go and face down the Red Army. And the people, and Boris Yeltsin, the Moscow Party Boss, held the day.

"I headed towards Ostankino... We were all so scared... We didn't know what would happen..."

Russia at the turn of the Century was quite a place to be. Everything was up in the air. Most people scraped by on the equivalent of about $40 a month. But everywhere in Moscow, in their black Lexus's and Range Rovers with tinted windows were the Novii Ruskii, the "New Russians." Clad in Armani (also black) for the men and Versace for the women, they'd shop in the exclusive stores and go to the nightclubs and restaurants with astronomical prices, places that catered only to them. I thought at the time that they were the equivalent of the late 19th Century robber barons in this country, amassing fortunes unchecked. What Russia needed was a rough riding Teddy Roosevelt to rein them all in, level the playing field, and lessen the human misery that often comes with reaping a huge fortune by making opportunities available to everyone.

And along came former spy-master Vladimir Putin. And he did just that.

And yeah, he's run roughshod over freedom of the press and decided that regional governors would be best installed by him rather than by the electorate. But from what I hear, all across the country, and not just in Moscow and Peterburg, there is emerging a russian Middle Class.

And another thing. Russia is a Great Nation with a rich history. And distinctly russian art, architecture, literature, and philosophy. Putin has leveraged russian oil resources--which he nationalized--and once again made Russia a major player on the world stage, answerable to no one, charting their own course. Standing up to American hegemony is no small feat, and for the Bush administration, it's wildly inconvenient, but Putin is doing that, too.

Oh. And there's rumors that he's secretly gay.

And his hand-picked successor is a guy named Medvedyev, which I believe translates as "Little Bear."

On one of my last trips to Moscow, I was invited to a party. I thought it would be, y'know, a party. In somebody's apartment. Hors d'oeuvres. Drinks. It turned out that it was a Party. A huge bash with hundreds of people. There were tables piled with food, wine, vodka, dancing, music. And, of course, the toasts. At one point, my host rose and announced that the next toast would be given by "nahsh droog amyerikanski," our American friend, meaning me.

My mind raced.

I rose.

"I propose a toast to the russian people, the greatest lovers in the world!" (Some laughter, nervous and otherwise.) "Why do I say the russian people are the greatest lovers in the world? Because the russian people love life. They love food and drink and music and laughter and dancing and stories and poetry and family and friends. Every russian man and woman I have met here has been a true and ardent lover of life. But life has been a cruel lover to the russian people. They have given her their hearts, but Life has repaid their love harshly, often with poverty, violence, and deprivation. But no matter what Life gives them, russians only love Life all the more. The russian people know a deeper love than any the world over. And that is why I say that the russian people are the greatest lovers in the world. And I raise my glass to all of you! 'Nastrovya!"

It went over big.

Wintry Mix

Ah, the Ball Breakers!

My softball team! Great bunch of guys that they are.

The nightly attempt by the local media to scare the crap out of old people weather report on the evening news was not promising. A "wintry mix" or snow, sleet, and rain would commence about 10 p.m. and after that, disaster, chaos, bedlam, crisis, doom, and impassable roads would ensue.

All day long at work, I was dreading the coming battle with my father. He'd beg. He'd plead. He'd lay on the guilt like cream chipped beef on toast. Maybe I'd relent and spend the next week being all sullen and resentful. Maybe I'd stick to my guns and go and feel rotten.

During the day, I got to spend some more time up in Christmas. As always, it restored my soul. Although it was a different experience. Since Christmas is strictly a "While Supplies Last!" affair at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I ended up disappointing as many folks as those whose Christmas Dreams I managed to make come true. ("Ornament hooks? Sorry to say we're fresh out.") I clocked out at 3 p.m. and headed for home. After giving Faithful Companion a walk, I took a two hour long nap (right on schedule!). When I got up, feeling refreshed, I decided to have it out with my father. Only having slept on it, I took a different approach...

"Dad, my softball team is having a Christmas Party tonight, and I'm going. I've heard the weather report. Most of the trip is highway driving, and the salt trucks are out there already. I'm a safe and careful driver. I'll be heading home early enough so I'll miss the worst of it. I'll be back safe and sound around midnight."

That took the wind out of his sails! He could only respond with a paltry "Do you have to go? I wish you wouldn't. But okay."

After fixing some hot dogs, I hit the road.

The drive out to my former hometown of Beautiful Jersey City went off without a hitch and I arrived right on time. And ooooh, the party was good! We feasted on shrimp cocktail and pigs in the blanket and scallops wrapped in bacon. We all got each other caught up on what we've been up to, and I think I impressed them all with my tales of Ho(t)me(n) Depot.

For no good reason, I was reminded of when I was a hotline crisis counselor for the New York City Gay And Lesbian Anti-Violence Project about a million years ago. Most of the calls we received were, in fact, from gay and lesbian survivors of bias related violence, domestic violence and such. But we also received calls from people asking for bar recommendations, complaining that they couldn't meet anybody, and, believe it or not, the occasional jerk off call.

That's right, jerk off calls!

And suddenly I was reminded of one of those jerk off calls. This guy called and said that he was at what he called a "gay party." He was verrrry upset, speaking in whispered tones, explaining that he had snuck away to the bedroom. He felt that he was in danger because everyone at the "gay party" was taking off their pants. (This, apparently, is what usually happened at "gay parties.") Unfortunately, as this was his first "gay party," he didn't know about the taking-off-the-pants thing, and he was wearing women's underwear. He was sure that if all those gays found out he was wearing women's underwear, they'd promptly gang rape him.

I think I advised him to not take off his pants, explaining that he had a terrible rash or something.

"But if I don't take my pants off, they'll gang rape me!" he protested.

I had to admit he had a point there. He was pretty much stuck. Either way he was going to get gang raped. "But," I pointed out, "what do you expect, going to a 'gay party' after all?"

So here I was, all these years later, at a "gay party." No one suggested we all take our pants off. Not that I would have been in any danger of gang rape since I was going commando as always and not women's underpants. But even absent the possibility of gang rape, those "gay parties" are a whole lotta fun. The pigs-in-the-blanket alone were worth the trip.

At 10:30, I had to hit the road. Some sort of precipitation had started to fall. I took it slow heading west on I-78, finishing up my latté and taking hits off my Rosenberger's Iced Tea to stay alert. On the highway, I had no problem, even though I did switch up to four wheel drive. Unfortunately, four wheel drive means I could see the needle on my gas gauge moving to the right. I was worried about winding, narrow River Road, and then the steep hill coming up from the river I'd need to take to get home.

But, I'm a safe and careful driver. Taking it slow, I got home just fine.

The Endless Round Of Holiday Parties!

Woohooo!

My social life is picking up!

(Another reason to love the holiday season.)

Next Saturday, I get off work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot at 3 p.m. (having arrived at work at 6 a.m.), rush home, take a nap, make dinner for my father, drive up to Beautiful Downtown Jersey City, and there I'll enjoy the company of my softball team, the Ball Breakers.

So. Cool.

I'll have to hit the road around 10:30 to head home so I can get a good night's sleep so I can be at work at 9 a.m. the next morning, but so be it. The party is being thrown by our team manger, George. I haven't yet been able to attend one of George's Holiday shindigs, but from what I hear, they're a blast.

So then, the next weekend, same deal (get off work at 3 p.m., rush home, nap, make dinner), then head over to Pottstown for the Christmas get together hosted by DogTopper and JPZapper. Yay! Yay! Yay!

Those guys totally absolutely rule.

Okay. Then there's Christmas, then there's New Years (be lookin' for the SingleTails year end wrap up! after this Annis Horribilus, it might be a doozie), and then, I'll be attending the fiftieth birthday party of Datt (of Datt and Male Fame) on January 12th. (Since it's all about Five-0, I'm gonna wear my police uniform!)

And that brings us right up to MAL.

Lately, MAL has dominated my thoughts. It's like a prison release date or something. Work day in and day out? No problem! Watch every penny denying myself so many wee little luxuries? Down with that, Yo! Going an entire goddamn year without romance? Almost there!

But on the way are four precious days in January. Four days of Not Working, eating in restaurants, maybe splurging on something for myself in the vendor mart (I'm on the lookout for a chunky belt buckle or new arm bands), and move through a numinous cloud of romantic possibilities. Four whole days!

I fear though that I might be running the risk of getting my expectations impossibly high. (And by "impossibly high" I mean getting laid, which often doesn't happen.) So gotta rein that in. Gotta just focus on just being there and soaking it all in. Just that sweet experience of walking into a crowded room and seeing a friendly face. Anything else is gravy.

Not that it won't tax my finances. Hotel + gas + tolls + sending Faithful Companion to doggie lock-up = about one solid paycheck. And then there's the logistics involved, namely making sure that my father has food to eat for four days when I'm away. And, finally, the emotional toll taken by my father's bitter complaining. Not that he doesn't do that whenever I leave the house for any reason whatsoever. I should be used to that by now. But I'm not.

MAL MAL MAL MAL MAL.

Five weeks away.

And oh yeah. I have got to get back to the gym. I haven't gone since my life fell apart back over the summer August or so. And dropped about fifteen pounds since then. Maybe wraith-like lean-as-a-snake thin will be what's sexy this year, but I better not count on that.

MAL MAL MAL MAL.

Have Yourself

So I made Christmas.

Not that it was Well Thought Out or anything.

I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. at Ho(t)me(n) Depot and left work feeling drained and severely in need of a nap. And coming down with something. (Another reason I don't like winter here in the Northeast: I spend November through March either Coming Down With Something or Getting Over Something. Currently I'm Coming Down With Something, that seems to be manifesting itself as the worst sore throat I have ever experienced. As I write this, I pause now and then to take a bite of some nice hot buttered toast made with sourdough bread. Chewing it is a delight, but then comes the part where I have to swallow, and that's like a globule of molten lead at the back of my palate. I could easily devote this weblog to a Journal Of My Maladies, Illnesses, And Afflictions and I'd always have something to write about. But I won't. So enough of that.)

Anyway, so there I am arriving home from work. I took Faithful Companion for a walk, then grabbed a pair of clippers and set to work removing some of the lower hanging branches and boughs from the white pine trees that grace the Old Homestead. The windstorm we had last week knocked a large branch off the holly bush, so I brought that to my "staging area," the front porch. For the next few hours, I was busy festooning flat surfaces around the house with greens.

This is something that I've been doing since I was about eleven years old. I can remember my family marveling at my uncanny ability--akin to being "special" on Heroes--to place boughs of white pine on the mantle over the fireplace. I definitely have an "ability" there. I'm not sure how far "decorating for Christmas" ability will get me in life though. But I remember my Awful Ex, during the first Christmas together when I convinced him that we should have a tree, sat silent with awe and amazement as I threaded twinkle lights along the individual branches of our tree. "No bare spots!" I barked. At one point he asked if there had been a mandatory Lights class at my high school, to which I replied, "You mean you didn't get that going to school in Nashville?"

But the thing that really struck me this year was the ritual of the whole deal. I wasn't thinking, I was just doing. Le coeur à sa raison que la raison ne connaît pas. As though every lay of evergreen were pre-ordained from the dark recesses of the mist shrouded path. This is the way that Christmas is to be Done. And I do. Or did.

At a few points, the question arose in my mind, "Christmas for who?" After all, it's unlikely that my father would even notice, little less appreciate my efforts. And it's not like I'm expecting anyone to drop in for a nice cup of eggnog or some of my knee-bucklingly delicious Hot Cocoa. Chances are good that no one will ever see my Christmas.

But I'll see. And I'll enjoy. It's Christmas for me.

As with so much else in my life, I'm both the player on stage and the audience. And if I don't make it happen, it ain't gonna happen.

And I think it's a pretty good gauge of my well-being that I do do.

That Barrista Must Be Stopped!!!

I'm enjoying a nice mug of my Unbelievably Amazing Cocoa. What torture! It coats the side of the mug, and there's no way I can get my tongue in there to get all of it! I have to say, I make a sublime hot chocolate.

But it brings to mind a pretty terrible thing I saw just the other day at my beloved Starbucks.

Y'know how they have those Suggested Pairings things?

(For a while, I was providing a buddy of mine from the Starbucks in Doylestown with flavored lubes and flavored condoms that I got from work. I'd always ask for his recommendations on lube and condom Pairings.)

So anyway, here was their suggested Pairing for the day...

We suggest...

Our new bacon, egg and avocado breakfast wrap

...paired with...

A Peppermint Mocha!

Oh. My. God.

Is my barrista nine years old?

Who the hell would sit down to eggs and avocado and want to wash it down with chocolatey-pepperminty-coffee?

When I stopped for breakfast at the Starbucks in Chalfont on break from work today, I mentioned it to my current fav barrista and was reassured by her response: Eeeewwwwwww!

All Work, No Play

I drank the Kool-Ade eggnog.

My worklife--and that's pretty much all the life I have right now--has become a a super-saturated solution of Christmas.

And I'm loving it.

Every chance I get, I'm sneaking away from Kitchens & Baths to get up front to Christmas so I can help people pick out the Perfect Wreath or whatever. And while I'm up there, running through my anti-materialist minimalism lovin' head are thoughts of "I want that. And that. And that and that and that."

After all, how many reindeer sculpted from gold wire filled with red and green ornaments (provacatively described on the box they came in as "Deer W/Balls") can you tote home before you have enough?

I have to confess that I did buy a soft-sculpture bear holding a little fir tree in his paw. I couldn't resist him. Just because he looks Hot. That is to say, if I met his human equivalent--bushy black beard, wide shoulders, smouldering eyes, nice guy, flannel shirt--I'd do him!

And I'm paying the price of being Trusted and Reliable at work. This week, I'm opening on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. That means that on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, I'll be going to bed around 8 p.m. Interestingly, it's sort of the reverse of my schedule my last summer in NYC when I would get home and go to bed about 4:30 a.m. and wake up at 4 p.m.

Ah, those were the days! "Gosh! I'm meeting Diabolique for dinner at six o'clock! I'd better set my alarm!"

But I continue to enjoy myself.

Yesterday I had a blast. For the first time in two weeks, I took an honest to goodness Day Off Work. No Ho(t)me(n) Depot. No Hard Labor Ready.

Since my berber neighbor, my deceased sister's ex-husband's cousin, has been working some mysterious "job" somewhere north of Albany since October, my father hasn't had a haircut in months. My father is sort of looking like Ebenezer Scrooge lately. Make that Ebenezer Scrooge wearing an Eagles sweatshirt. So yesterday morning, I suggested we go to the barber shop. It was cold and gusty here yesterday, but it wasn't raining, so my father wasn't in too much pain. I bundled him into the car, and off we went. The barber shop he usually goes to in Plumsteadville (go ahead and plug that into Google Maps, I dare ya!) was closed, with a handwritten note on the door that only said, "Sorry. Heart Problems." I said a prayer for the Barber of Plumsteadville, but wondered if perhaps he had become smitten with one of those Tadzios that clutter the sidewalks of Doylestown rather than something cardiac.

So we headed off to Doylestown in search of another barber and managed to find one. The Barber of Doylestown had only been open a couple of weeks, so there wasn't much in the way of a crowd. Just an elderly man sitting in the chair getting his haircut and a guy of about fifty leafing through Field & Stream. It turned out that the Field & Stream was the elderly man's son, and I wondered if Giordano's Barber Shop had opened with a mind to cater to elderly men being looked after by their middle aged sons.

My dad got his turned. I did my best to bury myself in Men's Journal to distract myself from the racist patter of the barber ("Yeah movies today are terrible. All you see is black guys with white girls and white guys with black girls.")

But the Barber of Doylestown did a great job cutting my dad's hair! He looks great!

After the barbershop, I needed to get gas (Dad was flabbergasted that it took $48 to fill up my tank), and then I couldn't resist a stop at Starbucks. For patiently waiting in the car, I bought my dad an apple fritter, which he appreciated.

Dad and I had a nice time tooling around together. Often, all we do is snipe at each other. I've gotten pretty used to being greeted at home after a long day of work with "It's about time! Get dinner ready!" But here we were enjoying each other's company, leaving beside our usual What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? exchanges.

Back at home, I plunged in to cleaning my bathroom, spending a good three hours in there till it sparkled. After spending all that time tending to other people's bathrooms at work, it felt good to pay attention to my own. I'm particularly happy with one little assemblage on top of the chest of drawers that holds the towels: a few cock rings that don't quite look like cock rings, some sunglasses that look bad on me and one pair that my stepmother wore after her cataract surgery, and a jar of Dippity-Doo for some color.

And brrrrrrrr! It's pretty chilly out there now. The windstorm we had took all the leaves off the trees, so it's suddenly a wintry landscape out there, all greys and browns. Actually, it's a palette I love. Tomorrow for breakfast, I might fix myself some of my Unbelievably Amazing Cocoa.

Ah, my quiet life.

But guess what?

It's looking like I'll be going to MAL next month.

MAL. Mid-Atlantic Leather. January 18th through the 21st. I've had an offer of a roomshare in the host hotel no less, the Washington Plaza. It will surely strain my finances, but it won't break them.

A lot of my the internet exchanges that pass for a social life with me boil down to this one issue: So are you going to MAL next month? And a great collection of men--many of them old friends and acquaintances but some I'll be meeting for the first time--seem to be heading that way.

But oh jeez! I've grown so used to my own solitary company, and meeting my own sexual needs, how will I act when there are other flesh-and-blood human beings there with me?

Do me a favor. Please? If you see me down there in the lobby or the cigar tent or wherever, just go slow. Treat me like you would a precocious eleven year old. (Albeit a precocious eleven year old who knows how to throw a bullwhip.) Do that reflective questioning thing where you repeat the last phrase I said only putting it in the form of a question. If I do something inappropriate, like maybe doing my The Three Tenors Marketing Overkill Homage Of Kiri Te Kanawa Singing Selections From The Rolling Stones Song Book in the middle of the lobby, please don't let on that the moment is as awkward as it truly is. Just give me an out. Say something like, "Hey Drew! Would you help me pick out a flogger in the vendor mart?"

Oh. That's if I get off work, of course. I'm putting in for it nice and early, and apparently after December 25th the only thing rolling through the aisles of Ho(t)me(n) Depot will be balls of dust. And most importantly, I've fucking earned it.

I Have Been To Newtown

There I was, on a date, in a movie theater in the mall in Jersey City, watching M. Night Shamalayan's (or whatever his name is) Signs. The opening titles, and then a pan of a field of corn, and in block letters down in the corner, "Doylestown, Pennsylvania."

My popcorn went flying, I made a noise something like "Aaaack!" My date was alarmed.

"I'm from there!" I explained to everyone sitting near me.

And indeed, the movie was filmed in good old Bucks County. In fact my sister-in-law, determined to get as close as she could to Mel Gibson (he was a 'phobe before he was an anti-semitic nutjob masochist), ended up driving onto the set during filming at the farm where the shooting took place.

But here's the thing. In the scenes shot "in town," the part of Doylestown was played by Newtown.

I had never been to Newtown. I felt cheated.

Originally, Newtown was going to be the county seat. But back then, you had the english settlers who lived in the lower part of the county and the german settlers who lived in the upper part of the county. The Germans complained that Newtown, which is southerly situated, was deep-in-the-heart of the english portion of the county, and they felt excluded. Thus, the seat was switched to Doylestown, that City On A Hill, which was roughly where the two factions met.

Even though it's about sixteen miles south of me, I never had any reason to go there.

Or so I thought.

Tonight, I helped out the married couple with the cleaning business I met on a Hard Labor Ready gig a few weeks ago cleaning the awful furniture store run by the most miserable people on the planet. (Even though they were cleaning to prepare for their Grand Opening Celebration, you could just smell failure in the air. I don't doubt they have their Going Out Of Business signs up by now.) Tonight's cleaning gig was at a soon to be doctor's office under construction in an office park kind of place down there in Newtown. After my duties were done, I couldn't resist heading into town to check out an as yet unvisited Starbucks.

So Newtown.

It's kind of like Doylestown on speed. Or New Hope on tranquilizers. If preciousness, charm, and all things quaint are your thing, head to Newtown. People there seem so scrubbed. And happy. As I walked the thirty paces from where I parked my jeep to the Starbucks, two people said "Hi!" to me in tones and manner akin to what you might hear in greeting from a game show host to Our Next Contestant. I was, however, rewarded with the awesome spectacle of the young man working the cash register who was very hairy, his arms covered by a dense pelt and bouquet of black fur coming out above his uppermost buttoned button on his shirt. They may be scrubbed in Newtown, but thankfully they don't seem to be manscaping.

The Baron and I have talked about a field trip to check out Newtown, and now that's a definite. We'll stroll the sidewalks dressed in holiday style (all the trees in town have these big red ribbons around them) and stop into Kate's Kountry Kitchen Kollectibles and such. No doubt All About Throw Pillows has a store in Newtown, although instead of being staffed by SingleTails sometime correspondent Tim, no doubt there's a blond young woman named Ashley or Sarabeth to help you pick out some nice ones for your chofa.

After my small but potent sugary taste of Newtown, I look forward to returning to the Land Of The Toolbelts tomorrow. There's no Ho(t)me(n) Depot in Newtown, although they do have a Bed Bath & Beyond.

Mr. Christmas

On Saturday, I got off work at 6 pm. The Saturday after Thanksgiving marks the date of Santa Saturday, the annual leather-bear event held by the Bucks MC, a day of leather pride flag granny afgans and meatball sandwiches. I believe the event officially ends at about the time I was punching out, but I decided to stop by anyway, much to the dismay of my father, who was waiting at home not-quite-patiently for me to get home and make him a hot turkey sandwich.

There was a good crowd still, though no cover charge, when I got there at about Seven. Heading through the tents, I saw no one I knew, until I ran into Michael Michael Motorcycle, with whom I attended a couple of the NYC Bike Shows over the past few years. MMM was looking real good, and we chatted for a bit and caught up. He's been seeing this guy who lives in Boston and who's fixing to move down here, a prospect that is probably both exciting and terrifying at the same time. After MMM and I parted, I made my way up on the porch and had just lit a cigar when this big guy in a brown leather jacket sidled up to me and said, "Hi."

Cool! We talked for a while, confirming that each of us thought the other met our personal standards for Got It Goin' On. By about 7:30, we were both ready to leave. I walked him to his car parked up behind the Eagle Fire House, and he drove me down to mine, parked in front of SuperFresh StoopidFresh, and there we spent some time doing what in back in high school we used to call "necking." And he was good at that necking thing.

He was disappointed that I had to heed the call of Hot Turkey Sandwiches at home, and asked if we could meet up when I got off work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot the next day, Sunday. And I said sure.

The next day, Sunday, I started work at 8 a.m., opening up the store. At the morning meeting, the manager on duty asked me and a couple of other guys to help out with "Christmas."

Who were we to not oblige, so we dutifully headed over to Christmas, at the front of the store. There, in front of the displays of evergreen twinkling with LED lights, we found a row of pallets of boxes of stuff. Not having received much in the way of direction, we decided to open up the boxes and find places for the stuff on the shelves. This proved to be no easy thing. Christmas, it seemed, was in disarray, managed by no one in particular. Technically, it's under the provenance of the Seasonal Department, which is the offshoot of the Gardening Department. So much like the babe in the manger, Christmas at Ho(t)me(n) Depot is something of a bastard stepchild.

Well uh uh! Not on my watch!

I plunged in, familiarizing myself with where everything was on the shelves, finding room for stuff that I was taking out of the boxes, and making it all look pretty.

And, since there I was in an orange apron, folks would come up to me with questions like, "I'm looking for hooks so I can hang a wreath off my rain gutters on the roof... Where would those be?"

Now this was problematic. Y'see, we at Ho(t)me(n) Depot pride ourselves on our Product Knowledge. We know everything there is to know about the stuff we sell. Just ask me anything about shower enclosures, toilets, toilet seats, vanities, vanity tops, faucets, cabinets, kitchen storage solutions, or countertops. That's how we set ourselves above the competition, despite what the ecclesial husband of a certain Brooklyn Gardener might say (See! I really do read your Comments!) (Just pulling your chain, John).

But this stance left me sort of off balance in the middle of Christmas. Corian I know, twinklelights, not so much.

But I plunged in and did the best I could, picking up on things quickly and using all my problem solving skills. But the result of this was sort of viral: when someone I had just helped would offer a heartfelt "That's it! Thanks so much for your help!", everybody standing around who heard this would be moved to fire their questions at me. And so on and so on.

An example: "Excuse me, I'm looking for the candlelights that you plug in and put in the windows?" We hunted and hunted, and I was forced to conclude that we didn't, in fact, have them in stock. To let the nice lady down easy, I said, "I can't believe we don't have candlelights! They were a staple of my childhood! I think there's still Scotch tape on the windowsills of my dad's house. (There is.) The nice lady nodded, "And there's Scotch tape on my windowsills, too."

By the afternoon, I had the situation pretty much in hand. But I had a hard time letting go of a bit of resentment I felt at being dispatched to Christmas like I was being air-dropped into wilderness survival training ("Here's your Bowie knife and a flintstone! Good luck!"). And all of this Christmas shit! All those people overspending on those weird treetop angels wearing what looks like a bejeweled corset and faces that look a hell of a lot like Mother Of The Year Britney Spears... Do you really need one of those? C'mon! Get hold of yourselves!

But then, between helping a customer find The Perfect Flocking and packing Santa Clause hat wearing teddy bears (whoa. wait. that one with the little fir tree in his paws is kinda Hot), I had a recollection of my own idea of a Christmas tree. And it's gaudy, a mishmash of ornaments passed down from of old and the whole thing festooned with tinsel. That's the Christmas that I love, minimalist anti-materialist that I am. If I'm not trying to fish the glitter out of my eggnog, then I say t'hell with it. My ideal Christmas resembles not an ad for throw rugs in LL Bean but looks more like an explosion at Ice City.

I became Mr. Christmas.

I put my all into it. It was a manic spree.

And then it was over.

Time for me to clock out.

Oh. Right. That guy from Santa Saturday last night. I need to give him a call so we can make a plan to meet up. But wait, who's that standing in the middle of the kitchen cabinets display? Why... It's the guy from Santa Saturday.

Yup.

He drove over to pick me up after work.

I asked where he wanted to go for dinner and he said, "I made something for us. I got some salmon."

*gasp*

He made me dinner.

I'm the guy who always cooks dinner. Nobody ever cooks dinner for me.

But I followed him to his own humble abode in nearby Lansdale, and together we sat down to his Really Good Salmon.

A handsome man making me dinner. It's a Christmas wish come true. And it's still November.

The Menu

What did I cook?

altarboyk wants to know!

It was fairly standard Thanksgiving fare. Turkey, stuffing, my stepmother's baked pineapple. But there were two notable dishes.

First there was the succotash. Back in August, I froze some sweet corn that was off the stalk and into a pot of boiling water within an hour, so it's sweet as sugar. I used one of three bags, and combined it with carrots, celery, finely chopped onion, and peas. I sauteed it really slowly over medium-low heat until the vegetables were just tender. It was really sensational, and a great counterpoint to the turkey and stuffing.

But then there were my yams.

Yams cooked in butter with some honey. They were softening up nicely when I had an idea. I had these prunes I found in the cupboard and thought that would be a nice addition to the yams. So I chopped them up and dropped them in the pot.

No no no no no.

The prunes seemed to dissolve completely. But they did lend their color to the yams. So what I was left with was soupy, gloppy stuff of a certain shade of brown. I'm not even going to teell you What It Looked Just Like, but it doesn't take much imagination. And once that thought crossed my mind, I decided it would do better to grace the compost heap than my table. So this was the Thanksgiving Without Yams.

And that was about it.

Oh. Other than to mention that I took off the wings and put them in a stock pot simmering slowly, along with some carrots, celery, onions, thyme, and bay leaves. My stock was phenomenal. And I made some great gravy with it.

Der Schwartzfreitag

Further tales from the seemy underbelly of retail America...

Today was Black Friday. I opened at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, meaning I started work at 6 a.m. Meaning I got up at 4:30 to be there. I was congratulating myself on how far I've come. There was a time when if I had to be anywhere before 10 a.m. it was like I had to slather my face body with grease and swim the English Channel. But here I am now. The alarm goes off, I'm out of bed, out to the kitchen to put the tea on, take Faithful Companion for a walk, get back, fix my tea, jump in the shower, get dressed, and I'm out the door. It takes me about a half an hour to get to Ho(t)me(n) Depot, but I've tricked myself into believing it takes 45 minutes. That way, I'm never late.

This morning, it was not a bad thing that I was a few minutes early. We hit the ground running. When I arrived, there were cars in parking lot.

Seriously?

Ho(t)me(n) Depot?

Now, we did have some bargains strewn about the store. Seven dollar coffee grinder, these cool $10 tool bags, a Dewalt drill for a mere $97... But there's nothing out there that could compel me to get up that early to goo shopping.

But Black Friday is called Black Friday not in the same sense that that plague was Black. Rather, it's "In The Black" Friday, where retailers such as my place of employ hope to make a double digit percentage of their profit margin for the year. I'm not sure we faired so well. Traffic was light overall, not a lot better than our average Friday.

So my day started off with this guy coming up to me... Okay. I came up to him. Greeting him with my standard, "Hi! Can I give you a hand with anything?"

And he looked at me and said, "Let me tell you about my stool."

And sure enough, it turned out he was not talking about a short, backless bench but rather a turd. It seems he was prone to constipation and that made his ol' brown logs pretty thick and dense, and they would clog up his toilet because of the s-curve in the trapway.

Together we strolled the toilet aisle ("Terlet Verld!") checking for one that didn't have such a severe swoop to it. It looks like he would be well served by the Kohler Wellworth, with the Ingenium Flushing System, one of the most powerful in the industry.

And, gone from the Soundtrack Of My Work Life are Moby and REM and Supertramp; replaced by Christmas music. Of a kind. It's all sort of jazzy Christmas music, with lots of mention of of the weather and Santa, but Jesus and the Incarnation... Not so much. And I'll be listening to that for the next sixty-two days.

But things got better from there and Black Friday went pretty well.

And another interesting thing. My department head is talking--a lot--about me being promoted to take his place. As in, sooner than April.

Now, who the hell could have predicted that? This is very far from a sure thing, but in the mean time, I seem to have a pretty good job.

Is fortune perhaps smiling on me once again?

Here's an interesting development.

After months and months and months of passing through the world of men who love men without seeming to inspire much in the way of interest, my biorhythms seem to be peaking. And there's even this guy who seems interested in being my slave.

Now in my life--or at least, in my online life--requests to drive down there to Murphreesboro, Tennessee and abduct some guy sight unseen and drag him back to chain him to my bed come in fairly frequently. And I dodge them as gracefully and as kindly as I can.

But there's this guy who seems sincere, realistic, considered in his approach, and experienced and enthusiastic about being owned.

Oh. And he's hot as hell.

We have yet to meet. But we're working on that.

Mastery.

So with my recent awareness that I do indeed seem to have a gift at being a Top, I wonder if I might be similarly gifted at being a Master?

Interestingly, that could be an answer to the Too Set In My Ways conundrum, huh? If I get to be In Charge in the relationship, then there's not much reason to change my ways. It would be for my slave to adapt to them.

*sigh*

Backrubs on demand... Without reciprocation.

But anyway. Like my ascent of the management ladder at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, this has much more to do with the opening up of possibilities than it does with anything I can be sure of.

Just now, walking Faithful Companion in the moonlight, I saw Orion.

Orion the Hunger, up there in the stars with his dog, too. Forever chasing Taurus the Bull through the heavens, pursuing and pursuing but never attaining.

But there's joy in the hunt, too.

My Favorite Holiday

My turkey is soaking in brine. My stock is simmering on the stove. The shopping is done.

I love Thanksgiving. I get to cook. I get to cook for people. And the more abstract aspects of the day--gratitude and hospitality--sure resonate with me, too.

Granted, it's just going to be just me and my father, but I'm hoping to get the Baron up here to share in all the leftovers.

Hope you and yours have a good one.

City Of The Damned Insufferable

Oh interesting.

The worst thing you'll ever hear me say about anybody is "I find him insufferable." Love that word "insufferable." As in, "I can suffer through quite a bit--in silence, with grace--but he is just way over the limit."

It used to be the case that whenever an Insufferable would crop up in my life, he would do me the favor of getting out of my life and moving to San Francisco. It was always San Francisco. I swear! Again and again and again! No sooner would the words, "Oh man, he is just insufferable," cross my lips than I would hear the news that he'd shipped off to the City By The Bay.

Hence, I spent a lot of my adult life sort of fearful of San Francisco. I imagined those fabled streets teeming with all of the people I found insufferable.

And then, I was collared by a man who lived in San Francisco, and before the two of us exhausted our frequent flyer miles, I spent some time there.

I can't say I fell in love with the city. Every time I've been in San Francisco, I've been cold. And I don't do cold very well.

But still, hanging out and watching men outside the Starbucks in the Castro is sure a pleasant time to spend an afternoon.

And regardless of how much time I spent there, not one Insufferable crossed my path. And what's more, I had several pleasant encounters.

And then it happened.

Last year, about this time, I was in San Francisco for a conference for work. The conference was actually across the Bay in Oakland, but I stayed with Special Guy and the man he replaced me with. (Ahem.) Whom I liked a lot. Disconcertingly.

And one night, coming back from the conference, I got off the trolley at the wrong stop and had to walk several blocks to get back to where I wanted to be. It was a beautiful, cool November night. I came over one of those hills, and there was the whole city spread out before me, shining like jewels.

And I got it.

I totally got it.

Did you know that once a month in San Francisco some members of the leather community gather on the beach for a bonfire?

How cool is that?

I get it I get it I get it. San Francisco rocks.

But wait.

What about Insufferables? Where will they go?

I'm wondering if I haven't solved that mystery.

There's this... uh... other city. And there's this guy. Who is just totally insufferable. But no sooner had I started to think thoughts like, "Uh oh. What if I run into him at MAL?" then I get the news. He just moved to That Other City Not San Francisco.

And I've spent time in That Other City. And I know people there. I had some great raw oysters there. But if I never had to go there again, I wouldn't mind too much.

Could it be?

Could my life really be that charmed?

Will future insufferables now be doing me the favor of getting out of my life and moving off to That Other City Not San Francisco?

That could work well.

My Ways

Last Sunday, I headed up to NYC. It was time once again for a meeting of my Gay Men's SM/Spirituality Discussion Group. (The Group Which Without A Catchy Name Or Anagram, although one of of the members referred to it as "Sex And Spirit," and that kind of works. Although maybe "Leathersex And Spirit" might hit it more closely.)

Here's the great take-away that I took away: "Better one handful with tranquility than two handfuls with toil and chasing the wind."

Isn't that great?

It's from Ecclesiastes, I believe.

I talked some about my recent chain bondage experience, and just how well it went off, and how well all of the chain bondage scenes I've done have gone off pretty well. This despite the fact that what I've learned during these many years of doing chain bondage from the first experience way back when with GI Joe Skin until two weeks ago could be printed on the back of a playing card. In other words, not much. And it's not a thing I think about much while I'm doing it, I just do it. Combine that with the fact that I do it pretty well, and I wonder if perhaps I don't have a particular gift for it.

A gift.

There's lots in christian spirituality about gifts. One should use one's gifts, not hide your light under a bushel basket. And one should not get all puffed up about one's gifts; they're given to you so that you can do God's work in the world.

Huh.

But anyway.

Before meeting up with the group, I met up for lunch with an recent acquaintance. We had a good time. Whenever we're together, I'm always struck by how remarkably similar we are. When he describes some life situation or other, I know how the story ends, because he does just what I would do, or says what I would say, or responds how I would respond.

So the recent acquaintance celebrated his fiftieth birthday not so long ago. We were talking about prospects of romance for Men Of A Certain Age, and he came out with something that gave me pause.

"Y'know, even if I were to meet a great guy, who turns me on, and we have a fun time in bed, and we get along great, and who laughs at all my jokes, and who makes me laugh... I just wonder... I mean, at my age, I'm pretty set in my ways. And a relationship would mess all of that up."

Carrie Bradshaw Moment: Am I too set in my ways at this point in my life? Has that ship sailed for me?

Relationships involve compromise. We know this. The last time I moved in with a guy (Disaster!) there were lots of compromises. My desk went into what had been his darkroom. I gave up my great kitchen for his ridiculous excuse for a kitchen. My objets d'art didn't "work" so they were canned. I had to purge my wardrobe twice: once to fit in the closet space afforded to me, and again because he deemed some of my clothes to be "wrong."

I could never do all that now.

But hey, what if it didn't involve sharing living space? That would reduce that problem, right?

Or would it?

"Now let me get this straight," I could here him saying, "We can't see each other this Sunday because Sunday is specifically reserved for you to sit in Starbucks reading the New York Times for four hours?"

Ummmm... Yeah?

So is it true?

Am I too set in My Ways?

At this point, My Ways are shorthand for My Life, right? And I happen to like my life. My life isn't something that just dropped from the sky the other day. It's the distillation of of years of listening closely to the music of my heart, and tentatively, after a few cautious steps, and then with assurance, learning how to dance to it.

Not that me and this hypothetical guy couldn't make our own music together and turn my solo into a pas de deux, But let's be clear: that would not be an easy or graceful transition.

So it looks as though the stakes are raised higher still. As if they weren't already stratospheric.

Ah well.

Hope still springs eternal.

Maybe, just maybe, we'll be so perfectly matched that he wouldn't consider giving up his four hours spent reading the New York Times at Starbucks on a Sunday and it would only involve us deciding who goes to who's Starbucks.

It might happen!

The Cold That Kills

This may be one of the final postings here at SingleTails.

It seems that I don't have much time left and I'll soon be shuffling off this mortal coil.

Let me explain.

This past week at Ho(t)me(n) Depot was our annual inventory. On Wednesday, I started work at 1 p.m. and worked until 10 p.m., went home, went to bed, and then had to get up at 4:30 to be at work at 5:45 a.m. And when I get home from work, I'm usually all wound up, so I had some trouble getting to sleep. And I woke up in the middle of the night--not with theological insights running through my head--but with a coughing fit. Y'see, I've had a low burn cold for about the past week. It's an odd cold. Maybe not a cold at all, just sort of a viral infection. My eyes are reddish and when I wake up in the morning they're glued shut with mucous. And, I've had that neuralgia (that all over achy-ness and feeling of malaise) that goes with having a cold. Of course, all that work and so little sleep hit me like a truck. So my day off on Friday I spent the day sleeping and feeling awful, and I had a fever and chills.

So yesterday morning, feeling a little bit better but not by much, I went into work at 10 a.m. On my way in, I met one of the more eccentric colleagues, Steve from the Plumbing Department. Steve spent the 1960s living in Greenwich Village. He claims to have taken a ride on the Magic Bus and sat next to Bob Dylan in a dive bar on St. Mark's Place while Bob wrote the lyrics to "Positively Fourth Street" on a napkin. What makes Steve really interesting is he looks kind of like an older guy who works in the Plumbing Department of Ho(t)me(n) Depot: conservative haircut parted on the side, wire framed glasses, clean shaven.

I had just punched in when I ran into Steve. I wished him good morning and he asked how I was doing after inventory, when he had also worked. I told him about how I had been fighting a cold, and after inventory, I definitely thought I was losing that battle.

"Uh oh," said Steve, "I hope you don't have The Cold That Kills."

Steve told me that there's this strain of the cold going around that killed nineteen people in the midwest. He told me that if I got a fever, I should go to the doctor immediately, because that's the sign of The Cold That Kills.

And I had a fever the day before.

Now, my healthplan doesn't kick in until I've worked at Ho(t)me(n) Depot for ninety days, which will be November 21st. I'll probably have succumbed by then. O how bitterly ironic!

Now don't you fret that this SingleTails turn into some goopy Oh-Woe-Is-Me weblog. I don't have time for that. I work tomorrow, and on Tuesday I have off, but I'll probably see if I can do a Hard Labor Ready gig, and Wednesday I'll need to start in on preparations for my Thanksgiving dinner. If I live that long.

I hope to meet the end with grace and dignity. There's only a couple of things I feel bad about. One is that off all things, it's the common cold that will do me. How humbling. And of course the other thing is the fact that my final days of life will be spent having a cold. Sheeesh.

Oh. And if we should cross paths, let's not kiss on the mouth. I have no interest in taking anyone with me.

I Went And Did It Again

Fresh from my success at telling the strapping young man to "grease his hole up real good," I instigated yet another ripped-from-the-pages-of-a-porn-script moment at Ho(t)me(n) Depot.

There I was, fronting and facing and such, and this... this... Man came sauntering up to me (bearded, built, booted, beer gut... you get the picture; I don't even need to go into detail, right?).

I offered my conventional greeting: "Hi! Can I give you a hand with something?" (I like that better than the standard, "Can I help you?" Being keenly aware of power dyanmics (ahem.), needing "help" implies subordination, and most people don't want that. But needing "a hand" means that you're in control. Just about none of my customers decline my offer of "a hand," but the automatic response to an offer of "help" is, of course, "No. I'm fine." Anyway...)

So the Man started off to say, "Yeah, I need..." And then he struggled to find the right words.

I jumped in. My voice got low and growly, I looked him dead in the eye, and said, "Tell me what you need."

His reaction was perfect. He froze. There might have been an intake of breath. His eyes looked searchingly into mine.

And I quickly followed with, "...and I'll see what I can do!", delivered in my sunniest and most innocent and pluckiest voice.

He went on to describe a plumbing problem he was having, and I lead him off to the fittings aisle and set him up with some PVC and a SharkBite connector, explaining to him what he would have to do.

So I wonder if after dinner, after the news, if he climbed into bed, got all comfy underneath the covers, and then asked himself, "What do I need?" And maybe noticed that his cock was rock hard.

In The Spirit

'Tis the Season! So Ho Ho Ho!

Shiny Thumb Incident

There I am, minding my own business, mindlessly wandering through the mall, feeling all superior about how I look down on wanton capitalist consumerism. And Lo! This young woman approaches, greets me warmly, and takes my hand.

She begins to explain to me that she wants to tell me about a great new product that I should know about, something that will endow me with the ability to give myself a professional looking manicure right in the privacy of my own home. As she's talking, she peels my thumb out of my clenched fist and begins working on it with something that looks to me like a sanding block. Only, she explains, it's not impregnated with aluminum oxide, but with diamonds. Then she switches to another side to buff my thumb nail, then to a third side of the block to "bring up the shine."

"Now look at that!" she exclaims, "hold your thumbs up next to each other! See how your left thumb doesn't have those ridges? See how it's all nice and shiny?"

Before I could point out that having shiny thumbs was never something I particularly desired, she grabbed a bottle of some kind of product off the table behind her, squeezed out a liberal blog into her palm, and then started massaging my left hand with it.

The smell hit me immediately. One of those perfum-y contrived smells I hate. "This is 'Aspen,' she offered. Men always like Aspen the best. We also offer Kiwi and Ylang-ylang.

"And now look! See how it made your cuticles go away? And without any cutting or pushing them back!"

Note that up until this point, I had not said one word to her. Not even "yes" or "no" in answer to her questions. I think that I was just offering stunned silence, but this didn't even slow her down.

She launched into the sales pitch, about how I could get all of the products she had just used on me And More, and that today was my lucky day because they usually sell the package for $59.00, but just for today, I could get it for $29.99.

"So you could get this great look at home whenever you want!"

I could just about see my reflection in my thumb nail. It was shiny and flat, looking sort of like the hood of a PT Cruiser.

Finally I spoke: "You... you made my thumb all shiny."

"Yes," answered, "and for only $29.99 you can keep this up! It should stay like this for the next two weeks though."

"But I've got a shiny thumb. It looks really weird. I have to live with this weird shiny thumb for the next two weeks?"

Without blinking, she dropped my hand as though it had been transformed into a dead eel. She stepped away from me and grabbed the hand of an elderly man, who seemed pleased and charmed by the gesture. I walked away from the young woman and her lotions and her diamond encrusted sanding block staring down at my newly shiny thumb.

I will never agree to bottom in a scene that involves thumb polishing. That is one of my hard limits from here on in.

So. Going To MAL?

I'd like to go, too.

In years past, I've had a hotel room and I've been looking for someone to join me to share expenses. This year, I'm looking for someone who's looking for someone to join him to share expenses.

Some important facts to know about me as an MAL roommate:

1. My needs are few! Space on your floor to unroll my sleeping bag? Works for me!

2. I do not snore, as far as I know, and I don't mind men who do snore. However loud. In fact, I kinda like it.

3. It's your room. If'n you need it--even for an extended period of time--just let me know. I try to stay flexible over the course of the weekend and not make plans, so I can easily work around you and yours.

4. I take a long time in the shower. And even though it's MAL weekend, I like to get a nice seven hours sleep at least. I have a long drive home ahead of me.

So if you, or someone you know, or someone who knows someone you know, would be able to help me out, please let me know. You can hail flag me down on Yahoo or AIM as BaldBuiltStache, leave a comment here, or shoot me an email at drew kramer[at]mac.com. (Omit that space and you know what to do with the [at], right?)

Thanks!

Faithful Companion Under The Knife?

My father is prone to obsessions.

For the most part, they're harmless, although they can be pretty annoying. For example, I open up the window in the bathroom when I take a shower. In the warmer months, I just leave the window open all the time. But now, the heat's on. With my Dad, the heat goes on when the temperature drops below 70°. When I guess the thermostat was right on the cusp, my father discovered that although I wasn't taking a shower, the window was open. And I heard all about the folly of having an open window when the furnace is is running and oil costs so much. For about the next week, apropos of not much, the following would transpire...

Dad: Is the window in your bathroom open.
Me (not looking up from my book or whatever): No.
Dad: Are you sure?
Me: Sure I'm sure.
Dad: Go check and make sure.
Me: I don't need to check. I know it's not open.
Dad: How do you know it's not open for sure if you don't go check.
Me: Because I know.
Dad: Do me a favor. Just go check.
Me: Dad!
Dad: Just take a minute and go check.

(I go check and find the window closed.)

Me: It's closed.
Dad: Good. Thank you. You left it open the other day though. Do you know how much we're paying for oil this winter?

Get the picture?

And this will transpire again and again and again for about a week.

My father has a new obsession.

Y'see, for the past five years or so, Faithful Companion has had a benign fistula on his asshole. Originally it was the size of a grape, then a strawberry, then an apricot. Now it's about the size of a lady apple. It's always the topic of discussion at Faithful Companion's annual visit to the vet. It's benign, and he doesn't fuss about it. I asked about removing it, and apparently the problem is that surgery in that area might damage Faithful Companion's anal sphincter and make him incontinent.

So Faithful Companion and I live with it. In peace.

So the other morning, my father said, "That thing on your dog's butt. It's just dangling by a little thing."

"Right," I answered, and explained the whole history of the benign fistula on Faithful Companion's butt.

"I learned how to deal with those in school."

By "school," my father is referring to his alma mater, National Farm School.

National Farm School was founded by a man named Joseph Krauskopf. He was a russian Jew who was concerned that with all of the Jews leaving the shtetls for the Big City, russian Jewry would lose its agricultural heritage. So he wanted to found a school to teach young men how to be farmers, using the best in agricultural technology. He consulted with none other than Leo Tolstoy, who told him that with things getting so dicey here in the homeland and so many people emigrating to the United States, he might do better to open up his school then.

My father left high school a year early to become a freshman at National Farm School 1943. After the japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, my father was drafted, and never went back to earn his degree.

And his degree would have been in Poultry Management. My father, a city boy from Olney, Philadelphia, wanted to be a chicken farmer. And so for a year he matriculated in the Animal Husbandry department. So that's what he means by learning how to deal with growths "in school."

And just what was he proposing?

"All you have to do is tie some thread around it at the base really tight, then you can just cut it off and it will heal up."

I think the blood drained from my face.

"Cut it off?"

"Yeah. Just take a razor blade and cut it off below where you have the thread tied."

Okay.

Faithful Companion won't stand still for me to give him a bath. Despite my pleading and promises of treats.

And then... I mean... My father is proposing that I do surgery here at home on my dog.

On. My. Dog.

"Dad, I don't know that I have the nerve for that."

"Aaaaah. Sure you do. It's no big deal."

An image of me, tears running down my face as I chase Faithful Companion around the house as he spurts blood out of his ass all over the carpet.

What am I in for?

If indeed this has become my father's latest obsession, then I fear for my sanity. He won't relent. Not until he's satisfied.

My father's life is all about sitting in a chair smoking cigars watching the Weather Channel, CNN, and football. And obsessing. He has all that pent up energy to pour into a relentless campaign to get me to do surgery on my dog. He won't let up. Until I relent.

Oh man.