SingleTails

Advice To Mr. Palm Springs Leather 2012

2011-05-31T20:56:00.001-07:00

Hello, Gorgeous!

Man, are you in for it! For what, exactly? That, I’m afraid, you will have to discover for yourself. But I am happy to offer you some guidelines to help you make the most of the experience of representing the Leather Community here in Palm Springs at International Mr. Leather XXXIV.

First off, bring a friend. You will leave things in the room, you will be done for the day very late and come back to the safe harbor of your room out of your mind with hunger, you will need someone to run down to the lobby to get you a latté in the morning while you get yourself ready, you will need someone to interrupt the voices in your head telling you what you should have said in your interview and remind you that you did the best job you could and you should be proud of yourself. Competing at IML is intense and it’s a lot of work. It is a very good thing to have someone there to help you shoulder the burden.

Commit yourself now to doing the best possible job that you can. Make sure that your boots and your leathers are looking their best as throughout the weekend, nine pair of eyes will be scrutinizing them. In the weeks and months you have available to you, read everything you can about the world and the history of leatherfolk. Who is Guy Baldwin? What was the Gold Coast? What does it mean when someone is flagging Hunter Green in his right back pocket? But don’t approach it as rote memorization. Take some time to think deeply. Talk to friends. Talk with me. Form opinions and have a point of view. What does all of this mean to you and your life as a leatherman?

It is to be hoped that you are a kind man with a generous spirit. From now on, and especially in Chicago, greet people warmly, talk to them, and listen. When someone catches your eye, don’t turn away: smile and approach. Be open and forthright. Among the people you will encounter are nine people who will be judging you. And, these people have friends. Think about it: how would you approach the task of judging fifty-odd men, most of whom you have never met? You would ask people you know about them. Remember that in the leather world, the “six degrees of separation” is reduced to two or three degrees.

Whether you are terrified of speaking to a room full of strangers or whether you are the biggest ham ever, stepping out onto the stage at IML--one of the largest “conventions” that the City of Chicago sees every year--will be daunting. And the same goes when you step alone into the interview room to face a barrage of questions on any subject (!) from your judges. Here is all I can say to help you through that: everyone in the room is on your side. They are with you all the way, they want you to shine up there. It is not uncommon for a contestant who has made it to the Top Twenty to be standing on stage, delivering their speech, and fumble in their words. The same thing always happens: a roar of applause and cheering goes up from the audience. They love you, Baby! They’re just looking for a way to love you more.

Don’t worry about winning. This is not Olympic Figure Skating. The judging is almost entirely subjective. The judges do not have to substantiate or defend the scores they give you to anyone. So, “Gosh! He looks just like my 8th Grade Gym Teacher! Whom I hate to this day! Now’s my chance to get even with Mr. Frobisher” is perfectly okay. (Although hopefully rare.) But dedicating yourself to perfectly meeting the expectations of nine people with diverse backgrounds, perspectives, and axes to grind is a fool’s game.

“Don’t judge me!”, right? “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” Well guess what, Bucko, you’re gonna be judged. How often in life do you stand in the Star Chamber and have someone give thumbs-up or thumbs-down--not on some skill or ability you possess and have honed through practice and effort--but on you as a person? Probably not ever. But that’s what you’re in for at IML. But here’s the thing: fundamentally, it does not matter a bit. You are still the man you are, an amalgam of beauty, kindness, pettiness, brilliance, thick-headedness, insecurity, generosity, and all those qualities that make up the human spirit. Now would be a good time to start liking yourself. Take some time to read Joan Didion’s essay “On Self Respect.”

I realize full well that pressure like that is enough to make a strong man cry. (And it will!) But you will be sharing that experience with fifty-odd other men. My advice would be to lose yourself in helping your brothers make it through that dire crucible. Give them your support, never missing an opportunity to let them know how much you admire and respect them.

You may, or you may not, make the Top Twenty on Sunday Night. You may, or you may not, be a first or second runner up. You may, or you may not, become International Mr. Leather 2012. Of all the men who have achieved that title, I do not doubt that all of them looked around the room at some point and thought, “I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell here! Look at these guys!” And in the next moment, “That could be me up there on that podium wearing that sash when all is said and done.” And both are always true throughout the contest up until the very last minute.

This experience will change your life. When you return home, no matter the outcome, you will be a man set apart from the friends, family, and well-wishers whom you left behind. Like a combat veteran returning to the routine of whatever job it was he left behind, things will never quite be the same again for you. You have entered a select fraternity. There are barely more than a thousand men in the world who have experienced what you will have experienced. Among them alone will you truly be able to talk to someone who understands what you have been through.

And here is the best part: one day, less than a year from now, you will have the opportunity to throw your arms around your successor and congratulate him. You will look at his beaming face, filled with questions about what the hell he’s in for, and know that it is to him that you will pass the torch, and you will usher him into an amazing experience.

Welcome, Brother. You are setting off on a journey. I am behind you all the way, but like all important things in life, you are going to step through the doorway alone.

Fait Accompli

2011-05-29T21:12:00.000-07:00

Never again will I have to stand on stage wearing only a jockstrap and answer a funny question! You cannot imagine my relief at this realization. And, I've met some really wonderful people, friendships that I'm sure will endure a lifetime. And, Second Runner Up Anthony Rollar, Mr. San Diego Leather, will be a judge in the Mr. Palm Springs Leather Contest this November!

What a night. What an amazing night.

It really is all very well planned out. I didn't make the Top Twenty, which was a disappointment. Disappointing only because I got on board this train last November, when Charlie the bartender at the Tool Shed said, "So Drew, we've got the Mr. Tool Shed Contest coming up. Will you be a contestant?" For the previous two years, I had pretty much used the Tool Shed as my living room. I met my Handsome Cowboy at the Tool Shed. I learned how to shoot pool without embarrassing myself at the Tool Shed. Just about all the people I knew in Palm Springs I knew from going to the Tool Shed. How could I say to that.

So I boarded the train, not thinking too much of the eventual destination. I've been having such a great ride that I just didn't feel myself ready to get off. But that said, there was no one among the semi-finalists to whom I would say, "Hey! Outta my seat!"

My biggest concern was disappointing all the folks back in Palm Springs who were cheering me on. For them, and not a bit for myself, did I want to bring home the Gold. I did my best at every turn, and I hope I did them proud.

Eric Gutierrez, with whom I sung an acapella version of Le Marsailles has been voted International Mr. Leather 2011. Eric is Mr. Europe and is a wonderful man. He's the kind of guy who you know has just entered the room even though your back is to the door, that kind of energy. D. Pamplin, Mr. Mid-Atlantic Leather 2011 is the First Runner Up. And, as mentioned, Anthony Rollar (on whom I am totally crushed out), is the Second Runner Up.

And what now?

Well, I just ordered Filet Mignon from room service. I am starving. Then, I'm going to head down to the lobby, enjoy a cigar, and get my fill of eye candy.

Tomorrow at Noon I'll have the opportunity to pick up my scores from the judges. I'm ambivalent about that. Kind of like getting your report card when you know you didn't do very well during the past semester. I probably wouldn't, except for the fact that starting in November, I will be a mentor to Mr. Palm Springs Leather 2012, whoever that will be, and it would be good for him to have the benefit of my experience.

And, of course, I am still Mr. Palm Springs Leather 2011. (And with that year at the end of my title, I always will be.) And that means I have work to do. What would I like to do? Nothing too spectacular. I want to create a way that folks from the leather community in Palm Springs can gather informally to meet and talk. I would like there to be a way for people to become connected. Something very low-threshhold and informal. There exist opportunities for play and sex, and Palm Springs is lucky to have several very good bars, but few opportunities to meet and socialize. And in a tourist town, that can be problematic. Of course it could very well be that there will be no interest at all in something like that, and that's fine with me. But I sure would like to try.

I think at the next fundraising opportunity, I'll auction off the jockstrap I wore on-stage at IML. I sure won't be needing that again.

Wheat From Chafe, Sheep From Goats

2011-05-29T09:12:00.000-07:00

Last night, I awoke from a deep sleep, sat bolt upright in bed, and came up with the perfect answer to my "lighthearted question." So hopefully it won't be a problem for them to re-work the schedule so I can do a do-over. After all, I'm Mr. Palm Springs Leather 2011, right? A little consideration is all I'm asking.

But seriously. Feeling so much better today. I have long believed that in the world of BDSM, there is an all-encompassing bait-and-switch phenomenon. For example, no proto-kinky fifteen year old out there is beating off fantasizing about a clothespin scene. And yet, once you immerse yourself, you discover that a clothespin scene can be profound and deeply satisfying for all involved, and you don't even miss that you never had the opportunity to abduct Vin Diesel and keep him chained up forever in your dungeon as your slave. Or whatever.

I'm finding the bait-and-switch thing here at IML, too. We came here, many of us I think, expecting a beauty pageant. (Lots of jokes about Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality and the like.) But, in fact, it's something altogether different. Being a contestant puts you in this intense crucible. Sartre would have loved IML. Imagine yourself stripped naked, alone on stage, all those eyes on you, and the omni-present gaze of the judges. Who are, y'know, judging you. Men crack in situations like that. But, you're in this crucible with two score plus other men. The strength that you find to sustain you is not entirely your own; additionally, you're drawing on the strength of your fellow contestants.

Anyway. Today is the big day. The Top Twenty will be announced. (And, more importantly, I'll be debuting my orange Evel Knievel-esque custom made leathers!) I am honestly good either way. I emerge from the experience intact. And a better man for it.

Now, I've gotta get downstairs so I can smoke. A lot. Nicotine withdrawal is not pleasant.

Funny Question

2011-05-28T22:09:00.001-07:00

Okay. Well that maybe didn't go so spectacularly well.

After spending much of the day eviscerating myself over this morning's interview, I headed down to the holding pen to prepare for the dreaded Pecs And Personality segment. As in me, on stage, wearing a jockstrap, responding off-the-cuff to what is termed a "lighthearted question." It's kind of the big moment in the contest when you have the stage all to yourself.

First of all, there's my self-consciousness about my body. It's too bad that all those years in psychoanalytic psychotherapy were spent dealing with my social anxiety issues and my passive-aggressive tendencies and my self-sabotaging behavior (much progress was made!), because I would have devoted some time and effort to my body issues if I had known that in my forty-sixth year I'd be standing up on a stage wearing only a jockstrap. Did I come off as awkward and ill-at-ease as I felt? Probably.

I started to relax listening to the questions that my fellow contestants were getting. The questions were drawn from the autobiographical details we provided in our applications. For example, a man who was a competitive volleyball player was asked to describe his sexual prowess in terms of his volleyball skills. In my "Skills/Activities/Interests," I mentioned such things as my fascination with werewolves and my love of detective fiction. Either of these, to my mind, would be fodder for great questions.

What did I get? "So, you mention an interest in 'sustainable construction strategies.' If you were to design a new house for (IML Founder) Chuck Renslow, which strategies would you employ?"

Right?

For one thing, about fifteen to forty times a week, I'm doing energy conservation education with my customers. I have this whole spiel I say over and over and over again. For another thing, design problems have on me the effect that bright, shiny objects have on people with Attention Deficit Disorders. So I heard the question and panicked. "Don't make this work-y! This is neither the time nor the place for work-y! Make it funny and laden with sexual innuendo!"

Uh huh. Discussing sustainable design and construction strategies just lends itself so well to humor and sexual innuendo.

Crap.

I did the best I could. I talked about "passive" (wink wink nudge nudge) and "active" (wink wink nudge nudge) thermal comfort strategies. I talked about the need to recycle things (beer, piss). I talked about how one should cut down on waste and use every drop.

That was a terrible question. I gave a terrible answer. My only hope is that at least some of the judges realize that my question was a dog and take pity on me, possibly finding it laudable that I didn't drop the microphone and run crying from the stage.

I'm better now.

Tomorrow is "Wheat From Chafe" Day. Some of us will be in the Top Twenty. Some of us will not be. I'm letting go of all of that. It's about the journey, not the destination.

So right now I'm going to go downstairs and watch the parade of unbelievably attractive men pass by and smoke a meditative cigar.

And then I'm going to bed. It's been a long day.

Nos Morituri Te Salute

2011-05-28T10:58:00.000-07:00

Interviews this morning.

Definitely an emotional time for all of us.

How often in life are you judged? How many opportunities does life afford where you stand up in front of a panel and are judged? And completely subjectively. There is no resume, there are no challenges, there are no guidelines. It's just presenting to the best of your abilities the person you are and what you're about, and nine people give thumbs up or thumbs down.

Going into this Star Chamber, I just decided that it will be what it will be. I'm articulate, I have opinions, and I think about things. I honestly was prepared for any possible question that could be asked of me. (And, of course, I had a few humorous anecdotes in my pocket. Such as, "the first time I ever heard about IML was in a jail cell in Philadelphia, which I was sharing with International Mr. Leather 1986." Truth! Scott and I had just been arrested for sitting down in the middle of Broad Street with ACT UP/Philadelphia, protesting then-Mayor Goode's proposed cuts to the budget of the AIDS Activities Coordinating Office.

But the judges, of course, surprised me. After a few preliminary questions, we started talking about singletail whips. Which I could talk about for hours. I'd drive for miles for the opportunity to talk about singletail whips. (Take note, dear reader, of the name of this weblog, f'r'instance.)

So that was a huge relief.

But, then, suddenly, it was over. Three of the judges had no questions at all for me. Which was horrifying. Bone chilling. Of course it could mean that they liked everything I was saying and felt that they had a complete picture of who I was and what I was all about. Or, of course, it could be that they couldn't care less. As in, "Next!"

One of the non-singletail-whips questions was, "If you don't make it into the Top Twenty, what will you take away from this weekend. My response was that I am continually astonished that I'm here at all. Doing well would just be gravy. And that's true. I don't have a "bucket list," but if I did have a bucket list, being a contestant at International Mr. Leather would not appear on my bucket list. I truly never imagined that I would one day be up on that stage. I'm not one to "go for it." If it comes to me, it comes to me, and if it does, I'll do the best I can with the task at hand.

Too, there are some amazing men among my fellow contestants. Should I not be among the Top Twenty, I will whole-heartedly be cheering on those who are.

So we'll see.

Next up, this evening I'll be standing up on stage wearing only boots, a jockstrap, and a smile, and one of the MCs will pose to me a "light-hearted question." To which I am expected to give a snappy, humorous retort. Not a fifteen minute dissertation on why Audrey Hepburn is my favorite diva or why at crucial moments in my life when I'm at wits' end I'll ask myself, "What would Kermit the Frog do?" And not a fifteen minute schtick of improvisational comedy. And not some prolonged jesuitical guided meditation. Nope. Just a brief reply that brings the house down and makes them love me. Something along the lines of, say, "I'd say, 'In the butt,' Bob!" One of those make-or-break moments. And did I mention that I'll be up in front of a room full of strangers wearing only a jockstrap?

Whatevs.

Today, one of my fellow contestants, overwhelmed with emotion, burst out in tears. The rest of us gathered around him, holding him, protecting him, reminding him that he is loved, telling him that it was okay, telling him to just let it come.

However this goes down, I am grateful to be here.

Let's Meet The Contestants!

2011-05-27T21:14:00.000-07:00

My dogs are barking!

Wow!

That was work!

Tonight was the introduction of the contestants. I had planned on wearing a pair of leather jeans I have, boots, a wrist band, and my sash. But I've been cold all day. It is only because of an enormous exercise of will power that I'm not running around wrapped up in a blanket. Fearing being cold, I decided to go with my one-piece leather flight suit/super hero outfit made by David Menkes.

Essentially, three different times we headed out on stage: first with the flags of our countries or states; then individually as they read out our names, where we live, titles and sponsors; and finally for this precision alignment deal. It went really well. Each time I was on stage was so brief that I didn't have time to think about it before it was over. My only issue was that in between, we were standing for hours. Standing is always a problem for me as I have this weird, benign condition called vasculitis. Basically, it's an auto-immune dysfunction where my immune system doesn't recognize a protein in my blood vessels. And when I'm on my feet for long periods and my blood is moving slowly in my legs, my capillaries burst and I end up with these crimson blotches up and down my legs. Kinda not what I want before I have to go on stage in a jockstrap tomorrow night. (Just took off my boots and pants and it looks like it didn't get higher than what will be covered by my Wesco's, so I'm good.

Throughout the night, I am really enjoying getting to know my fellow classmates. The walls are coming down, slowly but surely. And we're all revealed to be nervous, excited, hopeful, and--let's face it--somewhat narcissistic.

This will be brief. I'm getting up in six-and-a-half hours to get ready for my interview with the judges at 8 AM. Some of my fellow contestants are reporting questions on IML history, Old Guard protocol, and other things I know nothing about. (Although, I once shared a jail cell with International Mr. Leather 1986, so I hope that counts!)

Oh! And we came up with our own gang symbol! You throw out three fingers from each hand, as we're the Class of IML XXXIII. (Although some of our contestants not from urban areas have no idea what we're talking about.)

Is it wrong that I'm rooting for other contestants? There are some really great guys here. I mean seriously great. Really kind, upstanding men, who look smokin' hot in leather and are doing so much for the communities where they live.

One last thing I'll report. I heard my name called, turned around, and there was one of the two men who taught me how to throw a whip!

Anyway. All about the interview. Gotta be up early. 'Night, folks!

'Scuse Me, I'm Looking For The Cigar Tent?

2011-05-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

Quiet morning. Nothing doing contestant-wise until Opening Ceremonies rehersal at 5:30 this evening. (Tomorrow, however, will be a riotously busy day, with my interview in the morning, photo shoot at Noon, and then the Dreaded Pecs And Personality tomorrow evening. (Written on my hand: Audrey Hepburn, Wolverine, Werewolves, Orange, in the middle of a vacant lot in downtown Milwaukee, meatloaf and scalloped potatoes.)

Spent the morning strolling through the vendor mart, and now I'm about to embark on a quest to find all the places I'll have to be during the weekend. The hotel is vast, and as most of the ballrooms and meeting rooms are underground, I'm constantly disoriented. The lobby seems to me to be ill-designed in that it's all traffic flow and no areas to congregate. Quite the departure from the Washington Plaza Hotel, sight of MAL for lo, these many years. I understand that MAL has moved, and I haven't been to the event at the new hotel, but I will miss the Plaza. The lobby was forever crowded, so making your way through the lobby meant eye contact, and physical contact, again and again and again.

But most of all, there was the cigar tent.

Billows of cigar smoke got to be a problem at the Plaza, so they set up this tent, heated, and with a bartender, just outside the lobby out by the pool. Perfect for my purposes! It served to collect in one location all the men from the event that I would want to meet. Plus, whereas "Meet me in the lobby!" would result in you circling and circling for forty-five minutes before you connected, "Meet me in the cigar tent" worked perfectly every time.

Setting off again to roam through the hotel, this time to locate the places where I have to be. And, hopefully, I'll stumble across people milling about, although I don't have my hopes up there.

Museum Piece

2011-05-26T21:34:00.000-07:00

On the agenda tonight was the roast of International Mr. Leather 2010, Tyler McCormick. I have yet to meet Mr. McCormick. (I know, I know, he's a judge, and I should be BFF's with all the judges at this point. *sigh* I should just leave now.) But, he's part of the reason that I'm here. I haven't paid much attention to leather contests of any stripe previously. They just seemed a wee bit un-serious to me. But when the news reached me about the outcome of International Leather 2010, I literally stood up and cheered. He is unconventional in a number of respects. Not to take anything away from him, but let's just say he didn't win based on his good looks alone. It was, perhaps, sort of a Glee Moment. And speaking as someone who has never been one of the Cool Kids, and who has always felt himself to be something of an oddball, the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend last year was a great day for oddballs and misfits everywhere. Plus, I was in ACT UP in my formative years, and if you start waving the flag of equality and inclusion, I'll be right there with you at the barricades.

The roast was held at the Leather Archives & Museum. I had never been there before on my previous trips to Chicago, and I'll own some snarky cynicism on my part for keeping me away. I divide the history of the leather community into two parts: there's the part that came before me, and then there's the (not insubstantial) part that I lived through. As to the part that came before me, I'm always suspect of tales of the misty golden hallowed past. Most of the time, they're told by someone with an agenda, and going to far down that road makes you a reactionary. The shorthand is often, "Things used to be great! But then you damn kids came along and it all went to hell."

And then there's the part that I lived through. The first time I went to a leather bar was in 1988. There were no Old Guard Mentors there to take the measure of me, school me in the great traditions, and make me earn my leathers. At that time, they were either caring for their dying friends or were stricken themselves. I had to make the path by walking, and although that was frustrating and confusing in some respects, in others it was glorious.

And I remember what that time was like. And I remember the assimilationist debates of the early Nineties, when it was argued that the price of gaining civil rights was to exclude drag queens and leatherfolk. And I remember the whole Next Generation phenomenon, with that DIY spirit that came with it. And I remember the advent of the internet and the toll taken on all those leather bars I loved. So when Rihanna and Britney Spears sing about whips and chains at the Billboard Music Awards, I'm aware at how much is simultaneously gained and lost by that development.

Well, I was wrong about the Leather Archives & Museum. But there's the thing I forgot about, the glue that holds it all together. In all the old photographs of bike runs and contests and club gatherings, there are all those faces, grinning ear-to-ear. It's all about joy, pure and unmitigated joy. It's the joy of finally finding your place in the world, and the joy of knowing that you are among friends.

The Leather Archives and Museum is a great place to visit.

Contestant Number 30

2011-05-26T13:35:00.000-07:00

So this is something I should blog, right? How often do I get to be a contestant at International Mr. Leather?

I am fried. Travel yesterday from beautiful, sunny Southern California here to rainy, cold, dreary Chicago was fifteen-and-a-half hours door-to-door. There were canceled flights! There was misdirected luggage! There was checking-into-the-hotel drama! There was the part where I only got four hours sleep before I had to get up and get ready for orientation!

But I made it in one piece.

It's been a lot of fun meeting the other members of my class, men who have flown in literally from all over the world. (Mostly places where it gets really, really cold!) I'm finding that aspect really fascinating. We all have our stories, where we come from, how we got here. Mr. DC Eagle and I share a last name, and, it turns out, possibly more than that. His family also hails from the coal mining regions of Pennsylvania. We've been joking on facebook about how we're family, and it turns out that may be true. (If you were to say, "Small world!" in response to that, I would rejoin, "No, it's not the world that's small. It's our lives that are large.")

After we signed zee papers, they gave us a smoke break. Reason Number 412 Why I Would Hate To Have To Give Up Smoking: Whenever faced with a large group of new people, you can always count on bonding with a select group of them whilst enjoying tobacco together.

Then, introductions of our handlers were made, and after, we drew our contestant numbers. We are fifty-three, all told. Same number as the playing cards in a deck, including the Joker. Mr. Oregon State Leather is Number One, and Mr. Los Angeles Leather is Number Fifty-Three. I was hoping for Twenty-Six, which I think of as my lucky number, but it was not to be. I'm happy with Thirty, a nice round number, easy to remember, even for my addled, sleep-deprived brain.

After we got our numbers, we were warned that we should be careful not to wear our ribbons in public areas. Apparently there are those out there who make sport of collecting the number ribbons from IML contestants. (Mental Note: If I do go out in public wearing my number ribbon, I'll make sure I've got a whip with me so I can fend them off like Lash LaRue.) Then, we were marshaled into four groups and assigned times for our interviews. I'll need to report at 8:00 AM on Saturday morning. Which means a 6 AM wake-up, which means that I have roughly forty-eight hours to reset my internal clock so it won't feel like the alarm is going off at 4 AM.

Before we were dismissed, we lined up and were issued bottles of lube. That was my favorite part of the morning's proceedings. Like in old war movies when all the new recruits are given their boots and fatigues and guns. Actually, we were issued other things in addition to bottles of lube--badges, event tickets, schedules and the like--but it was the lube that stood out.

And now, it's nap time. I took advantage of the robust internet connection and downloaded the Season Finale of Glee, so I'll get under the covers, order up another wake-up call, and drift off to sleep while watching it.

Some miscellaneous notes...

• Cards! Dang it! I totally forgot about cards! And in my one interaction so far with one of the judges, he was like, "Give me your card. That's how we judges keep track of all of you." And I was like, "Duhhhrrr... Ummmm..." So I should just go home now, right? Once before in my life did I make up cards for myself, not counting business cards. I gave exactly none of them away. Trick cards always struck me as being a little lothario-esque, suavely sauntering up to some boy I have designs on and saying, "So, here's how to get in touch with me. Which I hope you'll do." I did not get the suave gene. So even though it was advised that I get cards printed up before I got here, I didn't. So I should just leave.

• It is so fricken' cold here! I'm freezing all the time! Not just when I step outside the hotel to smoke! In the hotel, in the drafty lobby, in my room... Weather like this is 90% of the reason that I drove my Jeep Liberty 2,700 miles across the country when I moved to Palm Springs.

• So it seems that the Chicago Hyatt Regency Hotel is pretty much in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by International Style office towers. The nearest Starbucks is several blocks' walk through the cold rain and driving wind. And me without a parka.

• My Handsome Cowboy couldn't make the trip, so I'm here solo. I'm running into people I know, but so far no one that I know well. So there's a little bit of that junior-high-school-cafeteria vibe. As in, "Hi! I'm in your second period social studies class. Could I sit at your table while I eat my lunch? I promise I won't say anything and I'll leave as soon as I'm done." But hopefully that will change.

• The window in my hotel room does not open. Which means that I have to go down twenty-eight floors in the elevator to smoke. It's getting harder and harder to convince myself that the $250 Cleaning Fee I would incur for smoking in the room wouldn't be a worthy investment.

Adventures In Dentistry

2009-07-20T18:12:00.001-07:00

Little did I suspect that the blue cheese sliders washed down with Cacheça mohitos on Thursday would be my last solid food for days to come.

The pain grew. And grew. And grew. My gums were sore and sensitive. I knew the drill. I had an abscessed molar. Oh for some penicillin! I was sure I had some from my last go'round with endodontic mishap, but alas, that was not the case. (Which could only mean that for the first time in my life I completed a course of antibiotics! That is a surprising development.)

I started in on a rigorous program of hot compresses and saltwater rinsing, but over the course of the weekend, the reality set in: I had to go to the dentist.

This was problematic, of course. For one thing, my bank account is rapidly dwindling and I don't know that I can afford a trip to the dentist right now. For another, I have had two very good dentists and numerous scheister dentists. Word To The Wise: Unless you have a dentist that you trust and feel you can rely on, ALWAYS get a second or third opinion when your dentist proposes a root canal. And my mouth was hurting, bad, and I just didn't feel up to playing Dentist Hunt right now. And what's more, I was pretty sure that this would mean an extraction: I was going to lose a tooth.

Heretofore, I've managed to hold on to all my teeth. All my wisdom teeth managed to grow in and not cause me the least little bit of pain and discomfort. And it's not like I don't pay lots of attention to dental hygiene, because I do! I'm the only person you probably know who flosses! I have no idea why I have such crappy teeth. Perhaps it's my genetic inheritance, perhaps it's my daily iced quad venti no-ice latté. But I have never been to the dentist in my entire life without getting the news that my mouth was full of cavities.

Freud said in The Interpretation Of Dreams that dreaming of teeth is dreaming of mortality. And Freud sure had my number there. Throughout my life, all of the really disturbing dreams I've had have involved my teeth. In the last one, a casual glance in the mirror revealed that my teeth were this horrible greenish-brown, and as I set to work scraping it off, it would grow back as I watched. I realized that this had probably been the case for weeks and I hadn't noticed, but surely everyone else did every time I smiled. When I woke up in the morning, first thing I did was run to the mirror and confirm that it was only a dream.

And I've had a long history with this particular molar. Back in the late '80s, my first job when I got out of college was paying me $15,000 a year. But being new to the world of work, I thought this must mean that I should start doing all of those adult things like Going To The Dentist, which I had pretty much ignored while I was in college. The dentist I found, Dr. Boudreau, recommended a root canal for that tooth. So he drilled it all out, and then presented me with the bill for the work he had done so far. If I recall correctly, it came to about a month's pay. I slowly started making payments, and eventually managed to pay it off successfully, but never went back for Stage Two, the crown. So, for years I had a temporary crown in that tooth, and a temporary crown is basically a hole filled with DAP. When I finally had a job that offered a dental plan (because I was the person in charge and I went out and got us a dental plan), I and the best dentist I've ever had, Dr. Jeffrey Krantz on East 10th Street on Manhattan's Lower East Side, that tooth was pretty far gone. But Dr. Krantz was not willing to say "pull it," and neither was I. And so, almost ten years later, I got a crown for that tooth. And, while seeing Dr. Krantz, I had all my other dental work seen to. It was like a fresh new start.

But then I moved back to Pennsylvania to look after my father, and Wuperior Soodcraft didn't have a dental plan and there was the whole issue of Dentist Hunt and so the entropic process of decay began anew.

But last night, realizing that I hadn't had anything to eat for three days and that this state of affairs couldn't go on too much longer, I resolved to go to the dentist to have my abscessed molar looked at. And right around the corner from where I live here in Palm Springs is a new branch of Western Dental, which I originally thought was some kind of ghetto place where they don't sterilize their instruments and Pass The Savings On To YOU or something. But, it turns out that Western Dental is sort of the Wal-Mart of dentists, where they work economies of scale to make quality dental care affordable. AND, I'm on a no-interest payment plan! Sure works for me!

I could hardly sleep last night thinking about the trip to Western Dental in the morning. Not the pain--although I am, if not the World's Biggest Crybaby, then at least among the World's Biggest Crybabies about going to the dentist--so much that was bothering me, but it was more about the likelihood that they would be pulling my teeth. I would be saying goodbye forever to some of those teeth that have served me for the past four decades, cavity pocked and plaque ridden though they be.

I know people who have made it into middle age and never have had a single cavity. And probably, they'll take their perfect choppers to the grave. I, to be sure, won't be that lucky. And even though teeth and knees are clear indications that God didn't quite think things through at the Creation, all I hoped was that my own mortality and my ability to eat corn off the cob would come in somewhere close to neck and neck.

And I'm not hoping to get a birthday wishes from the Today Show weatherman in 2064! By no means! I will be thrilled with an allotment of three-score-and-ten! In fact, over the past year or so, in the wake of my father's death last March, I've sort of thought that I'm pretty much ready to go gently into that good night. It's been wonderful, and I have no bucket list. Were I to die tonight, I don't know that I'd be regretting that I never jumped out of an airplane or circumnavigated the globe or seen Ankor Watt. I am lucky to be in the position that whereas I will probably be mourned by some, no one will be left destitute or completely undone by my passing.

I live alone and I live simply and I do my best to keep the Hungry Ghosts at bay.

All I'm asking out of my teeth are about twenty-five more years of service at most. And extraction brings to the fore the distinct possibility that my teeth may fail me in this, running out before I do.

Oy.

And after the x-rays at Western Dental (x-rays are digital now! How cool is that?), a few things were evident. First off, I needed a Deep Cleaning. Crud has worked its way down between my teeth and gums, bacteria is growing there, and it's eating away at my jawbone. If I'm going to get twenty-five more years, I'll need to endure that painful procedure. And then, there was the sad news that the abscess is caused by not just one, but two of my lower left molars. So that's two extractions.

I sat down with the billing person from Western Dental. She presented to me a menu of options, and I chose at this point to go with the two extractions, a partial dental plate, and the dreaded Deep Cleaning.

Dentures. That is so not in the picture.

But that, I hope, will only be temporary. I do not at all like the idea of my teeth, like the stars, coming out at night. When that damn house on Tollgate Road finally sells, I'll be getting myself some nice implants or a bridge. It's just a temporary measure.

After I gave up my debit card for the down payment, I took off for awhile to get myself some sustenance in the form of an Naked Pure Protein and one of those iced quad venti no-ice lattés that are probably to blame for this ordeal, and I ran up to Palm Desert to put in an application with Bed Bath & Beyond. (They're opening a new store here in Palm Springs, so unlike Home Depot, they must be hiring, right?) Then, heavy of heart, I headed back to Western Dental at Sunrise and Ramon.

And it was awful. Although not as awful as it might have been. Dr. Vaughn was mercifully liberal with the Lidol, and told me that all I had to do was raise my left hand and she'd give me another shot if I felt any pain at all. I don't think I could count the number of times I saw that Big Needle going into my mouth. It was easily more than ten. First, she took care of the Deep Cleaning on the left side of my mouth while I winced and moaned and flinched and gagged and waved my left hand. And then, deftly, she made with the forceps.

"There," she whispered, bending her mouth to my ear like a lover, "I've done both extractions."

That was a surprise to me. Not that it was a pleasant experience, but I think a childhood spent watching cartoons had conditioned me to expect a champagne-cork Pop noise when the blessed event occurred. She stuffed some kind of surgical batting into the gaping holes where my teeth had been and sutured me up (I can't even think about that), gave me some gauze to suck on and a list of instruction, and I was on my way to CVS to fill a prescription for antibiotics and prescription strength ibuprophen.

At CVS, they told me it would take about fifteen minutes to fill my prescription. My jaw was already starting to throb something awful. I decided that the best possible use of the wait time would be to run home--just around the corner--and take some of the Endocet (acetaminaphren and oxycodone) that I had gotten from my doctor in Philadelphia, who was something of a Dr. Feelgood, God bless him!

Back at CVS, things were really starting to hurt. By exercise of utmost self control, I didn't totally freak out at the pharmacy assistant woman who made me repeat my name and date of birth three times with a cheek full of blood soaked gauze and rubbery lips.

Once home, I texted my Handsome Cowboy to let him know that I had survived my ordeal. (So far!) He offered to bring me some pain killers, but when I told him I was pretty well supplied, he brought me Jell-O instead.

Oh Happy Day! Jell-O ("the red kind") never tasted so good!

And just when the pain was starting to get really bad, the pain killers kicked in.

Now, finally rational--although admittedly flying on oxycodone--ration returns. Although I'm kind of perplexed over my "Post Extraction Instructions," though they seemed pretty clear to me when I discussed them with the dental assistant.

They read...

1. Bite on the gauze for 30 minutes.
2. Do not rinse for 24 hours.
3. Do not smoke for 24 hours.
4. After 24 hours rinse gently with warm salty water.
5. Eat soft foods in the following 24 hours.
6. If you swell, apply ice-bag. 15 minutes on, 15 minutes off.

So, I can take the gauze out after 30 minutes? Then why did they give me all this gauze? Does Number Five mean that I can start eating (I'm famished!) right away? I can eat but I can't rinse for 24 hours? Does that mean I can't drink? Or does that mean I can't rinse with salt water? (I have grown really fond of saltwater rinses. I would love a good saltwater rinse right now.)

Soft foods and open sores in my mouth and no rinsing for twenty-four hours doesn't sound like a good combination. I think I might just sneak in a quick rinse with some lightly salted water before I go to bed.

It's not over, of course. On Wednesday, I go back so they can have a look at the extraction site ("Oh God No! He rinsed prematurely! We'll have to remove his lower jaw entirely!") and do the Deep Cleaning on the right side of my mouth. I also want to ask about a mouth rinse stuff that my Handsome Cowboy said worked wonders and practically had his receding gums suddenly advancing again almost before his very eyes. And then, it will be a few weeks before I walk out with my TEMPORARY, JUST TEMPORARY partial dentures.

And, if by that time I have some kind of a steady income, I'll see about drilling and filling with some of my cavities.

And, as always, I'll be brushing and flossing. Twenty-five years to go with the teeth that remain.

Arthur Kade Rules Everything Around Me

2009-06-06T13:38:00.000-07:00

So I became aware of Arthur Kade through Hot Chicks With Douchebags, a website that I have found can be pretty amusing when taken in small doses. Clicking on the link will tell you all you need to know about the raison d'etre there.

But at some point, somehow, HCWD happened upon the phenomenon that is Arthur Kade.

Arthur is a guy in Philadelphia (although actually I think he's from Bensalem, which means that both Arthur and I are from Bucks County, Pennsylvania, albeit in the same way that people from East Hampton and people from Massapequa are from Long Island). For reasons that are never quite explained, he quit his job in finance and cashed out, and is bent on pursuing stardom as a model /actor.

Nothing not to love there, right? Live the dream, Arthur!

Well here's where things get tricky.

Arthur's native milieu is the world of Philadelphia nightlife. If I were to phrase that "the glamorous world of Philadelphia nightlife," no doubt you would smile when reading that. You probably don't have to have spent any time in Philadelphia at all to know why this just doesn't make sense. Arthur is pursuing stardom as a model/actor so he can be the most glamorous of the glamorous in Philadelphia.

This is getting awfully tricky. Making fun of Arthur Kade is so easy to do. At first, that was what I was getting out of it. Arthur maintains a website wherein he chronicles his demented adventure, and invites comments from readers. Most of these comments are from people who really, really hate Arthur Kade. Often, they're fairly humorous, and if back in junior high school, you were the kind of person who piled on the fat kid or the gay kid or the kid with acne, heaping them with insults and making their lives miserable, you'll find it unbelievably hilarious.

But it's for that reason that Arthur Kade--vapid and without seemingly a shred of self-awareness--moves me so.

Here's a quick inventory of some of the chips that Arthur Kade has stacked against him: he has a slight speech impediment, he has a pretty harsh Northeast Philadelphia accent ("I am a hyoooge sucthes!"), he can't act, he is awkward and goofy whenever the camera is rolling, he has a bad complexion, he makes some very bad decisions with respect to promoting himself, his large nose which isn't straight make his eyes look owlish. In short, Arthur Kade quest for stardom as an actor/model probably isn't going to come off the way he hopes it will. But wait! Isn't that the Great American Story? Aren't we all out there rooting everyday for hapless losers on similarly improbably quests? Did you not see Little Miss Sunshine? How would you have felt about an unhappy ending to Night At The Roxbury?

Yeah but read what he writes on his website. It's hard to root for someone who quite so shallow and self-absorbed and clueless as Arthur Kade. The man is downright despicable with his spiritually dead consumerism and his mac-daddy dealings with women. (The fact that he gets laid at all is testament to what a dangerous drug alcohol can really be.)

But even though I would find it so easy to hate Arthur Kade--or, probably worse from his perspective, to not find much of interest there and send my browser onward without a second thought--I don't.

Here's why...

1. I love Arthur Kade's exuberance. And that would be his completely misdirected exuberance. Arthur Kade's face lights up again and again and again, and all it takes for that to happen is to see his name on gawker.com.

2. Arthur Kade is undeterrable. And this is particularly effecting to me because I am so easily deterred. If my acting coach responded to my monolog with the damning-with-faint-praise way that Arthur Kade's does, I'd jump off a bridge. But Arthur Kade isn't even phased by it.

3. Arthur Kade really likes himself a whole lot. Y'know how you wince when you hear yourself on your voicemail greeting? That contraction in the bowels as you think, "Omigod, do I really sound like that?" Well Arthur Kade doesn't! While you and I tend to brush off compliments, Arthur Kade takes them to heart, probably after asking to have them repeated a few times. In the same way that a teacher's passion and enthusiasm for a subject can make all the difference in class, I can't help but get excited about this goofball and his prospects, in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

So yes! I am a fan of Arthur Kade! Not only do I hope that he does indeed achieve the stardom as a model/actor that he seeks, I hope that the zenith of that stardom is getting to star in blockbuster summer movie, Arthur Kade's Journey. In which he plays himself, Arthur Kade. And I want that movie to have a really happy get-up-on-your-feet-and-cheer-while-wiping-away-the-tears-from-your-cheeks ending involving Arthur Kade being cheered by millions on his return to Philadelphia after Arthur Kade's Journey has made him a Hyoooge Secthes as the credits for Arthur Kade's Journey roll (Starring Arthur Kade as Arthur Kade). (And wouldn't that be cool in a self-referential, post-modern kind of way?) And the movie should be played straight, no wink-wink-nudge-nudge at the camera. And absolutely no Dark Night's of the Soul or moments of self doubt for our hero.

That's the story that I and the rest of America want to see on the big screen.

Before the final "Kade out!"

Friend Me!

2009-02-22T19:51:00.001-08:00

No, I haven't been posting here on SingleTails of late.

I have been unfaithful, but not perfidious.

You see, I finally followed up on an email from Alpha inviting me to join FaceBook.

Now about a year ago, I had decided "Oh gosh, Drew! You really need to Get With It! All the kids these days are on MySpace!", and so I joined MySpace. And quickly found it pretty annoying as I was inundated with people I didn't know claiming to be friends of mine. So that left a bad taste in my mouth.

But as Alpha was the instigator here, I decided to give it a go.

Well FaceBook totally rocks.

In only a week, I've reconnected with bunches of friends of mine all over the country going back to high school. In fact, one of my best friends from high school lives right over in Orange County. And lots of folks from NYC, particularly people I worked with in ACT UP. They're all coming out of the woodwork there on FaceBook.

So wherefore SingleTails?

I doubt that this will be anything like my last post. No doubt topics for the kind of personal essays I write here, but which wouldn't be FaceBook appropriate, will occur to me. But lately, I haven't been posting much because things that it has occurred to me to post about didn't quite rise to the level of my standards for SingleTails. But, it seems, they're perfect for FaceBook.

So you see where this is going. Why don't you hop on over to FaceBook and get on board? Now, to see my profile, you have to be my "friend," and to become my "friend," you have to send me a request. So there's a wee bit of rigamarole involved, but nothing too heavy.

Oh. In case you're wondering, there are no naked pictures of me on FaceBook.

Which leads me to a related development. I previously used various cruising sites, such as RECON and ManHunt, not so much to hook up (since That Cowboy has those bases covered), but to keep up with friends of mine. With the advent of FaceBook, I may possibly be letting my memberships of both lapse. In the case of Recon, that dates back to just about the advent of the site in early 2003.

No doubt FaceBook, too, will come and go.

But right now, that's where you'll find me.

Oh. And under my real name. My first name is Drew, and my last name is "remark" spelled backwards. 'Case you didn't know.

Collapse Cooking

2009-02-09T19:18:00.000-08:00

With your best interests at heart, some ideas on keeping yourself fed during the current economic downturn...

First off, a note on "Collapse." I heard on NPR a while ago about how economists and commentators and such folks are trying to come up with what to call what is currently going down in the financial markets. "Depression," you see, refers to a unique confluence of events that occurred in the 1930s. It's not a technical term like "inflation" or "recession." And interestingly, in the 1930s, the word for a major financial reversal was a "panic," such as the Great Panic of 1893. But then President Herbert Hoover thought that sounded a little extreme, and so in an early 20th Century attempt at spin, he coined the word "Depression," which he felt didn't sound quite so bad. It worked, and what everyone was going through became known as the Depression, although it was, in fact, that bad.

So nothing to described what we're hearing about currently has stuck. So I'm recommending The Collapse. Because it seems to me that that is exactly what's happening: a collapse of the credit markets, the real estate market, consumer confidence, and now, apparently, the job market. So I'm calling it The Collapse.

Anyway.

What'chya gonna eat now that money is tight and you can't be bellying up to the sushi bar or whatever?

I've got a suggestion: start a hot pot!

My friend UnFortunate's mother was a Home Economics teacher, and the hot pot was one of here creations. When I helped UnF. move some stuff out of his father's house after his mother's death, I got to sample a hot pot that his father had going for about three weeks at that point.

So what is a hot pot?

Well, you'll need a pot that holds about a gallon with a heavy bottom and a tight fitting lid. But something of a size so that you can tuck it away easily in your refrigerator. You might be tempted to use a crock pot. Don't do that. Crock pots don't lend themselves to service as hot pots. Or to anything else outside of serving hot cider at your Christmas party.

Into the hot pot you put liquid. I recommend two parts stock, two parts water, and one part wine. Then you add some meat. Then you add some veggies. Then you add some grains (rice, barley), beans, or pasta, or any combination thereof. Don't go crazy with the herbs and spices. Slow cooking over time denudes these of their flavors. Best to add them just before you dish it out, if at all.

So anyway, you keep the hot pot on the stove on a low heat, so that it barely simmers. Let it go for a few hours. Take it out, serve yourself some dinner, let it cool, then put it in the fridge. The next night, add more liquid or more veggies or more of the beans-grains-pasta and heat it up. Serve and repeat. Working this way, you can keep your hot pot going and going and going. Keep veggies and meat chopped small. As things are in there longer, they'll tend to break down into a kind of porridge and the flavors fade into the background. But the flavors of whatever you've added recently will be brighter. So you're never quite having the same thing for dinner two nights in a row.

Do you see how brilliant this whole thing is? Those veggies, grains, and legumes in particular are both really good for you and really inexpensive. With enough of them in your hot pot, you don't need too much meat. I've had a hot pot going for about a week now and I've estimated that I've spent around $30. And that's feeding not just me but also That Cowboy.

And since I'm baking my own bread in my Breadman Bread Machine, I always have nice crusty bread with my hot pot meal. And as I'm fortunate to live here in California, we can get really good wine for not a lot of money. So not only do you not have to spend a lot of money, but you never have to go through the whole process of figuring out what to have for dinner.

But, you might ask, what happens if disaster strikes and the stuff burns to the bottom of my hot pot?

First off, don't stir it off the bottom. Taste it and see if there's a metallic taste to it. If it is, it's kinda ruined. Start fresh. But if it doesn't, just empty what you can into a bowl being careful to leave the burnt stuff behind, wash out your pot, put the good stuff back in the pot, and you're good to go.

But what about food safety issues? As long as you've got it in the refrigerator, on the stove, or covered up by the lid, you've got no problem. I had always heard that it was a bad idea to let food cool with the lid on as that provides sub-boiling warmth, darkness, and moisture for bacteria to grow, but my father, who was a food inspector for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania for over thirty years disagreed and would tell me it was fine to just put it right in the fridge. I've done both and no one has ever died or even gotten sick from my food safety practices.

So there you go! Now you won't have to worry about going hungry during the Collapse as long as you have a pot and a stove and a refrigerator. And beyond that, you'll be eating pretty well, too.

Summa Contra Atheosi

2009-02-08T14:51:00.000-08:00

Yet another thing is making me peevish about the whole Gay Marriage thing.

Every time the issue comes up on the gay or gay-ish weblogs I read, there is this anti-religious bent taken by commenters.

Am I the only one who finds it odd that people who are advocating for allowing same sex couples to take part in what is usually a religious ceremony have such bad things about religion?

For someone like myself--both gay and religious--this always prompts an internal dialog. On the one hand, I want to jump up and proclaim something along the lines of, "Hey! Wait a minute! I'm a Christian, too! So don't be hatin' on Jesus! I'm not like those anti-Prop 8 Christians!"

But I have to admit, I am like those anti-Prop 8 Christians. Because I actually and really and truly believe in God, the Holy Trinity, the Incarnation, the Resurrection, Sin and Judgment, and even Transubstantiation. Although I might be coming from a different place theologically, for all intents and purposes, there are only shades of difference once you get over some of those major humps. I read the same Bible that they read and recite the same Creed as many of them and sing the same hymns and say the same prayers.

Stuck in an elevator for six hours, I'd have a lot more to talk about with someone who was a Christian Prop 8 supporter than I would with a gay atheist Prop 8 opponent.

So I've been thinking a lot about atheism.

Atheism has always been a complicated thing for me to think about. I believe in God, but I don't know for certain that there's a God. So when someone asserts that there is no God, I have to admit to myself that he or she might be right.

But thinking about all this recently, I think I've arrived at a comeback of sorts, and I look forward to my next conversation with an avowed atheist. Hopefully one that has recently read a lot of books by Daniel Dennet recently.

Namely: Do you also not believe in love?

Well, do you? Whether it be romantic love, or brotherly love, or love of a parent for a child or a child for a parent, or even love of country? If you want to be logically consistent, the same arguments raised against the existence of God can all easily be raised against the existence of love. Fundamentally, love just doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Two people destined to Be Together? Love at first sight? People who give up their lives for those they love? And, of course, the very idea of lifelong love, that you'll always feel about someone the way you do right now that gives rise to that marriage ceremony in the first place? I mean, really? Really??? That makes sense to you?

And then there's the whole Thomas Paine thing, about all the violence and bloodshed that has come from belief in God. Well what about all the violence and bloodshed that has come from belief in love? Just about every night somewhere not too far from you someone blows away either a romantic rival or a cheating spouse. The Crusades and the Thirty Years War, on the other hand, both happened a long, long time ago.

You have to admit, the human race would be much better off if we let go of this ridiculous and dangerous collection of wooly-headed ideas that goes under the heading of "Love." After all, it's only an orgasm. Or as Dulcinea sang, "One man is like another; I'll go with you, or with your brother." And although it's probably best for human beings not yet equipped to care for themselves to grow to maturity in a supportive environment, after about the age of eighteen the work is done, right? Shouldn't the parties involved be free to wash their hands of each other? And absent perpetuation of one's gene pool, what could possibly be the point of plighting your trough with another human being? It could only be some deep-seated psychological problem that you should seek treatment for. Surely the whole idea would have died out ages ago if it were not for the fact that plenty of people make a hell of a lot of money off of it, from the purveying of intoxicating beverages and chocolate and restaurants and cruise lines upscale old age homes... Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. What would be the point of keeping someone around who is no longer able to make any meaningful contribution to society except some misplace sentimentality? And the economic damage measured in terms of lost productivity are all but incalculable.

You just try to defend your belief in the existence of love.

Oh neurochemicals. Right. Oxytocin, Phenylethylamine, Testosterone, Cortisol, and Nerve Growth Factor (NGF).

Puh-LEEEZE.

For one thing, there is a similar neurochemical basis for religious experience, from alpha waves in the brain during meditation to the feeling of the self dissolving into cosmic oneness with all that is that is among the experiences when the amygdala is flooded with endorphins. And since introducing similar chemical compounds can create exactly the same experience, once again you are forced to the deduction that what we call love is mere illusion, about as significant as a hit of heroin, and nothing that should affect your decision making or say anything about who you are.

So you get what I'm saying?

I have yet to begin my field research, but I'm willing to bet that few and far between are atheists who will profess that love is nothing more than a ridiculous self-delusion indicative of neurosis and nothing that they would want to have anything to do with.

We all believe in love, and the evidence is in our lives. (Well, maybe not all of us. I'm betting that any well-practiced buddhists reading this are nodding their heads and thinking, "Yeah. So what's your point?"

But you see, Mr. or Ms. Atheist, the way you hold on to your belief in love despite all the evidence, and the way that you are lead to continue to believe in love by your life experience, and the way that love motivates you to do all sorts of things that just don't make any rational sense when you get right down to it... Well, you can just substitute God for love and you'll see what your up against in trying to convince me that I'm deluding myself.

And what's more, I've read enough theology to know (ahem.) that my belief in God, although not proven by reason, is in itself reasonable: although you cannot definitively prove the existence of God, you cannot prove that God does not exist either.

But overall, when it has come out in conversation that the person I'm talking to is an atheist, particularly when that someone is a person whom I care about, I feel sorry for them. I mean, sure, if you want to go through life like that, cutting yourself off from all of the good stuff that's made my life so much richer and fuller, then I guess that's your choice. But why would anyone want to do that? It's like going through life and always refusing dessert. Of course it's nutritionally jejune, and probably not in your best interests to partake, but what the hell? Live a little, why don'chya?

I like the music, and I like being reminded to be humble and to try to be a better person than I would be left to my own devices, and when confronted with the tragic in my daily life, I take comfort in being able to ask God that all will work together for some greater good somehow. And I like not having to figure everything out for myself and being assured that it's alright if I don't understand because man's capacity for understanding is limited. And I like to live in a world where the miraculous is possible. And most of all, I like to live in a world where love not only matters, but 2000 years ago, love conquered death.

Back To Skool

2009-02-07T13:26:00.000-08:00

And not a moment too soon.

Just finished up my second week of classes at College of the Desert. My schedule has turned out to only vaguely resemble what I thought it would be due to cancelations of a few of the classes I intended to take and the realization that the AutoCAD program entailed three courses rather than two as I had been thinking.

On mondays and wednesdays, I have but one class: Materials and Methods of Construction. In fact, I am fresh from the Sunny Dunes Starbucks where I read through Chapter Two of the textbook on Foundations. (Do you know the difference between clay, sand, gravel, cobbles, and boulders? I do!) A classmate of mine, his eyes wide with fear, gave me the skinny on this course on the first day, saying, "[The instructor] is one of the hardest teachers here, and this is the hardest course he teaches."

To which I, of course, reply: Bring it.

Our first assignment in the class involved working in groups of three. One person was the client, one person was the architect, and one person was the contractor. The client had to identify a specific container he or she wanted, the architect designed it, and the contractor built it.

My mind, of course, immediately went to Project Runway and the like.

I was the contractor, Oscar was the architect, and Laura was our client. Laura said that she wanted a container to hold her coffee beans, something that fit in with the Spanish-Mediterranean decor of her kitchen. ("Spanish-Mediterranean decor should have been my first indicator of trouble ahead, no? I mean, when you look out your windows, you don't see the azur waters of la Mer Meditéranée, you see the mighty San Jacinto or Santa Rosita mountains. So something, clearly, is not right.)

At this point, I jumped in and totally took over the process, something I tend to do in working with groups. I think it has something to do with me being a Top. What was needed (I felt) (Strongly) (ahem), was a hopper of some sort, so that you could put fresh beans in the top and remove the beans from the bottom, that way, you would never be stuck with ancient beans at the bottom of your container. I would build the hopper out of plywood, and then, to match our client's decor, we could cover it in mosaic tile in the form of broken shards or pottery and crockery and such. And I plunged ahead.

That Cowboy gave me a hand in the fabrication of the plywood box, and I just happened to have a bunch of plates and mugs and such bound for the dumpster. (More on that in a bit.) We met in class on Monday and I brought along the adhesive grout and the "tiles" and we set to work. I thought the finished product was pretty impressive, and like so many ill-fated Project Runway contestants, I was looking forward to the runway, which in this case was the presentations we did to the class on Wednesday morning. For you see it seems that our client didn't at all like the look of her bean hopper and wasn't about to let it come anywhere in the vicinity of her Spanish-Mediterranean kitchen and didn't like the idea of her coffee beans being stored in wood.

So whatever.

I was able to convey to our client that as this was for a grade and grades are really important to me, however she felt about her coffee hopper it would behoove her muchly to appear as though dazzled by the prospect of putting said bean hopper in a place of prominence in her Spanish-Mediterranean kitchen.

But she just couldn't pull that off.

And what's more, after the presentations were over as we were all packing up our books, she just had to do one of those smiling-with-the-mouth-but-not-with-the-eyes things and ask me, "So, will you become the custodian of our container?"

Ouch. That hurt.

Were the shoe on the other foot, I think I would have done whatever I could to spare bad feelings and taken the bean hopper home and tossed it in the dumpster if I really didn't like it that much, at least leaving some room for the person who built the thing to think that his or her efforts were appreciated.

But now. None of that from our client.

And so, the mosaic tile coffee bean hopper is sitting in my kitchen even though I drink tea and not coffee, and for the next fourteen weeks I'll be sitting next to a woman whom I would like to flay alive.

And now, how did I manage to come by the broken shards of crockery used for the mosaic tile?

You may well ask.

That Cowboy lives in an apartment complex just across the Wash from me. His next door neighbor was a crystal meth casualty named Michael. My interactions with Michael brought back vivid memories of my dealings with Hot Tub Guy, all that paranoia and those vivid luminous and auditory hallucinations. On several nights, That Cowboy and I, while walking That Cowboy's dog along the Wash, came across That Cowboy's drug-addled neighbor with his wee flashlight out doing a census of coyotes down in the Wash that Only He Could See.

Anyway, That Cowboy's drug addled neighbor found a new place to live and left a ton of stuff behind, and I got to make some money helping That Cowboy clean out his neighbor's derelict two bedroom apartment, which was packed to the rafters with crap.

Well, not quite crap.

In fact, aside from the piles of dog shit, there actually wasn't a lot of crap at all.

And that's what made the entire enterprise pretty unsettling for me.

Drug-addled though he was, the neighbor would buy these really cool things at Target and IKEA and Hold Everything and Potter Barn and such places, bring them home and abandon them--still in their plastic bags--somewhere in his apartment. And what made it really unsettling for me is there beneath the soiled clothes and dog shit and cigaret butts I'd find this really cool teapot from Pottery Barn in a really pretty celery green, and I could easily picture myself browsing the racks at Pottery Barn and coming across that same celery green teapot and thinking to myself, "Oh wow! How cool is that?" and plunking down my debit card to pay for the thing and bringing it home.

But it wasn't quite the teapot that got to me, but other stuff. Like the complete set of pottery barn dishes. And the numerous handy things for storing other things. "This will be perfect for my art supplies!"

Consumerism has an interior life. You see that celery green teapot, and you imagine a whole new life for yourself, the new life as a person who owns a beautiful celery green teapot. There you are, with that half-smile on your lips and a faraway look in your eyes, pouring from your celery green teapot, saying in response to a compliment from your guest, who like you appreciates the simple beauty of a celery green teapot and the sybaritic bliss of a nice cup of strong tea, "I hope you'll like this tea, I find it's just the thing for lolling around on a peaceful Sunday afternoon." Wouldn't that be a lovely life to lead? And it could be yours! That could be Your Life! All you have to do is plunk down your debit card and give Pottery Barn your money and a new life--like yours, but only way more sophisticated and free from care--is just waiting for you to step into.

And of course, then you get home and realize that you already have a teapot. Or five. And unlike the teapot you're currently using, this celery green one from the Pottery Barn doesn't have that handy stainless steel basket to strain the tea leaves that sits right down in there. And does the celery green teapot ever make it out of the bag?

I think that crystal meth is the perfect drug for these times we live in. We work so much and with such intensity and for such long hours, and much of that work involves information processing of some kind or another. And as the celery green teapot example is meant to illustrate, most of our consumerism is founded on deluding ourselves about who we are and our place in the Cosmos.

And then, of course, there were no less than six laptops probably most of them in good working order if they hadn't been disemboweled, that we hauled out of that apartment and tossed in the giant dumpster. And reams of paper printed out with machine code extracted from somewhere. ("Somehow they're getting inside my computer!!!")

I mean, can't you easily picture a big conference room down in Hell and Satan grinning from ear to ear as one of his dark angels draws a big Venn diagram on a whiteboard illustrating the intersection of Crystal Meth and the internet?

Back when I ran a needle exchange program, I would often think about how no one really sets out to become a woebegone homeless heroin addict. Some are clearly set on that path by an unfortunate upbringing and a less than desirable genetic inheritance, but even in those cases, I think that any of us, presented with the image of our future selves dumpster diving out behind Taco Bell for sustenance would probably be more considered in our choices. We fall by degrees, and cleaning out the apartment of someone so totally lost to crystal meth, someone who is some mother's son and who is probably loved by other people on this planet (or was previously), someone who in so many ways is a Lot Like You... Well, that makes a guy stop and reflect.

At the very least, I am definitely policing my purchases as though I were faced with the prospect of lugging everything I own behind me in a handcart like a gypsy peddler. And I am constantly casting my eyes about my apartment, on the lookout for Things I Don't Really Need. For you see, another of the wonderful aspects of life here in the Desert is Revivals, a thrift store operated by the Desert AIDS Project. They take everything. And they resell it through these ginormous buildings throughout the Valley. And although I haven't been in their stores to buy anything, I'm a huge fan of dropping stuff off with them.

Oh. Right. We were talking about my schedule at school.

Although I only have one class on mondays and wednesdays, it is a different story with tuesdays and thursdays. Those two days, I'm basically in class for thirteen hours with short breaks in between. Happily, in the first three classes of the day, I'm basically drawing: from 8:00 A.M. until 10:30 A.M., I have Landscape Planning and Design, in which I'm drawing plants and patios and such; from 11:00 A.M. until 1:45 P.M. I have Architectural Practice I, when I'm drawing a complete set of working drawings for a house; and from 2:00 P.M. until 5:00 P.M., there's Introduction to Drawing and Perspective where I am learning to sketch.

I love all three of these classes. Love love love. It's this whole new world that's opening up for me, a world of pencils and paper and struggling to get ideas in my head down onto the paper in a way that is pleasing to the eye and yet fully communicates all I have to say. Up to now, I've always used words for this, and I've gotten pretty good--I like to tell myself--at shaping ideas in the minds of readers through word choice. So tricky to do the same things with lines and shading and composition and color.

On Tuesdays, after drawing all day, I sit in front of a computer screen and explore the world of AutoCAD. We're just at the very early stages (How To Create A New Sheet, How To Save Your Work, etc.) and the very basic commands. My typing teacher in junior high school was fond of saying that, "Words Per Minute are dollars in your paycheck!" (it was such a different world back then), and that's pretty much my mood as I sit for four hours and fifteen minutes learning AutoCAD: this is how I may pay my rent some day; pay attention.

I really like my AutoCAD instructor. She lives on a ranch at the top of a nearby mountain and rides horses and grows her own food. Nothin' wrong with that!

On thursdays, I actually have a full hour to get myself something to eat before I plunge into my building codes class. That class is taught by a man who was formerly the head fire marshal for the City of Palm Springs. Remember Jim Carey's character Fire Marshal Bill on In Living Color? Well I do. And before walking in on the first night, my head was filled with recollections of Fire Marshal Bill. Now imagine my astonishment when the tall and gangly Fire Marshal Dave, my instructor, whipped out a Bic lighter, ignited a flame, and held it at arms length maniacally exclaiming, "Fire is our friend! But it can also be our enemy!" But despite this subtext, fodder for lots of sketches in the margins of my notebook, he seems like a really good teacher, and I think that by the end of the semester, there's little I won't know about the California Fire Code.

But overall, it's just so damn wonderful to be back in school.

FACT: Being in school means never having to sit vacantly staring into space wondering what you'll have to do today.

There is always something to do. Such as sitting in Starbucks sipping a latté and reading through your Materials and Methods of Construction textbook.

FACT: Being in school means you have a great excuse for ducking all those tiresome duties and obligations that you'd really rather ignore.

"Sorry. Love to. But I can't."

FACT: Being in school makes you impervious to the common cold.

Or it does me anyway. I'm way too busy to get sick. And when I feel a cold coming on, I just tell myself that and the rhinovirus goes elsewhere to find someone to afflict.

This indeed is a golden, wonderful time in my life. Whatever the outcome, whether I do indeed manage to get a job that covers the costs of a nice little place to live here in the Coachella Valley or end up sleeping in a cardboard box in a canyon just outside of town and foraging for food where I wilt, these months and weeks and days are truly magnificent.

Hi Patrick! It's Me, Drew! I Baked You Some Cupcakes. Okay If I Drop Them Off With You At Work?

2009-01-24T10:50:00.000-08:00

Wow! I know a member of the Obama administration! And not just anybody, but Patrick Gaspard, President Obama's political director.

Way back when, he was the volunteer coordinator when I worked on a congressional campaign back in NYC. I doubt very much that he would remember me or that the cupcake ploy in the title would be successful.

Still, I can't help but being filled with thoughts of What Might Have Been. When Hillary first won her Senate seat, a few people suggested to me that I should apply for a job with her. I possibly would have had a shot, although I was dissuaded from that because although I like working in government, I really hated standing outside of subway stations at six in the morning handing out campaign literature, and those thing pretty much go together. In NYC anyway. Which is, in part, why Patrick Gaspard probably wouldn't remember me: I wasn't a stand-out volunteer, much preferring tasks like sitting in the office and putting things in alphabetical order.

Still and all, with a bit of immodest Well-Get-A-Load-Of-Me, Patrick will join the President of the New York City Council, a member of the New York State Senate, and a few journalists and activist types on my personal list of "Notable People With Whom I Am On A First Name Basis."

Martin Delaney R.I.P.

2009-01-24T10:46:00.000-08:00

Omigosh. Martin Delaney died. That is a damn shame.

Delaney was the founder of Project Inform, which provided treatment education to people living with HIV from way back. I met him once, and as I suspected, he proved to be scary smart, although a really, really nice guy.

Back in ACT UP, any debate about treatment or treatment activism could be settled by saying, "Well, Martin Delaney says..."

Truly a man who made the world a much better place by having been born into it.

The Lady Speaks In Welsh

2009-01-22T10:03:00.001-08:00

Thank the Lord, I'm going back to school! On Monday, the Spring semester starts. I am chafing at the bit. I am particularly excited about my courses this semester. Materials of Construction, Architectural Practice I, Introduction to Drawing and Perspective, Introduction to Urban Planning, Managing Construction, and Building and Fire Codes. I'd have trouble if I was asked to pick a favorite in the line-up, and even more trouble picking a least favorite. As opposed to last semester, they all look like they'll be pretty lecture-and-textbook heavy, so that will mean a lot of time spent sitting in my wee bungalow reading and taking notes. Or at Starbucks or Koffi or wherever.

Does this also mean New Clothes For School?

No. No, it does not.

Not like dressing for school isn't a Whole Thing. Now in my forty-fourth year (same age as Michelle Obama!), getting dressed has gotten trickier. I am increasingly wary of Mutton Dressed As Lamb. Perhaps that is in part due to living here in Palm Springs, where every day I am confronted with mutton-y men out for a gambol dressed like lamb-y teenagers. (Note to Ubiquitous German Bodybuilder Guy: Put some clothes on please. You know who you are.) Not infrequently, I'll look in the mirror and think, "Oh Drew, you aren't forty-two anymore. You just aren't. Change."

And these concerns are also perhaps inspired by two of my recent web obsessions, Gofugyourself, which offers scathing critiques of the fashion faux pas of celebrities I don't know about otherwise; and Hot Chicks With Douchebags, which does much the same for guys from New Jersey and such places. In both instances, the common ground would seem to be Trying Way Too Hard. And as this is also a venal sin of Mutton Dressed As Lamb, that has become my watchword.

But that's not the end of the trickiness! At my institution of higher learning, I would estimate that only about fifteen percent of the student body is over the age of twenty-three. So mostly, I'm totally surrounded by kids, likable though they may be. And there's the temptation to "just dress like everybody else does." But however strong that temptation may be it is to be resisted at all costs. Because I'm not a kid. I'm forty-four. Dammit.

So most days, there's a lot of editing that goes on before I leave the house. I want to look stylish and a little natty, but in a "Here to fix your furnace, Ma'am" kind of way appropriate to my being a construction management major. But also keeping in mind age appropriate attire. And all at the same time avoiding Trying Too Hard at all costs.

You see my plight.

I think mostly I hit it. Sometimes not. But of course, at school, it really doesn't matter, because I am viewed by my post-adolescent classmates as being a total freak.

What manner of freak?

You may well ask.

The Lady speaks in Welsh.

Back when I was in college, there were scattered about a few "non-traditional students," who had graduated high school about the time of the moonwalk rather than about the time of the Challenger disaster like the rest of us. In the English Department, there was this really wonderful woman named Georgia. Her kids had grown up and left home, and she decided to return to school and get her bachelors, an endeavor she had abandoned to marry here stockbroker husband who had a doctorate in Comparative Literature from Columbia and who would translate Flaubert and Dante and Goethe at the breakfast table while he had his morning coffee to keep his language skills sharp. Georgia was wonderful, and we all liked her.

Except for one this one thing she would do...

For example, in my Shakespeare courses, we would take one of the plays, divvy up parts, and do a close reading and discussion in class. And I think it was in one of the Henry plays where Shakespeare has some fun with one of the characters marrying a Welsh princess who doesn't speak a word of English. And so he would profess his love to her and then the stage direction given was, "The Lady speaks in Welsh." Which elizabethan audiences probably found to be a total gas, right? Well Georgia got the part of the Welsh princess. And rather than treating it like a non-speaking part, Georgia went to the library and listened to recordings of Welsh poetry in Welsh, and got a feel for the language and wrote down phonetically some words and phrases, and when the time came, Georgia/The Lady Mortimer treated us to the euphonious sounds of spoken Welsh.

When she innocently explained to us that she didn't speak Welsh, but had learned a few passages of Welsh so she could dazzle us when we read the play in class, there was much rolling of the eyes. For after all, who does that? Who spends two hours in the library learning phonetic Welsh when you could be sitting in the dorm watching MTV or getting drunk on beer or taking a bus over to the mall?

That would be Georgia, the Non-Traditional Student, who was paying for her education herself and who was taking a lot of delight in the whole experience and wringing from it every drop she could.

And so there we are in my Technical Drafting class, and several of us had finished up the assignment a couple of days ahead of schedule, and that's really cool because you don't have to show up for class and you can sleep yearly. Although several of my fellow students had a stroke when walking by my drafting table and glancing at my drawing, expostulating, "What the hell is that? Is that part of the assignment? How did I miss that one?"

No, I would answer, it's not part of the assignment. See? It's a study of fibonacci sequences and when you inscribe an arc in the little rectangles you get the same proportions as the chambered nautilus! Isn't that cool?

And they'd smile and then turn around and mouth the word "freak!". But I believe I'm well liked. Even though I am a freak who is paying for this myself and taking a lot of delight in the whole experience and wringing from it every drop I can.

And Monday begins the Spring semester, and new opportunities for the Lady to speak in Welsh.

...ummmm... ...Amen?

2009-01-20T14:20:00.000-08:00

So that was Rick Warren's inauguration invocation?

You're kidding me, right?

Okay, I've spent my entire life listening to our Collects from the Book of Common Prayer, asking God to change us into "his likeness from glory to glory" and shield us from the "changes and chances of this life" and such, but that was just about incoherent. Was the man drunk? Is that what he subjects his thousands of worshippers to every Sunday at his Saddleback church? Did he think about it at all before hand? Was reciting the Our Father at the end his throwing in the towel?

I can only conclude that my evangelical brothers and sisters in Christ set the bar pretty low when it comes to common prayer.

Novelty

2009-01-08T21:57:00.000-08:00

Whoa! My first earthquake!

I almost missed it. I was lying there reading Agatha Christie's The Mysterious Affair At Styles and I wondered, "What the heck is that up on the roof? Just in time did I realize that it wasn't something on the roof, it was, in fact, a seismic event.

It was just a wee little one--my Bread Man Bread Machine rattles more crockery when it's kneading--but it was my first earthquake.

Once again in my life, I have the thrill of losing my virginity.

Palm Springs Gravel Festival!!!

2009-01-07T12:48:00.000-08:00

Here in the desert, we are in the midst of the Palm Springs International Film Festival, which sort of undermines the basis of this posting, but maybe not. Maybe it's the exception that proves the rule.

The Film Fest looks pretty cool. And I think I'll see about checking it out. But last Thursday, when That Cowboy and I decided--as we were encouraged to do by the local news--to take a walk through the first Palm Springs Village Fest Street Fair of the year, I think I caught my first glimpse of the proverbial man behind the curtain here in the desert city that I love.

So the First Palm Springs Village Fest Street Fair of the Year.

What might that involve?

They close off several blocks of downtown Palm Springs and set up lots of little booths selling things. Especially soap. (Given that cosmetic surgery is quite the burgeoning industry here in the Coachella Valley, I immediately thought about Fight Club, and it would take a lot now to convince me that there isn't a strong liposuction-soap making connection.) But basically, it was about the same deal as I have observed at the other Fests that I've attended since I've been here.

Consider the following...

Palm Springs Gay Pride Fest: The parade lasted all of forty-five minutes, and the largest contingents seemed to be local high school marching bands. After the parade, we all went over to a local park where there were... lots of little booths set up with folks selling stuff.

Palm Springs Leather Fest: No parade, just two blocks of Sunny Dunes Boulevard closed to traffic, and lots of little booths of people selling stuff.

Palm Springs Festival of Lights: Downtown Palm Springs closed to traffic, and a parade of sorts consisting of pickup trucks draped in those twinkle light nets you can buy for $8 at Home Depot from local businesses. And booths of people selling stuff.

Indio Tamale Fest: This required a drive east on Highway 111 to Indio, and awaiting us was downtown Indio closed to traffic with lots of booths of people selling stuff. Principally tamales. Although they also had several stages set up with live performances, many of which helped to explain the Selena phenomenon to me. The live performances really made this whole thing worthwhile, and to my mind, Indio totally beat out Palm Springs in the Fest department.

So a pattern emerges...

Somewhere in this city there is a room. And in that room are some people. And they're sitting around a conference table trying to dream up Fests of one kind or another. The goal is to bring the maximum number of people to Palm Springs every weekend from November 1st to April 30th. There are, of course, the notable Fests, such as the Palm Springs International Film Festival and the Dinah Shore WPGA Golf Classic and the White Party, but that leaves a lot of weekend unaccounted for. And we can't have that.

I guess it's not enough that Palm Springs offers perfect weather and incredible natural beauty. Ya gotta have a hook, right? And if one must have a hook, let's see if we can expend the minimal effort required to construct that hook.

I don't know for sure that there's a Palm Springs International Doorknob Festival or a Palm Springs International Gravel Festival or a Palm Springs International Sexual Lubricant Festival, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that all of these have been up and going for the past fifteen years and they bring them in from as far away as Seattle and Amarillo and Chicago by droves.

My home, you see, is sustained by the perpetuation of a fallacy: Come to Palm Springs, where there's always something to do!. In fact, there's nothing to do here in Palm Springs. But that is exactly the reason why I--and so many other like minded folk--move here: It's very pleasant to do nothing. Especially when you're doing nothing in the company of folks who, in general, have their feet on the ground and their heads in heaven, in the warm California sunshine, and surrounded by majestic mountains and palm trees and the desolate beauty of the desert and such.

Oh. And there's really cool soap available, too.

Hire Me. Please.

2009-01-07T12:30:00.000-08:00

*sigh*

Just got back from a meeting with my Financial Advisor. My funds are dwindling (nothing to serious... yet), and my attempts to find a part time job have just not been going all that well. Ho(t)me(n) Depot is Not Hiring! I'll probably be showing up in the local offices of Hard Labor Ready before too long. And I'm increasingly annoyed by postings on craigslist which look just perfect but which turn out to be nothing more than marketing ploys for the University of Phoenix or whatever. Or worse, this virtual stinky pile of turd.. And as to the latter, what I found really galling was that allegedly it's all about posting your resume online, right? And they have these little write-ups you can read about how to write a really killer resume.

Well here's a sample of the verbiage from one of their "helpful" essays...

"* Read it completely and let any one else with good semantic knowledge of English read it, to check the flow in it. [I found titles of projects and trainings, not matching the description.]

* Don’t write much (don’t create fuss over) about the small and irrelevant details, because you need to be packed with the explanation for those things at the time of personal or technical discussion.

* Elaborate on the projects, which seem relevant to the particular opening. They increase chances of your profile selection."

I mean... Use commas much? Is this supposed to be funny?

Ah well.

And, of course, there's the Big Underlying Anxiety: What if I devote two years of my life to getting a degree in Construction Management, becoming a LEED Accredited Professional, mastering AutoCAD, becoming proficient in Spanish, and getting certified in welding, and I still can't find a job???

What then?

But as my Financial Advisor prattled on about the risk tolerance of my financial portfolio, I was suddenly comforted by the thought that whatever the outcome, I am enjoying every minute of this two year sojourn. (And it's official: I got all A's. I have a 4.0 GPA after my first semester at College of the Desert.) That may not provide me with much in the way of comfort when I end up penniless and living in a tent in some canyon on the outskirts of Palm Springs, but I think that in fact it will.

Anyway, time to check the want-ads.

Back In The Desert

2008-12-27T19:36:00.000-08:00

Back from Florida, and it sure is good to be home.

It was nice spending time with my brother and his wife (even though among the things that Santa left in my stocking was Axe Body Wash and Mitchum Anti-Perspirant) (I mean, really? Really??) (Like, we're related, aren't we?).

But I think I might have been a little annoying to spend the holidays with. I spent no small amount of time being a wee bit mopey. And about every other topic of conversation I introduced was about something That Cowboy said or did or that we did together or whatever.

And then there was the night when, standing alone overlooking the retention pond behind my brother's house--which may or may not be home to an alligator--I was moved to tears thinking about how I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about That Cowboy.

For you see, I'm in love.

And I am thankful that that didn't happen with me until my mid-forties. Middle Aged Love is a wonderful thing. You know who you are, all the good stuff as well as all the bad stuff. And you're good at sizing up other people, too. And you've had plenty of experiences of thinking that it was Love knocking at your door only to discover after you rush to open it that it was a vagrant or a trick-or-treater or a process server or someone selling Amway products or someone looking for your upstairs neighbor but definitely not you. When you're in the middle of your journey through life, you just get this peaceful certainty that This Is It It's Finally Here.

And there's no great expectations attached to it. No hopes and dreams to project. Just a nice humble, "So want to do something this weekend?"

And none of the loading down of your beloved with all of those expectations. "I hope he surprises me a romantic weekend away!" Instead, you roll over in bed and cuddle up next to him and feel this sublime joy and appreciation of the simple heft and warmth of his body next to yours. Everything else (That Cowboy took the opportunity to clean out my car while I was in Florida) is gravy.

And it's not about having an arm ornament, although I think we do make a handsome couple. And it's not about showing him off like he's some kind of trophy buck you've brought back from the North Woods. And mostly, it's not about what you get out of it. Rather, it's all about an opportunity to give: to give the love that you've been cupping in your hands all these years, safe in the knowledge that this precious gift will be appreciated and cherished and its value will be immediately recognized.

In the past, I've usually done a Year End Wrap Up here on Singletails. And taken time to devise a New Years' Resolution for myself. Not sure that I'll be doing that this year. I'm having a hard time remembering the details of last month, let alone the last twelve of them. And the future means tonight, when I'll head over to That Cowboy's place, just across the Wash, and we'll exchange presents. It's all about the Right Now for me. Who knows what the future holds, and the past is just a meditation whereby we might discern the working of God's hand guiding us.

And now, I'm off to see what I got for Christmas. And I can't wait to give That Cowboy the gifts I got (and made!) for him.

Politics Of The Scary

2008-12-27T19:25:00.000-08:00

Y'know what would be cool?

If, soon after his inauguration, President Obama paints the White House black. And invited all the living former members of the Weather Underground to a reception at the White House. And drove a big truck up to the Federal Reserve Bank, loaded it with hundred dollar bills, and drove around Southwest DC tossing them out by the fist full.

It would be great if all those right wingers were given an opportunity to experience what I've gone through for the last eight years, as I've seen my worst fears not just realized but surpassed.

Although this whole Rick Warren thing is really pissing me off. Although getting married--gay or otherwise--has never been something I've aspired to, having that compared to incest is really really insulting. But if Obama rids us of DADT and shepherds the Employment Non-Discrimination Act through Congress in his first hundred days, I'll relax about that a lot.

Happy Holidays!

2008-12-19T12:26:00.000-08:00

Bad news yesterday at the College of the Desert Architecture Club barbecue: I won't know what I got on theTechnical Drafting final exam until sometime next week. (The waiting, as they say, is the hardest part.) The magic number here is 91. If I got 91 or better, I get an A in the class, albeit a low A. If I don't then I won't be able to claim I got straight A's in my first semester at College of the Desert.

Here's the roster of the grades that I do know...

Intro to Construction Management: A
Intro to Architectural Professions: A
Elementary Spanish: A
History of Architecture: A
California Building Codes: A

But this bad news was offset by a few things.

Okay, by every other thing in my life right now.

Marcos' dad's guacamole was amazingly good. (So good, in fact, that I didn't even mind that people turned up their noses at my selection of side dishes from Jensen's Supermarket, because frankly, so did I: that guacamole rocked.) It is so beautiful here in the Coachella Valley right now. We had two days of rain. As in, actual rain. As in, actual drops of water descending from the sky. On the nightly local news, they were downright giddy. And who wouldn't be after having to report night after night after night on whether tomorrow was going to be Sunny or Partly Sunny. But yesterday, the sun was out and on tops of snow covered mountains fluffy white clouds sat like white cats on white satin cushions, a charming backdrop for the palm trees. Truly, I live in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. And That Cowboy found work! He does kitchen and bath renovations, and for the past few weeks, new jobs were just not coming in, resulting in cashflow issues and also him getting a little sulky.

P'r'aps I should tell you all a little bit about That Cowboy, huh?

'Kay.

He grew up in Texas and North Africa, where his father worked in the oil industry. He speaks fluent french and a little arabic, and when he speaks English, it's with a pronounced Texas drawl. He one got first place in a rodeo event. Before Palm Springs, he lived in Colorado and Montana. He drives a big white pickup truck that always seems to be on the verge of breaking down. For many years, he was a devout mormon, and it caused him a great deal of pain when he was excommunicated after he came out. But, he now seems to be a mormon who is finding expression of his faith in the context of the Episcopal Church, as he's been coming with me on Sunday mornings to the great little church I've been attending here. That Cowboy and I talk about God and such not infrequently, and I love that. I've gained an appreciation of mormon spirituality of late, a faith I heretofore only associated with odd undergarments.

Here's an example: mormons believe that before you are born, you sit up there looking at your life as it will be lived out, with all the joys and sorrows and pain and heartache loves and losses, and you choose affirmatively to be thus embodied as you are born into this earthly existence, without any memory of the pre-ordained life you are going to lead, but only the secure knowledge that it will be a good one. I think that's one of the most beautiful and sublime concepts I've heard anywhere, and I've decided to adopt it as my own.

To be sure, the Mormon Church is not particularly popular right now amongst the Gays in California, which brings its own challenges for That Cowboy, but he manages it with pluck and aplomb. And don't get me started on this whole gay marriage thing. Just don't.

I have fallen behind in my shaving of the head and the face in the past few weeks. Lo these many years, I've been fairly religious about shaving the head and the face on alternating days, but lately, I've been skipping a day in between. In part, that's because what's the fun of being a full-time student if you're not a little bit shambling and disheveled. But also, I idly mentioned to That Cowboy how nice it would be to have an outdoor shower on my patio, and he went and built me one. So here I am, a week before Christmas, when snow blankets that not-quite-real realm we here refer to as "Back East," and I'm taking a shower out on my patio, looking up at the snow-covered mountains and the palm trees and such. But, as I don't yet have a shaving mirror installed out there, shaving only takes place when I take a bath, and outdoor showering is such a wonderful experience that I'm only doing that when I decide that I "really need to shave."

And it's Christmas.

Today, I needs must be running around to put the final touches on my Christmas gifts. We're privileging creativity over extravagance this year, and I'm pretty happy with my gift selections, and I hope those on my Christmas list will be happy with their presents.

Which I'll be dropping in the mail, of course.

I'm a bit bitter about the fact that my first Christmas here in the Coachella Valley won't be spent in the Coachella Valley. I will be jetting off to Venice, Florida, to spend the holiday with my brother and his wife.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Florida.

I should like Florida, right? It's got palm trees, I like palm trees. It's got beaches, I like beaches. But it's like, you take a bunch of meth-addled wacko rightwingers, the exteme elderly (the median age in the city my brother lives is 73), bunches of cuban exiles who think that any day now they're going to be marching back into their mansions in Havana and kick out those filthy campesinos who they kept locked in hopeless poverty and illiteracy while they lived there a half a century ago, and some of the most mindless gays that you'll find anywhere, put'em all together in a big pot, and stir. And mosquitos. Lots of mosquitos. And feral hogs. If you want me, I'll be out on the lanai, chug-a-lugging Dran-O.

But, I'm off to Florida.

When I get back, I'll have a month before the Spring semester starts up. In an attempt to get some kind of inflow of cash, I've decided to find out where the local offices of Hard Labor Ready might be and spend my days hoping for work. I've applied at the local Ho(t)me(n) Depot, but now is not the time to be looking for retail work. In my last go'round with Hard Labor Ready, I got some slightly-better-paying side jobs, and I'm hoping something similar will unfold. About the only other employment opportunity would be working the front desk at one of the many gay clothing optional resorts that grace our fair desert city. The pay at those places is really bad, and the hours--basically all night long selling lube and renting porn--would kill me.

And, I'm looking forward to Finally. Getting. Back. To. Going. To. The. Gym.

That Cowboy and I joke about how I am transforming, before his eyes, into a creature we will call "Blobbo." Just yesterday I amused myself by popping open the snap on my pants with the tiniest flex of the muscles in my lower abdomen. To be sure, since it's cool enough for me to be making meatloaf and scalloped potatoes for dinner, I'm my own worst enemy there. But still, I go to the gym not because I still entertain hopes as I once did about growing to Jon Claud Van Damm proportions, but because I enjoy it and it's nice to see the results that I do manage to achieve.

Anyway. I've got plenty to do today, so I best be at it. I realize full well that my posting here has dropped off considerably. In part, that's because I've been so busy, what with school and That Cowboy and such. But, too, I've been thinking that there can't be that much of a market for me going on and on about how beautiful my life is, how full of simple and wonderful moments. How content and at peace I am these days. How blessed. How truly blessed.

I mean, who wants to hear about all that crap, right?

But anyway, despite my exile to Florida for the holidays, I'm hoping to have good ones. And I hope that yours are wonderful, too.

(Place Holder)

2008-12-15T03:50:00.000-08:00

Four more finals and a "situacíon oral" in Spanish and I'm done for the semester. Tuesday night I'll be free and clear. And I'm sure looking forward to reporting to you all what my final grades are.

I think that for the first time in my life, I'm an A student!

Thankful

2008-11-28T18:06:00.000-08:00

This Thanksgiving, I am nothing but thankful.

I'm thankful that I just filled up my gas tank and it cost me less than $30.00.

I'm thankful that everybody liked the food I made--braised brussels sprouts, tex mex roasted sweet potatoes, my stepmother's famous baked pineapple, bread stuffing--at the Thanksgiving Day celebration that That Cowboy and I were invited to.

I'm thankful for time in a hot tub after the Thanksgiving feast.

I'm thankful for the very first kumquat on the kumquat tree on my patio.

I'm thankful that my hard work is paying off and I'm getting ~~good~~ great grades in all my classes.

I'm thankful that right off the bat I found a great little Episcopal church here in Palm Springs, The Church of St. Paul In The Desert. Although it looks like I'll have to wait until Christmas Eve for them to bring out the incense.

I'm thankful that I live here in Palm Springs. Every new day I spend here seems to serve as further proof that coming here smacks of destiny. On Thanksgiving Day proper, we had rain in the morning. Almost an inch! By Palm Springs standards, that's a flood of all but biblical proportions. All day long, the sky was just magnificent, with the clouds riding down the slopes of the San Jacinto and Santa Rosita mountains.

I'm thankful for the life I'm cobbling together here. I spent the morning working at the Coachella Valley Rescue Mission down in Indio, in a neighborhood in Indio where you probably wouldn't want to run out of gas. My job was sorting out the dry-goods store room, putting like with like and assembling bags of Thanksgiving appropriate groceries when requested. It felt so much like how I've spent so many thanksgiving days gone by: making turkey dinner with all the fixings for the clients of syringe exchange programs where I've worked. This weekend, there's an art festival in town and That Cowboy and I are gonna head over and check it out. Next weekend, it's back to Indio for the Tamale Festival. (I only have a vague idea of what a tamale is, but after next weekend, I'll know.) Last weekend, we did a field trip out to the Salton Sea, a place of strange and terrible beauty. That Cowboy is building me an outdoor shower for my patio. That'll be a nice way to unwind, feeling the warm water run over me with the moon caught in the fronds of the date palms overhead. And I'm starting to think about finding some volunteer work to do and I'm looking for a part time job, ways that I can meet people and give a little bit more structure to my weekly schedule.

And I'm thankful for That Cowboy. He's thoughtful, kind, handsome, handy, reflective, fun, considerate, honest, hard-working, inspired, spirited, patient, easy-going, sexy, as taken with me as I am with him, and he's got a great dog. I wasn't looking for a man when I moved here to the desert. But such an odd change has taken place: whereas previously, my life was a private conversation I had with myself, now it's become a dialog. For perhaps the first time in my life--that I can remember anyway--I don't feel like I'm facing the world alone. Before, relationships have always been frought: what is he feeling? where is this going? should I tell him about this? how much of myself do I reveal? will I get hurt? what should I think about that?... None of that. Just a peaceful, easy feeling. Him in his workboots and Wrangler's, the nape of his sunburned neck damp with sweat always. The two of us, side by side, or across the table from each other, telling stories about the people we've know or the places we've been or talking about God or music or art or the desert or what we might do this weekend or dogs or hiking or work or building stuff or architecture or food or cooking or what we don't like in people or things the gays do or how it's always either sunny or partly sunny here in Palm Springs or movies or horses or bears or wolves or projects we want to start in on or what we saw on television or read on the internet or my latest obsession (which would be vinegaroons). Or how much we like being boyfriends with each other. It's all just working out so well, even though to my mind there's no work involved. I don't know that I could ask for a better man. I'm sure gonna do what I can to keep him around.

I am thankful for the gift of my life. I wouldn't want any other one. Not changed by one jot.

Vampire Gets Girl. Werewolf Spurned. Again.

2008-11-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

On Friday, That Cowboy and I joined with several hundred tween girls to catch the premier of "Twilight," the coming of age romance movie about a young girl adjusting to life in her new hometown who starts up a thing with a boy who is one of a clan of local vampires. We loved the movie overall. It reminded me a lot of the kids I used to hang out with on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown, PA. And it was beautifully shot and had some really good moments.

But after the movie, I, of course, was grumbling. Y'see, when the eternal question--who's cooler, vampires or werewolves?--is posed, I come down squarely on the side of the werewolves. And in "Twilight," there is, indeed, a werewolf, a devestatingly hawt native american boy who rebuilds the engine of the girls cool red pickup truck. To show her gratitude, she offers to drive him to school, and offer he can't accept as he goes to school on the res. And yet she falls for the vampire boy, he of the pale skin and the lip-gloss several shades too dark.

Alas, it is ever thus. "Oh I'll sit right here while you play the piano" is chosen over "Let's run naked through the woods."

Me? I'm a werewolf guy. Hunert percent.

It's my understanding that in the trilogy of books on which Twilight is based, Bella, the girl, does indeed get together with Jacob, the werewolf boy, in the second book. That may be worth reading.

Well Now When I Was Your Age, We Did Our Demonstratin' Different-Like.

2008-11-14T11:47:00.000-08:00

Like, yeah.

One-time Sweetheart of the Doc Martens and Slogan-Sticker-Festooned-MC-Jacket Wearing Set, Peter Staley sums up some of my thoughts regarding the recent wave of Post-Prop 8 Activism pretty nicely.

Long did we agonize back in the day about up-coming demos: what look would our graphics have? What were our demands? What chants would we use? Who would lead the chants? What was our strategy? Would there be civil disobedience? Who would marshall the demonstration? Did we have legal observers?

The absolute worst thing that can happen is for passerby to comment, "I guess those people are angry about something" and move on. You want to move those passersby to come on over to your side. Think of the graphics for Martin Luther King, Jr.'s 1968 Memphis Sanitation Workers' Strike: simple, direct, poignant.

And unfortunately, protests here in Palm Springs have been marred by an assault on a pro-Prop 8 woman carrying a pretty pathetic looking styrofoam cross. Ever'body needs to read Ghandi's On Non-Violence and King's Letter From A Birmingham Jail pronto. To sum it up: we need to be better people than them.

The North Wind Doth Blow

2008-11-09T19:19:00.001-08:00

Slept with the windows wide open last night. Perfect sleeping weather.

This morning, as I was driving to church with That Cowboy, it was raining. As in, there were drops of rain about two to three inches apart on the windshield. It was blowy and cool, about 60°.

I asked That Cowboy if this was pretty much what winter was like here in Palm Springs.

"Yup," he answered, "this is what you can expect from a day in February."

I was laughing hysterically--I mean really hysterically--for about five minutes. Just cackling away. Howling. Maniacal.

Here In Palm Springs

2008-11-08T17:02:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned how much I love it here in Palm Springs?

Here's yet another reason why. This weekend is Palm Springs Leather Pride Weekend. It is so not fabulous, humongous, exciting, and and exhilarating. It's basically a half block of Sunny Dunes roped off and filled with vendors and such. The most risque thing going on is consumption of alcoholic beverages. It's pretty easy to spot the sanfranciscans and angelinos in the crowd: they're all dressed up like it's something special going on. As I've noted so often here, in the desert, we don't try too hard.

Today on the phone, I was bemoaning to Nephtali how there's no good bookstore here in the Coachella Valley, just Barnes & Noble and Borders. Naphtali responded that "well that sounds like an opportunity for some enterprising entrepreneur to just walk into."

"Right," I said, "And the key word in that sentence is 'enterprising.' If there's an enterprise happening here, I'll be out by the pool. Let me know when it passes. That's sort of how the gemeinschafft works here."

[Gemeinschaft: That's a fun word to know. It's usually translated from the german as "community," although it has more of a sense of living in close companionship with. Thus, it evades the problem with the way the word "community" is tossed around in English to mean a demographic group. And also, it sounds like ge-Mine Shaft, so certain ears tend to prick up when you toss it out.]

'T'is true, our Leather Street Fair is a laid-back, humble little affair. It probably wouldn't be worth the trip even from Hemet were it not for the fact that today, like most days here, was a spectacularly beautiful sunny day, and down at the western end of the street Mount San Jacinto rises majestically making for a beautiful backdrop while you enjoy your sausage sandwich and watch the many hot men.

Last night, friends of That Cowboy were in town, and the two of us were treated to dinner at Wang's Of The Desert. I hadn't been to Wang's before. It's one of the most popular places here. When we arrived, the place was packed. Just swarming with the gays. Wall to wall. We were seated--reaching our table by walking across this little bridge over an indoor koi pond which brought to my mind the Three Billygoats Gruff and that troll so I said "trip-trap trip-trap trip-trap" as I crossed--and the food arrived, and it was wildly disappointing. I mean, it was just like the food served at chinese restaurants throughout this great land of ours, only greasier and with less flavor. In my newyorky way, I wondered it that was the whole point ("they do this incredible recreation of take-out chinese food!!!"), but duh, it's just the Palm Springs Way. As in, "Gosh, what kind of food will we serve at our restaurant? Oh I know, people like chinese food, so let's serve chinese food. Now that that's settled, I'm going to lay out by the pool."

That Cowboy's friends are house-flippers, and they were in town looking for places on the market. This morning, we went driving around La Mesa and Las Palmas and North Palm Springs looking at what worked and what doesn't. My eye is getting a little bit more discerning, I think. It used to be that anything moderne totally put lead in my pencil, but any more, that's not always the case. There are a lot of "great-lines-bad-design-decisions" out there. Also, there's the whole trap of "LOOK-AT-ME!-I'M-MODERNE!-SEE??!!-SEE??!!-YOU-CAN-REALLY-TELL!!!". The best places seem to have been renovated with minimal effort, so subtle that you could drive right by them and not notice. But if you do look, you slowly come to appreciate the interesting materials and finishings used, albeit from a restrained palette. Places that would just bring a slight smile to your lips as you pulled into the driveway after a long day at work.

And now, I'm gonna put on my leather pants and get ready to meet up with That Cowboy for dinner tonight, after which we'll wander aimlessly around the Leather Pride Street Festival until we decide we've seen enough for one day and head home to watch some telly-bision before heading to bed.

I really like it here.

A lot.

The Morning After

2008-11-05T10:56:00.000-08:00

I didn't have to wait too long to vote yesterday. When I got to the polls yesterday morning about 10, there were about ten people in the place, completing the arrows on their paper ballots. In Pennsylvania and NYC, I voted with machines with levers, so this art project thing was a little off putting. I was worried that I'd mess it. I'm in the middle of mid-terms at school, so as I'm in that mode, it felt just like taking a test.

As I made my way to the lockbox to insert my ballot in the slot and receive my "I Voted" sticker that would get me free coffee at Starbucks, I noticed that the other voters in the place were all older african-americans and the gays. We were all smiling at each other, almost conspiratorially. Although in retrospect, we weren't smiling because we felt we were doing something wrong, we were smiling because we felt we were doing something significant, that we were making history.

For the black voters, it was all about voting for the first african-american who would become President of the United States of America. For me, it was voting so that gay men and lesbians would be able to have their relationships recognized by the State of California. Like them, I would have been surprised and dubious if it had been suggested to me at some point in the past that I would have the opportunity to do this.

I am old enough to remember when it was very much Not Okay to be a homo. I remember when gaydar was a tool of survival, particularly on the job when if it was known that you were a shirt-raiser, you wouldn't be getting any raises. I remember when a four guys carrying lacrosse sticks piled out of a car in the middle of the West Village (!) calling me fuckin' queer. I remember when Bush 41's Secretary of Health and Human Services, Louis Sullivan, said on Nightline that AIDS in fact was not a matter of great national concern because it didn't and wouldn't be affecting americans other than homosexuals and those living in the "inner cities." I remember when checking into a hotel room with another man and asking for a room with one bed felt like a Really Big Deal and if we were tired or we weren't sure that there were any other motels around we would just let it pass and let them give us two full beds. I remember when Tony Randall's character on the short-lived sit-com "Love, Sidney" was rewritten from him being gay to just being this guy who lived alone and took an unusual though non-romantic interest in the young single mother living in the next apartment. I remember the preacher at Jack Schmidt's funeral saying from the pulpit that God saw homosexuality as an abomination while Jack's partner Rick quietly sobbed.

Not that it was all horror and torment. Or even mostly. There was, of course, a wonderfully fun aspect of being on the outside of american society looking in, of secretly laughing up your sleeve at the clueless straights. I once actually overheard some guy say, "You mean RuPaul is a woman???" And when you gave a little wink to the guy at the airport check-in counter having detected a certain way he had in pronouncing those sibilant S's, it might get you an upgrade on your seat.

And, of course, I am nothing if not ambivalent about this whole idea of gay marriage. When friends said that they were at a wedding a few weekends ago, it took me a while to realize that it was two men who were tying the knot. Too, I still think it devalues relationships that gay men do amazingly well--friendships--in favor of those that we're not so good at. But that said, I am warming to the idea.

But here I was, voting No on Proposition 8.

Surely we'd win the day. Surely a simple majority of the California electorate would see through the hateful, lying, fear-mongering ads run by proponents of Prop 8. Surely this wonderful "live and let live" state that I moved across the country to call home would be better than that.

But no.

The results, 52-48 % in favor, are such a kick in the stomach.

Really? Really??

So yeah. It's really cool that Black is the New President and all, but I'm not quite celebratory. In fact, I'm feeling a little vindictive. At Starbucks this morning, my blood boiled when I noticed that the nice older straight couple in line ahead of me were wearing wedding rings. And it's particularly stinging that one of the factors leading to the ratification of Prop 8 was high turn-out by african american voters who overwhelmingly voted for it. In the aggregate, african-americans are standing in the way of the expansion of civil rights and human dignity. Now that's a nice thought.

So yay. Yay, Obama. Hooray. It's a great day for America. When do I get to be an american?

But He's Making Progress

2008-11-03T10:46:00.000-08:00

(earlier today)

Me: Why is tonight a very special night?

That Cowboy: Ummm... Because you have your History of Architecture mid-term?

(I look exasperated.)

That Cowboy: Ummm... Because tomorrow we vote?

(I still look exasperated, but shoot a quick glance at the television.)

That Cowboy: Oh! Because we watch "Heroes"!

Me: That's. My. Man.!

Farty-Far

2008-10-29T18:05:00.000-07:00

Here I am, living in the Coachella Valley, a full-time student carrying seventeen credits and getting straight A's, six days before this momentous election, dating a wonderful man, and I'm turning Forty-Four. Although I'm hard-pressed to imagine how things could be better, there is bitter in with the sweet. This is the first birthday of my life when I'm not going to get a birthday card from my Dad. First time ever. He was a fanatic about birthday cards. Although he didn't have a clear idea just when my birthday was, he knew it was a few days before Hallowe'en and he'd mail accordingly.

The celebration, such as it is, began last weekend. That Cowboy and I went to see the first performance of the season by Palm Springs' Gay Men's Chorus, the Caballeros. It was fabulous, held at the newly re-opened Riviera Resort, which sure looks nice. The theme of the evening was "Way Out West," and we were treated to a nice program. Half the of the songs I knew all the words to, but I was able to restrain myself from singing along. Mostly.

I've seen the New York City Gay Men's Chorus, and a while ago I stumbled across the Los Angeles Gay Men's Chorus doing a rendition of the Anvil Chorus on YouTube. Both of these groups are totally Pro. Fesh. Yun. Al. Every note is perfect, and the production values would make many broadway shows envious. The Caballeros, to my delight, was a lot more buncha-guys-up-there-on-stage-singin'. And thus, it had the same effect on me that watching the Olympics usually has: I was sobbing quietly through most of it, all choked up. I love amateurs. I get so caught up in it all when somebody is up there living their dream and giving it all they've got to give. And the Caballeros offered plenty of that.

Afterwards, That Cowboy and I were both feelin' that catharsis thing. We headed over to Bongo Johnny's, our default restaurant. As next weekend is Pride here in Palm Springs, Hallowe'en was celebrated this weekend, and as Bongo Johnny's is right there on Arenas, we had front row seats to the festivities, although they were pretty much over by the time we got there. Best costume I saw by far were two of the waiters who were done up as Sonny and Cher, circa 1971. I couldn't begin to recall all of the drag queens I've seen done up as Cher, but a winning Sonny is a rarity, and this guy had it down. Particularly apt as Sonny was formerly the mayor of Palm Springs, and then represented us in Congress, and then ran into a tree while skiing. His wife, Mary Bono Mack, now represents us in Congress, although her Democratic challenger is suddenly putting up quite the spirited fight. So we'll see.

And finally this. The Heavens Above gave me a great birthday present on the eve of said day. That Cowboy and I were sprawling in jalabas, as we are oft wont to do, watching the local news.

My hat is off to the hardest working men and women in broadcast journalism. Night after night, they are faced with the challenge of coming up with a twenty-three minutes of content concerning a place where nothing much seems to happen. Their sign-off could be, "No earthquake again today." This is particularly apparent when attention turns to the weather. The seven-day forecast spills across the screen--sunny, sunny, sunny, partly sunny, sunny, sunny, partly sunny. Once in a while, you can see them get all excited because they get to report on "cloud cover," which they seem to view as a Bad Thing, but which I've learned means that there will be these beautiful white puffy clouds hanging over Mount San Jacinto and if I think about it, I should take some picures.

Anyway, they wrapped up the weather report ("sunny, partly sunny, partly sunny, sunny...") by reporting that the Northeast was slammed by a snowstorm four days before Hallowe'en. As in, back in Bucks County, they're shoveling snow and cleaning off their cars.

Could I be happier with where and how I'm spending my forty-fourths birthday?

Clearly I could not be.

Blowin' In The Wind

2008-10-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

I believed that all I needed to know about the Santa Ana Winds I had learned from reading Joan Didion, who famously described how the hot dry winds blowing up from the South as inspiring meek housewives in the Valley to cast their eyes from the knives they were using to bone chicken to their husbands necks.

Cool, right?

For the past few weeks, the Santa Ana has been 'a'blowin' here in the Desert. And, like, the Big Deal would be what?

In the wind, palm trees have this silvery tint, making them look like tinsel on a christmas tree. Apparently people who suffer from sinus problems have a hard time with the winds, and it does make my eyes red and watery on occasion, but I barely notice them, other than how they make the beauty of this place I call home even more striking.

They blow off and on, and they haven't slowed me down much. On Friday, I was washing cars with my fellow members of the College Of The Desert Architectural Club. (The purpose of the club is to raise money so that we can go ogle architecture. And I support that!) The car wash went well, marred only by my doing my best Not To Freak Out when I realized that the mini-van I was soaping boasted a "Yes On 9" sticker in the back window. So there I was, washing the Bigotmobile so I could go see Falling Water in May.

On Saturday, That Cowboy and I set off on an adventure. Way Back When, That Cowboy was named Scout Master of the Year in Montana, and he loves nothing more than the prospect of being out in the wilderness relying only on your wits and your Bowie knife for days at a time. In this case, it wasn't days but a day. We took the Tram to the top of Mount San Jacinto and spent the day hiking, rock climbing, and taking pictures. We found a nice little granite outcropping all to ourselves, the Coachella Valley spreading out before us with a view all the way to the Salton Sea, and from his backpack That Cowboy produced a feast that even included a nice Merlot to wash down the jerky, cherry tomatoes, and cheese.

(Impressive, no?)

The winds are blowing pretty strong today, but perhaps I don't notice them because I'm new in these parts. I can only describe the weather as "hot and beautiful," which is a description that could apply to every blessed day since I've been here. Perhaps after enough time, my sensitivities will be sufficiently refined to detect all the different varieties of Hot And Beautiful that the climate offers.

Anyway.

Gotta run. Today is the day I make my monthly run up to Desert Hot Springs to do my banking.

Curses! No M4M Option!

2008-10-22T13:26:00.000-07:00

Created by Mingle2.com

Joe The Plumber

2008-10-16T07:13:00.000-07:00

So guess what...

In my humble opinion, Joe is H-h-h-h-hot.

Not Mad At All

2008-10-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

How cool is that?

Last night on Mad Men, Don Draper gets freaked out by the threat of nuclear proliferation and drops off the grid by taking a trip to Palm Springs!

I swear!

For me, watching the episode along with That Cowboy and That Cowboy's oldest son, it was pretty surreal, a case of When Worlds Collide. And I think that the house where the jet-setters were crashing was none other than the Kaufman House, which I personally worship as the closest thing to a heaven here on this earthly plane.

On the part of the writers, I think that was brilliant. It was pictures of Mrs. Kaufman relaxing by her pool that broadcast a vision of Southern California sybaritic bliss to a stressed out and spiritually searching mid-century America and started the whole fascination with all things Modern.

Telling, too, that while Don Draper finds Joy in Palm Springs and recovers from heatstroke by the pool, Sterling Cooper, which provides the un-cantilevered structural support for his life, is starting to crumble Back East.

There are things that I haven't been attending to that I really should back there at the other side of North America, too.

But hey, who wants to go out for chile rellenos?

It Must Be Love Because I'm Writing Him Poetry

2008-10-10T19:41:00.001-07:00

For Dale

I will be for you
a pool of cool clear water
in a dry and dusty place.

On those hard days
those can’t take another days
those I’m too old for this days

I’ll be there
to take your body
take your skin
inch by inch as you ease in
And wash away the sweat and dirt.

And when you emerge
refreshed and renewed
you’ll be ready for the dust and heat again.

I will be for you
a pair of good old boots
that wear hard but feel like velvet slippers.

When you strike out on
an untraveled road, to see the view
from the top of that mountain, or to cut through the brush
to find a new path when the one you follow leads you nowhere good,

You can pull me on and lace me up
and I’ll take the punishment and give you sure footing
so you can enjoy the view and feel the sun on your shoulders
and the breeze that cools your brow.

And where you go, I’ll go with you.
And even be the pillow--however rough--for your head
so you can rest for the next day’s journey.

I will be for you
a dusty old bottle of wine,
a merlot, say, mellowed and glowing garnet in the firelight.

With me you can celebrate
a victory, however small. And I’ll be there to make sure that even a bland
meal will be memorable.

Your life won’t be some colorless affair. You won’t
have to take it all so seriously.

You may be inspired to smile and laugh whether you
want to
or not.

And that’s all well and good.

But keep in mind,

Some days, perhaps when you need it most,
an evil snake will be rippling the surface
of your cool clear pool.

And some days,
mud and filth will cake your
good old boots.

And some days,
bitter dregs will be all that’s offered
by your dusty old bottle of wine.

But don’t forsake the pool.
Don’t leave your boots behind.
Don’t toss the empty bottle in the trash.

Because I am me,
and not a pool
nor boots
nor a bottle of wine.

And we would both feel the pain
of that parting.

Sparkle, Steelie, Sparkle!

2008-10-10T07:35:00.000-07:00

Oh that's bad.

As I wrote the other day, the name I selected for my on-screen porn persona was "Smith." Simple, direct, and certainly easy to remember.

But it was not to be. The guy I did the shoot with reported to me just yesterday that the name given to me by the producer or director or whatever is "Steelie Smith."

Say what?

Steelie? Who's named Steelie?

But there it is.

And of course, my mind went right from Steelie Smith to Neely O'Hara in Valley Of The Dolls. And so I think it's inevitable that at some point I'll be greeted with a saluation along the lines of the title of this post.

And sparkle I will.

I Am The DJ, I Am What I Play

2008-10-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I again was lured beyond the mountains that surround the Coachella Valley. This time, I headed West to San Diego to spend some time with Alpha and to attend the final SuperPigs get together at the home of Roadkill and his boy.

I was thinking about heading out on Friday, but that didn't happen. Y'see, I was a little freaked out. A couple of days ago, I started getting this pus-y discharge from my penis.

I know, right?

I jumped the gun a wee bit by announcing to That Cowboy that I had a venereal disease. And it could possibly be a venereal disease, although that would mean that I got it way back on July 4th weekend. And from what I've read about syphilis and gonorrhea, that would be outside of the window for the onset of such symptoms by about ten weeks. So, it's more likely that I have prostatitis or urethritis. Alas, I also don't have health insurance, so I'm scrambling a wee bit about just what to do. I'm gonna give a call to the Desert AIDS Project and see if they can set me up with a visit to a doctor or a month's supply of erythromicin or something to assuage the situation. Although it doesn't really interfere with much, it does leave these little spots in the crotch of whatever pants I happen to wear, and it's kind of a boner-killer. And as I had swollen glands on Friday, I wasn't in what you might call a festive mood, so I decided to hold off to go until Saturday morning.

And so I did.

The drive is an easy one, taking--according to Google Maps--just over two hours. Considering that this was my morning and afternoon commute not so long ago, it's an easy trip.

And soon enough, I was parking outside of Alpha's building (and by "Alpha's building," I'm not just referring to the place where he lives, because, you see, he built the thing), and there was Alpha himself greeting me with a warm, "How's my clap-stricken buddy doing?"

Alpha was another person I told I had the clap, and when I explained that this might not be the case, he said, "Oh right, it's probably prostatitis." Apparently everyone has heard of or had prostatitis but me. And according to MedLine, "50% of all men experience prostatitis at some point in their lives." And one of the recommended treatments is "prostate massage."

Prostate massage... check.

News that That Cowboy will welcome.

Alpha needed some new flip-flops--without black soles because it seems that black-soled flip-flops make your feet turn black--so we headed out in search thereof. First stop was the discount store of a high-end department store (can't remember the name). Their flip-flop selection was pretty meager. They were offering lots of cold-weather clothing and outerwear. This seems to me to be absurd. This is Southern California afterall, and we don't do the cold weather thing. (Recall, if you will, the episode of 'Bewitched' when Santa Claus was up on the roof and the lawn was green and the palm trees were waving in the sunshine behind Samantha's head.) But retailers seem to insist that no matter the weather, we must buy parkas in September.)

I suggested Old Navy, my source for so many good things, and off we went to the Fashion Valley Mall. There is actually a neighborhood of sorts in San Diego called "Fashion Valley." Who could live with all that pressure? What would you wear to run out and pick up the mail? Every time you told anybody where you lived, they'd give you the once over.

At Old Navy in the Fashion Valley Mall, we indeed find a wide selection of flip-flops, going for some unbeatable low price like three-for-$10 or something.

And heading back with our flip-flops, I made a terrible discovery. There was a James Pearse store.

Now I know basically nothing about men's fashion. When I buy shirts, I ask myself, "can I wear this with leather jeans?", and when I buy pants or shorts, I ask myself, "Can I wear this with just a leather vest?" And that's all there is to it. But years ago, when I was in LA with my Sir, I found this shirt. It was a simple white long-sleeve shirt, but the cotton was so soft and fine. It was almost gauzy, but not quite. Much like the Look magazine photo spread of the Kaufmans sitting by the pool of the Neutra designed Kaufman House that launched the whole mid-Century modern ideal, it evoked this whole sybaritic living-outdoors Southern California life and I wanted to put myself in the picture.

I still have that shirt, even though me being me, about the second time I wore it I got myself with a ball point pen and despite my best efforts, that mark is still there. Although I was a little bit more successful in getting out the latté that I dribbled all over myself while wearing it.

The designer of that shirt was James Pearse.

Finding James Pearse stuff back East is no easy thing, but I managed to find a cool James Pearse hoodie that I added to my collection. But back in June, I went to the place of the original James Pearse find in West Hollywood and they had nada. I asked.

And here I was confronted with an entire James Pearse store. And I was financially pretty flush since I just made $600 bucks shooting a bondage video.

Not no more I ain't financially flush. But I do have all these great new James Pearse clothes. And how fitting that here I am leading this idyllic, sybaritic Southern California lifestyle!

Famished from our visit to Fashion Valley, Alpha and I went to this great mexican restaurant in Hillcrest that featured lobster burritos. That were amazing.

Back at Alpha's, he got ready for a date, and I got ready to head over to Roadkill's for SuperPigs.

The average annual rainfall for San Diego is 9.9 inches. In an instance of the Objective Correlative, Saturday night was one of the handful of times during the year that San Diego got a soaker. My iPod offered up Shirley Bassey singing "A Foggy Night In London Town" on the way over, and boy, was that fitting. I couldn't find parking near Roadkill's so I ended up walking a few blocks in the rain to get there, but managed to pick my way down the steep driveway and arrived happy though damp.

Inside the door, I was busy with the whole registration and disclaimer-signing business, when I came to consciousness of a flogging scene going on just beyond the front door. Omigod! It was 'bastian flogging hawgs! How cool is that? Right off the bat, familiar faces!

I sat and watched. 'bastian's style is unbelievably energetic. What a work out! For both parties involved! Hawgs was thoroughly enjoying it on the receiving end, laughing and giggling (I've seen hawgs giggle, I think I can go gently into that good night now), as 'bastian rained down blows on his back. It was a beautiful, remarkable scene.

Afterwards, I greeted 'bastian (hawgs was still in his blissy post-getting-flogged space), and 'bastian said he had to get ready for his next flogging scene.

Really?

I would have needed a few days recovery after that. Maybe a week.

Upstairs, I had a beer and asked after Roadkill. "Oh I think he's down in the Master bedroom whipping butters."

Cool!

I made my way down there, and sure enough, that's what was going down.

But wait, I love that song.

But wait, I know that song.

But wait, I know this next song, too.

It's my SuperPigs mix!

Roadkill was whipping butters with the mix iPod Shuffle I made up as accompaniment!

I was overjoyed.

Years ago, Roadkill put out the call that he wanted music for SuperPigs, and I answered the challenge. I started out with burning CDs, but pretty quickly, I realized that wasn't going to work. But my local Apple Store in Doylestown, PA was having a sale on iPod Shuffles, so I invested in one. In curating the mix, I wanted to make sure that every song on there--whether hard and guitar-y or whimsical and light--would be a song that two kinky men could fall in love while listening to.

After I made the presentation--and Roadkill was über-gracious, I asked how it had gone after the next SuperPigs party. Roadkill confessed that although he liked it a lot, he wasn't sure that it would work for SuperPigs, it just wasn't what people were used to hearing, something more trance-y would be more appropriate. But he really liked it.

Okay.

So whatever.

But here I was, listening to a my mix and watching a whipping scene.

And a great whipping scene.

Nobody--myself included--does it better than Roadkill.

After the scene was over, still singing Bowie's "Under Pressure" to myself, I headed upstairs and onto the deck. One of the best parts of SuperPigs, hanging on the deck, chatting, snacking (Cake! Yum!). I chatted with hawgs and 'bastian, and 'bastian paid some much appreciated attention to my boots. After 'bastian headed off to do yet another flogging (I am convinced that they took whatever he has and put it in a can and called it Red Bull), I started up a conversation with a fellow Palm Springs guy, who I've talked to a lot online but never in person. He's an amazing man and has an amazing story. But somehow, we ended up talking about real estate. (!)

Not that it was a bad conversation. He and I share some similar ideas about smart and sustainable development, or more to the extent that the powers that be in Palm Springs seem to. He announced that he was getting ready to head back to the Desert, and I decided to man up and ask him if he could stay long enough for me to flog him.

And he said yes.

Man, was that ever a treat.

This handsome man had this broad, muscular, beautiful back. I ran him through a variety of of flails from my collection, making each one a journey in itself, and, I hoped, having it all add up to a journey. His back responded wonderfully, reddening up. And so did he, going to this wonderful place. As I was winding down, I got the emotional response I wanted. That connection, that Here Now, that essential thing. And there he was, down on his knees at my boots, this big, handsome man.

In the same room while we were doing our scene was this piercing and suspension scene. It sounded awfully intense--although SuperPigs is kinda known for intensity. From what I could gather, everybody seemed to enjoy themselves.

Upstairs, Roadkill and his boy Jeff were taking a break as the party was starting to break up. I thanked Roadkill again for the music and he did me the favor of telling a few of the guys there that I was the one who had put the soundtrack together. They were all appreciative. And geez, that was great. You sort of send something off into the Universe, and it's great when you hear about the impact that it's had. How many men who I will never meet have taken note of that music that was playing? Roadkill's boy commented that often, a song would come up in the rotation as if in response to how the dynamic of a scene had changed, striking just the right note.

Wow.

I headed back to Alpha's house. All was quiet and dark when I got there. I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed.

Sunday morning, after Alpha plied me with chicken and cornbread, I hit the road.

Quickly, I made a discovery. My BlackBerry was dead. I had no Google Maps app to guide me. I was flying blind. I remembered Temecula and Hemet, so I headed to Temecula, and when I saw an exit for Hemet, I took it. Thus began an extended journey through tiny towns in Southern California following a road which seemed to have a stop light every forty feet or so. But eventually, I found my way to the 10, and there I was, heading through the pass past the wind turbines to my desert home.

I chilled for a bit, and then gave a call to That Cowboy. He was watching television and invited me over, so I headed across the Wash. It's just the best of all worlds.

This is the life I want to live.

And I even have a great soundtrack for it.

Me On Film

2008-09-29T08:42:00.000-07:00

Well that was exhausting!

This weekend, I was off to Tucson, Arizona, to make my debut in the arena of downloadable erotica. We set off at 8:00 AM on Friday morning, and by "We" I mean me and Torren (his nom de porn), and Torren's Mister. On the way, we stopped off in Maricopa, an odd kind of city where all the houses seem to be painted the same shade of brown, where we had an early dinner with Torren's brother and his family. Then, it was a quick drive down the hill to the gracious home of Master Jack and his partner. After the introductions, we got right to work. Master Jack had told me that he wanted to ~~capture for posterity~~ shoot three scenes. For the first two, I suggested chain bondage and the Special Surprise scene that I do, but I was stumped for the third scene. This is the drawback of being the Two-Trick-Pony that I am: I either whip them or I chain them up. But I was open to suggestions, and Torren is nothing if not an old pro, so I was sure we'd come up with something.

So Friday night we tackled the Special Surprise scene. I blindfolded Torren with some vet wrap, and then restrained him to a ceiling hoist so that he was standing with his arms behind his back. Then, I circled him, waking up his skin with one of my favorite floggers, made of kangaroo skin with these thin, straw-like flays. Torren marks easily and beautifully, and pretty quickly he was red in all the right places. Then, as he moaned softly, I applied rows of clothespins to his pecs and his thighs. This was not easy, damn him and his 2% body fat! But with work, I managed to get them on. I played with them for a bit, flicking them around, and then came the Special Surprise!

"Take a deep breath," I told him.

And he did. And down I came with my really heavy (Takes Two Hands!) elk-skin flogger on the row of clothespins on his right pec. A flash of pain, and Torren howled mightily. It was beautiful.

"Three more to go!" I announced.

The playroom wasn't huge, so although the left pec went smoothly, I had trouble getting a good angle when it came to the thighs. So, I couldn't get them all in one fell swoop. It was more like five fell swoops. Torren was much too good of an actor to say, "Please let this end already!", but I bet he was thinking that.

Master Jack turned off the camera and said, "Yeah, okay, that was good. Now if you want to console him or whatever." Torren was flushed and pumped with endorphins, and didn't need much in the way of consoling or whatever. According to Master Jack, the consoling or whatever doesn't go over big with his audience.

Over the course of the weekend, we'd be hearing a lot about Master Jack's audience, and what they wanted to see and what they don't want to see. They don't want to see restraints, unless they're padlocked on. They want to see boots,and they want to see leather. And they definitely don't want to see consoling or whatever.

And my job, as I interpreted it, was to give the audience what they wanted.

After the scene, we jumped in the pool and got acquainted with Master Jack's dog. (I should, I guess, specify that he was the canine, rather than the human variety. The audience does not want to see puppy play, much to Torren's disappointment, as he likes that, and much to my relief, as I don't so much.) Master Jack's dog seems to have obsessive-compulsive disorder. He's focused all but exclusively on balls. He wants you to toss the ball to him, then take the ball from him, and toss it again. Over and over again until your arm falls off if need be. Other than his oddly-wired brain, he's a sweet dog, a huge shaggy German Shepherd. We had a nice supper (Master Jack is an excellent cook), and then it was off to bed.

I was up just about first the next morning. After the workout I gave him, Torren needed his rest, and Master Jack likes to sleep until about Noon. I relaxed on the patio out back and read through the New York Times, which Master Jack and his partner get delivered. Which was very nice. This budding porn star appreciates his New York Times.

Master Jack and his partner seem to have a power-imbalance relationship, although this wasn't explicit. They've been together for over two decades, so it could be that they've both settled into a comfortable routine and what were once barked orders have now become standing orders. I liked Master Jack's partner a lot, a very self-possessed man who was kind and thoughtful and made me a nice cup of tea that morning.

Once everybody was up and about, we got ready for the next scene. The chain bondage would go down in the garage, which wasn't air-conditioned, so doing it in the heat of the day wouldn't work so well. So the next scene would involve Torren in a neoprene sleep-sack and me edging him. We did a brief trial run with the sleep sack, as I didn't want to be figuring it all out with the camera rolling. It went off pretty well, although with Torren mummified in the sleep sack with only his dick and his balls popping out through their little slot, I couldn't resist tying them off and abusing them some. Torren, it turns out, has reeeeeally sensitive balls, and after not a lot of tapping, he broke into his "Sir... Stop! Please!" litany with a "Drew! Stop! Please!" Hearing my given name, I figured out what he was trying to get across (Drew, stop, please!) and that was enough of that. Cool. So I greased up his dick and jerked him off.

Torren shot torrents. It was really impressive. I'd put it at a quarter of a cup. I hope the audience appreciates that.

Later in the day, we did the chain bondage scene, which was sort of my whole purpose in being there. "That thing I do." Master Jack wanted me to chain Torren up in the cage. I had misgivings about that, since it would be a little awkward, and it would involve a lot of me crawling and scampering around on my hands and knees in a way that doesn't strike me as Fierce And Forbidding Chain Bondage Top. I suggested that I put lots of chain onto Torren while he was standing, and then order him into the cage to complete the job. And this went off pretty well. Pretty quickly, I had Torren loaded down with most of the lengths of heavier gauge chain, and he was sweating like a pig (*sigh*) from the weight of it. When I ordered him on his knees and into the cage, he had a little trouble complying because of all the work that suddenly involved. When Master Jack asked him to lift up his head and look at the camera, he let us know that he couldn't do that right now. (Sweet!) I finished off with the chain, padlocking it in place, and closed and locked the door of the cage. And that was a wrap.

But oh yeah, we'd have to unchain Torren and let him out of the cage. Details, details! Torren's Mister really liked the sight of his boy all chained up, and peppered me with questions about acquiring chain, so perhaps there will be more chain bondage in Torren's future, in an off-camera kind of way.

Because Master Jack and his partner had a function they had to attend that evening, dinner would be late, so Torren, Torren's Mister, and I repaired to a local Chili's for soups and salads to tide us over.

Back at Master Jack's, I put in a call to That Cowboy. Geez I missed him. So much. This guy that I didn't even know five months ago.

One of the questions that I've been wrestling with was what my screen name would be. On Saturday morning, before we began work, I came up with one: Smith. Not Master Smith, not even Mr. Smith, just Smith. Before it's pointed out to me that such a name Wouldn't Work because my fans won't be able to Google me unless I attain porn superstardom, let me just make it clear that I'm cool with that. I definitely don't have my sites set on porn superstardom. But That Cowboy liked Smith, so that was cool. That Cowboy's approval matters to me. Google can go hang fire.

After talking to That Cowboy, I put in a call to Naphtali. "So how are things in Palm Springs?" he asked. "Well," I answered, "I'm not in Palm Springs. This weekend I'm in Tucson, Arizona, the home state of that presidential candidate you admire."

A pause.

"Oh. I'm guessing that you're doing some construction work for That Cowboy or something?"

"No, although I am working. Man, am I ever working. I'm in an erotic video."

For once, I almost but not quite caught Naphtali off guard. Although he recovered pretty quickly, admitting that with me, you never quite knew what to expect.

When Master Jack and his partner got back, they fixed us a superb dinner, featuring really flavorful steak and a bearnaise sauce. Over dinner, I hit upon a new schtick. If you've ever visited Palm Springs or any of the desert cities that line the Coachella Valley, you could not but have been struck by the habit of the various town father's to name thoroughfares after notable personages. However, this being a getaway for Hollywood Stars, those notable personages include Gene Autry, Bob Hope, Dinah Shore, Frank Sinatra and the like. So, "head West on Dinah Shore and make a right onto Bob Hope" are driving directions it's possible to hear. So I think from now on, when people ask me where something is located, I'm going to use an algorithm involving a real street name here in the Valley, followed by the name of a not-so-well-known Hollywood Star. For example, "Yeah, that's at the corner of Ramon and Bonnie Franklin." Or, "You just head up Sunrise and make a right at Mason Reese." In fact, I may see about getting the name of the cul-de-sac street I call home changed to something like "Franklin Pangborn Place." Then, I'd be able to give directions by saying, "Turn off Sunrise onto North Riverside, and after the stop sign at Camino Real, make a right onto Franklin Pangborn." And it sure would be fun to give out my address.

So back to porn making.

Master Jack said that he was really happy with the material we had shot over the past two days, and he did not doubt that his audience would be pleased. (Yay!) But, there were just a couple of quick things he wanted to film tomorrow.

Which was cool. He's the boss. And after we shot a couple of quick scenes, we'd be able to get an early start and be back in Palm Springs in time for me to see Mad Men.

The next day started with a great breakfast of ham and eggs, toast and jam. And, of course, the Sunday New York Times. How perfect is that? The first scene that Master Jack wanted was an outdoors, full leather shot of Torren standing under a tree with a come-hither look on his face, and me coming hither. Great. Can we go now?

No.

Then, another quick scene. Master Jack has this amazing federal marshal's cell in his garage. I mean, it is so cool. I am quite envious. So now, he wanted to get some footage of me putting Torren in the cell, chaining him up, jerking off all over his prone and helpless body, then locking him in there for ever and ever and ever. (The "for ever and ever and ever" part is big with the audience. As are gags. So Torren was to be gagged with black electrical tape for this scene.)

Okay. So here we go. Getting Torren in the cell and chained up and helpless, but before I locked him in there forever and ever and ever, I had to jerk off on him.

Oh cheese-and-rice. If I had any doubts about my suitability for a career as a porn star, they were confirmed. That just took forever. I know I wouldn't be able to have sex like a real porn star in front of the camera. I'm way too self conscious and easily distracted for that. And there are limits, y'know? But jerking off... that's basic, right? I've pretty much done that once a day since I was seventeen years old. How hard could that be?

Plenty hard.

Or not hard. To start off with anyway.

First off, I wasn't lying down, which is my preferred position. And what's more, I found I had to block out Torren, naked and helpless and chained before me, and Master Jack circling with the camera, and the fact that it was really hot in the garage, and the mosquito bites I had gotten over the course of the weekend. And, of course, I had to deal with "Vista Chino and Karen Valentine" and "Arenas and Zazu Pitts" running through my head. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I was able to go to that Special Place, allowing my mind to finally circle back to the fact that there, right in front of me, was Torren naked and gagged and helpless and chained. So lesson learned: I'm not much good at Zen meditation, and I'm not much good at beating off in an erotica film.

Okay. So that's it, right? Time to say our goodbyes and hit the road?

No.

One more scene.

This time, back up to the play room.

Master Jack has a mail bag and a wench for suspension, and he wanted Torren hooded, stuffed in the bag, and suspended.

Okie doke.

I have to admit, at this point, I was wondering how much money I would get by selling my leathers and my floggers and whips and such on eBay and buying a a new wardrobe consisting of natural linen jackets, straw boaters, ice cream pants, and saddle shoes.

Up to the play room, on with the hood. Then we stopped the camera and removed the hood and stuffed Torren in the mail bag. I secured the bag with chain and a padlock and hoisted him high. So then what? So I started using bagged Torren as a heavy bag and started punching him. This was sort of difficult, as he wasn't protected at all, and I couldn't tell exactly where I was punching him. Thankfully, only once did I connect with his head. As I wasn't wearing boxing gloves, this hurt me more than it did Torren, and my knuckles were pretty red and chafed.

"Now," said Master Jack, "why don't you finish up by doing that quick double punch thing that boxers do!"

Say wha...?

I have no idea what that quick double punch thing is that boxers do.

I did my best at approximating this, and apparently, I hit it because finally, Master Jack declared that we were Done.

O Angels and Saints be praised.

As though we were passengers on the Titanic who had just heard the news about what that loud noise was, we packed up and loaded up the car. The Ten to the Eight to Eighty-Five to the Ten to the Coachella Valley.

I only missed the first few minutes of Mad Men, and after it was over, I headed across the wash to where That Cowboy was waiting for me. "Welcome home, Smith," he said.

Oh man, I missed him so much.

Arms and legs intertwined, we curled up listening to the fountain he fashioned out on his patio gurgling away as we fell asleep.

Home at last.

That's Mr. Tollgate To You

2008-09-22T01:17:00.000-07:00

So it seems that next weekend I'm off to Tucson to be filmed for a bondage video. While discussing this with a couple of buddies of mine this evening, the question came up, "Will you use your real name, or a nom de porn?"

It's my understanding that technically speaking, what I'll be doing won't be pornographic, but hopefully it will be erotic. (That is to say, it'll be a bondage scene, and not involving straight up sex.) So would it be appropriate in that context to use a porn name? And if I were to use a porn name, what name would I use?

According to the porn star name game--not to be confused with the drag queen name game--my porn name would be Chippy Tollgate. (Your first name is the name of the pet you had as a child and your last name is the name of the street you grew up on.) Actually, this gives me numerous options, now that I think about it. My childhood home was quite the menagerie. We had a horse, a pony, several dogs and cats, and at one point a duck whom we counted as pets.

So here is the roster of possibilities...

Chippy Tollgate
Moko Tollgate
Duke Tollgate
Gallahad Tollgate
Valentine Tollgate
Boots Tollgate
Moishe Tollgate
Quack-Quack Tollgate
Fuzzy Tollgate
Angus Tollgate
Sassy Tollgate

Omigod! It's so hard to choose! Gallahad Tollgate sure paints a picture. Valentine Tollgate would be a lot to live up to. But Quack-Quack Tollgate is pretty hard to resist. (Quack-Quack, of course, was my pet duck. Who ran away. And my sister went running through the woods looking for him calling, "Quack-Quack! Quack-Quack! Quack-Quack!")

Still, my first inclination would be to use my real name. That would mean, though, that I'd have to give up my political aspirations. Or maybe not. I don't know that making a bondage video would necessarily count someone out for running for office in California. In fact, I could use it in my campaign material: "It's true I'm a Sadist, but I'd never do anything to hurt California!"

Oh wait a minute... That's right. I don't have any political aspirations.

I guess my concern would be that my actual name doesn't sound very erotic. Or sadistic. And political aspirations or no, when I go out looking for a construction management job in two years, I might not want that showing up in Google.

Perhaps I could just go with "Dutch," my nickname at Wuperior Soodcraft.

I'll have to give this some thought.

Or maybe I'll just go with Quack-Quack Tollgate after all.

Portraits

2008-09-22T00:57:00.000-07:00

Oh, cool.. Be sure to click on the "See the exhibit" link.

[Creaky Old Man Voice] "Why I remember a time before the Wessel O'Connor Gallery moved to Brooklyn."

(I found this on jimbo's site.)

Adventuresome

2008-09-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

I didn't plan on falling in love when I moved to the desert.

Quite the reverse: I planned on not falling in love when I moved to the desert. My focus during my initial two years here was first and foremost job skills education, followed by a time of healing and reflection. And that's it.

Avoid entanglements. Remain aloof. You've got homework to do. Always.

That's what I was thinking about in church this morning, with That Cowboy sitting next to me. He has mostly been a Mormon, a faith that I know little about other than their peculiar choices for underwear, the veneration of the seagull that graces the license plates of Utah, and some vague details about Joseph Smith and the revelations of the angelic messenger Moroni. And, I knew that they weren't very progressive when it comes to homosexuality.

A few dates ago, That Cowboy asked what I was doing tomorrow, and "tomorrow" being a Sunday, I said, "I'm going to church, followed by my other ritual, reading the New York Times, and after that, homework."

"Church?" he said.

And I talked some about my faith, inchoate and intuitive and undogmatic as it is, and the Episcopal Church, and why I feel at home there. There was interest in his eyes, and after all that time in the pews being exhorted to "invite someone to church!" by more priests than I can count, I said, "Would you like to come along?"

And so, my church-going since I've been here in the desert has involved That Cowboy. He asks questions, and I do my best to answer them and to put him at ease about the aerobic aspects ("there's no right thing or wrong thing to do really, and you'll notice that different people do different things; mostly it springs from personal beliefs and your response to those beliefs at different parts of the liturgy").

That Cowboy and I have gotten together a few nights a week. He'd make dinner for me, and a couple of times I've made dinner for him. (That Cowboy makes a great chicken soup with dumplings.) And we go out to eat. On one of our first dates, we made our way out to Whitewater Preserve and lied (uncomfortably) on the hood of my jeep and looked at the stars. That Cowboy works as a sort of home fix-up guy. There's a house in North Palm Springs he's been working on for a while, and one Friday, when we got together for lunch, he invited me up to take a look at the place. I was totally nervous about that. What if I didn't like it? I used to get paid at Wuperior Soodcraft for scrutinizing the handiwork of the guys in the shop--doing the QC--before it went on the truck for delivery.

That Cowboy's work is great. Really great. His craftsmanship is all but flawless, and he has a great eye for design.

And all during that little house tour, there he was, sweaty in his Wrangler's and boots.

He's kind and thoughtful, strong, honest, and hard-working, handsome and quick to laugh. When he talks about the places he's lived--Montana, Colorado, Algeria, Texas--he talks about the natural beauty of each place.

And he has this great dog. A rhodesian ridgeback, bred to hunt lions. I've told That Cowboy that the first thing I liked about him was his dog, since I believe you can tell all you need to know about a man by his dog. That Cowboy agrees that he has a really good dog.

So today, after church, I spilled the beans. Sitting in That Cowboy's living room, I swallowed hard and said, "Y'know what I was thinking about in church today? I was thinking about how I'm falling in love with you."

And things got pretty Molly Bloom's Soliloquy after that. Yes yes and I yes. Yes.

As we sat holding each other, talking in whispers, kissing, an idea came into my mind. It's an antiquated idea, from the children's literature I read when I was a little boy. It's an Uncle Wiggly idea. I looked That Cowboy in the eye and said, "I want for us to have Adventures together."

He smiled, he laughed, his wise eyes again got moist. "Yes," he said. He told me that yesterday, when we were up at Whitewater, I was walking the trail down to the creek ahead of him, and he thought to himself, "I could really go places with that man."

And so it seems, like a circle in a circle like a whirl within a whirl, within this great adventure of mine, starting with a precipitous and premature cross-country jaunt (I got a traffic ticket in the mail the other day; apparently I ran a red light in St. Louis), another adventure begins. And there will, I hope, be adventures within this adventure.

The Baby Lizard

2008-09-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

Food poisoning.

That's right, food poisoning.

It all stems from The Problem I Can't Solve. Namely, what to do for lunch at College of the Desert. One great flaw of life here in the Coachella Valley is there aren't any pizza parlors. There are plenty of Pizza Huts and "italian ristorante" type places with table cloths and such, but no place with $1.75 slices.

What's an on-the-go college student to do?

Many of my fellow students make due with the food court at the Westfield Mall. Which isn't too bad. The hamburgers offered by the school cafeteria don't seem to be too popular, but I'll look into them eventually.

Anyway, while I was driving around looking for something or other last week, I thought I found just what I was looking for: a Quizno's right next to a Starbucks out in Palm Desert.

Perfect!

I love Quizno's, and right next to a Starbucks makes it one stop shopping for me.

Alas, yesterday after Technical Drafting (Drafting is HARD.), I headed down Monterey to where I had spotted the delectable duo. But alas, the Starbucks was still there, but the Quizno's was closed.

But there was a place called Chop Stix, a chain offering "Fresh Asian Flavors."

(My stomach heaves just typing that.)

And so in I went, and ordered a chicken spicy basil bowl or something. I noticed that despite the name, Chop Stix gives out plastic silverware with their food. But after a short wait, there was lunch. And I was starved.

I took a bite, and I thought, "Huh. That tastes kind of odd."

I thought it was odd in the way of being unfamiliar, but no, it was odd in the way of being someone left the chicken out overnight or the sesame oil was rancid.

And I ate the whole thing, not even concentrating on it because I had my first Spanish test yesterday.

After lunch, it was back to campus and off to the language lab, getting in a little last minute cramming for the test. Which went well. Although it occurred to me that this was the first time I sat for a test like this in over twenty years. Just that alone felt really strange. I remembered somehow (how?) all those testing strategies from high school: read the directions carefully, read over the entire test and do an easy section first as a warm up, and don't forget to put your name on the paper.

I think I got a decent grade on the test, although I took some chances with the essay section, in which we were writing to our new pen pal, Marta Valles. (¡Hola, Marta! ¿Qué tal? Me llamo Drew. Soy un hombre de cuarenta y tres años. La feche de me compleaños es el veintinueve de octubre.)

After I got done the Spanish test, I headed to the meeting of the College of the Desert Architecture Club. I'm liking the Architecture Club. Activities include doing fundraising of various sorts so that we can go on field trips. Every year in June, there's the Big Field trip, as in a week in NYC or Washington DC or somewhere. And, there are lots of local field trips, too. In a couple of months, the plan is for us to go to Frank Gehry's Disney Concert Hall in LA to hear a concert, in order to best appreciate the purpose for which the space was designed. Cool!

During the Architecture Club meeting, I was feeling vaguely queasy. At six o'clock was my California Building Codes class (the instructor is this totally woofy ex-Marine from Queens). By the time that was over at 8:30 (las ocho y media de la noche!), I was having sweats and chills.

And so it's been.

It was a beautiful day here in Palm Springs, a few clouds in the sky and at times a light breeze blowing. Or at least, during the three minutes when I staggered out of my darkened apartment to step outside onto my patio, that's the way it seems.

I did manage to get together with That Cowboy for lunch today. We went to Rick's and I had a cup of the cold cucumber soup and half a chicken salad sandwich. Portions at Rick's tend to be Man Sized, but the way I was feeling, my lunch could have been served up in a wheelbarrow or some kind of trough. But I did what I could.

After lunch, I went home and went back to bed. Over the past twenty-four hours, I think I've slept for about twenty of them. And y'know how when you're sick, it affects your emotional state? Well I totally have that. All bleak and pointless and doomed. Thoughts that I haven't had since I've been here in the desert, that's for sure. And they felt so unreal.

But then, the healing happened.

Just now, there I was, deep asleep, when I felt something on me. Probably a fly, I thought. And swatted it. And there it was again, in the cup of my clavicle. So I brought my chin down to my shoulder, a move any fly could easily avoid, and this one didn't. I moved in with my hand and tried another swat. And this time, I felt it. And it didn't feel like a fly. It felt like a little gummi worm.

Okay. Freaking out now. Wide awake. On goes the light. What the hell is in bed with me?

And there it was: a little lizard. It looked new-born, it's skin translucent, so I could see it's little heart beating.

Hey buddy! Where did you come from?

And that's a question I haven't answered to my own satisfaction. Apparently, there's not a whole next of fingerling lizards in my bed, so where did this one hatch and how did it find its way into my bedroom?

No matter.

I deposited it on the floor and watched it skitter under the bed.

I'm saying "lizard," but in my fevered delirium, I was thinking salamander. In the Tarot, the salamander is associated with fire, and therefore with vitality and creativity.

I took the little guy for an emissary, sent by the Universe to bring me comfort and healing. Lizards, after all, are beneficial. They eat bugs. I totally don't mind having lizards in my house.

So far, the healing hasn't quite set in yet. I still feel pretty crappy. I think I'll give That Cowboy a call and see if he wants to hang out and watch television and stroke my fevered brow and apply cool washcloths to my burning forehead. (I know, right? Who wouldn't be up for that as a great way to spend a Friday night. I hope That Cowboy will recognize it for the test that it is.) Or maybe not. It's almost ten o'clock (las diez menos seis de la noche!), and he might already be out and about enjoying his Friday night after a week of working out in the hot sun, so perhaps I'd best just settle in for the night on my lonesome. But we'll see. Worth a shot anyway.

And Good Health is on the way. And the harbinger of that is now skittering around under my bed.

In Dreams

2008-09-16T12:53:00.000-07:00

Last night, I woke up at 4:30 A.M. from a deep sleep. I was having an anxiety dream.

A couple of weeks ago, while I was standing in line to register or filling up my arms at the bookstore, the thought actually crossed my mind, "What would be the content of my anxiety dreams now?"

I understand that commonly, most people's anxiety dreams look a lot like mine. There I am, back in school, the papers are being handed out for a final exam. I realize that back at the beginning of the semester, I misread my schedule and so I haven't actually attended any of the classes or heard any of the material on which I am now being tested. All these years later, and the anxieties that plagued me in high school and college are still with me.

And so it occurred to me that now that I'm back in college, going to classes and taking exams, what would I dream about when my sleeping mind got all anxious?

And last night, I got an answer to that idle question.

In my dream, it was election day, 2008. I was incredibly anxious because John McCain might win.

Back in 2000, I gave money to John McCain's Straight Talk Express. I liked the guy, and I liked what he had to say. (On the Democratic side, I was favoring Bill Bradley, for many of the same reasons.) Somewhere, in one of these many boxes I have yet to unpack, is a McCain 2000 button I got for my check.

But reading about the campaign over the past couple of weeks, I've grown more and more worried.

I think the first thing that caught my attention was Sarah Palin's statement in her acceptance speech that Barack Obama (spellcheck on Blogger still fails to recognize that name and it appears with a jagged red underline) found time to author two books but hasn't written one piece of legislation.

That's not true, I thought.

And, as the press and independent fact checker websites confirmed, that's not true.

And then came McCain's recent attack ad in which he claimed that Obama wrote and passed a law (uhhh... wait a minute...) that would teach sex education to kindergarten students.

It turns out that what the ad refers to was legislation passed by State Senator Obama to educate children about the threats posed by sexual predators. A "Bad Touch" kind of thing.

So John McCain was lying.

And I happened to be watching The View the other day when McCain was on and was asked by Joyce Behar (or whatever her name is) why he was lying about Barack Obama in his campaign ads. And he denied he was lying. Which in my book counts as lying again.

Here's why that bothers me so much: that's exactly why I've come to hate George W. Bush. George Bush looked me in the eye and told me a lie. And I believed him. I believed him when he said that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction that posed a threat to us, and after a war that would be in-by-April-out-by-June, we'd eliminate that threat and establish a democratically elected government in the Middle East and that democracy would spill over into Iran and Saudi Arabia and Syria and everything would be hunky-dory. And I believed that.

George Bush lied to me.

And now, John McCain's lying to me.

And so is Sarah Palin.

And another aspect of my dream--I swear--was that before he could be innaugurated, McCain had a fatal heart attack and Sarah Palin was to be sworn in as the forty-fourth President of the United States of America. (I actually have no idea what would happen in that situation; to the best of my knowledge, it wasn't contemplated by the framers of the Constitution.)

And that really scared the shit out of me, that a woman who lies and keeps on lying (about her opposition to the Bridge to Nowhere) who before she was the governor of a state that has the overwhelming lion's share of it's revenue come from tax payers in the other forty-nine states, was the mayor of a town not quite as large as Doylestown, Pennsylvania. And because she made some Really Bad decisions about the building of a new recreation center, she left Wasilla with a deficit of several millions of dollars and no recreation center when she ascended to Governor.

Up until now, up until this dream I had last night, I've been leaning toward Obama, but not because I think he'll be a superdooperincredible President. But just because I want three things from the next President:

1. I want health insurance I can afford;
2. I want us to get the hell out of Iraq; and
3. I want the United States of America to stop torturing people.

And Obama seems to be slightly more likely than McCain to fulfill those objectives. Because Obama at least has talked about each of those, and all I've heard from McCain is how tough a McCain presidency would be on Pork Barrel Spending, an issue about which I care just about not at all.

But now, fuck John McCain. That man will say or do anything to get elected. Including looking me in the eye and lying to me. And I see no indication that if elected, he and his Vice President wouldn't lie and lie and lie and lie and lie.

And I don't want that from my President.

But, I'm worried that just like me back in 2003, at least 50.5% of the voting populace in a handful of swing states will believe the lies they're being told, and we could indeed be in for four more years of complete and unmitigated moral bankruptcy in this country.

God, I hope not.

Almost

2008-09-11T21:26:00.000-07:00

It almost rained today.

When I came out of Elementary Spanish (doce más cuarenta y tres son cincuenta y cinco), the wind was blowing all the palm fronds, coming from the Southeast at a good clip. The sky was dark off in that direction, storm clouds were threatening.

Aside from a few sprinkles on the windshield--just enough to make the dust stick--it didn't rain.

Of course.

This is the desert.

But I'm sort of surprised at how often it almost rains.

And when it does almost rain, it stirs something in all of us. Or at least, it stirs something in me.

I see myself drenched, arms outstretched, face upwards, eyes closed, mouth open, peels of thunder, flashes of lightning.

It's almost rained a few times since I've been here. But only almost.

I suppose I'll have to make due with Almost.

It almost rained today.

We almost had a real downpour.

Almost cats and dogs.

Almost coming down in buckets.

Almost ten inches in twenty minutes.

Almost flooding half the valley.

Almost.

September 11, 2008

2008-09-11T21:14:00.000-07:00

Brooklyn to Palm Springs in seven years. It's like the Seven League Boots, only chronological rather than geographic.

Seven years ago, there I was, dreaming of some different life, knowing that if I didn't change my life, it would kill me. Although those dreams were inchoate, Palm Springs is a pretty fair approximation of what I was dreaming of.

Here I am in the desert, where I belong.

I think if I were to be given a glimpse back then of where I would be in seven years, it would have made me very happy. Except for one thing: I bet I would bristle at the seven years in between.

"So do I have to wait that long? I'm not good with the patience thing."

But now, those seven years feel like an unfortunate weekend. A flat tire, distress, blurting out prayers, getting bad news.

Did that really all happen?

It's all starting to seem a little unreal.

And then there was that day seven years ago.

The national significance recedes at this point, subsumed by the individual significance I give it.

I wonder if it's that way for a lot of us? I knew of plenty of plenty of people who died on September 11, 2001, but although there were a few near misses, I didn't know who was on one of those planes or in one of those buildings. And statistically speaking, that's the case with most of us.

So if the events of that September day made all of us stop and get some perspective. I wonder if seven years on it's become "the day that I knew I had to quit that job," or "the day I decided to have children," or "the day I realized how much I really loved him and how empty my life would be without him in it"?

Maybe that's what today should be about. In part at least. If a plane were to come out of the sky right at you, who would you call? Where would you rather be than where you are now? What's the one thing you'd wish you'd had the chance to do? What would you say to the person next to you? If you're inclined to pray, what would your prayer be?

Because seven years ago today, we all learned that a plane really could come out of the sky.

Break

2008-09-10T18:11:00.000-07:00

Here in the desert, the weather has apparently broken for the year. Today, the temperatures were in the 90's, but not in the 100's. Being from "Back East," (as it's referred to here), I'm dubious. I've known too many beautiful days in May where you could break out the shorts only to have near freezing temperatures within a week.

But apparently, that's not the way it works here. It's summer, and then it isn't. And from now until June, it's nothing but beautiful weather: warm in the day time and cool at night.

That Cowboy I've been seeing a lot of reports that pretty quickly you develop thin blood and need a jacket when it gets below 70. Apparently, my blood has always been thin.

You could sense a change in everyone's mood though. All smiles and "isn't it beautiful?" and riding around in the convertible with the top down.

I'm happy for the change. Just more beautiful things that the desert has to show me.

In The Desert

2008-09-05T18:42:00.000-07:00

It had to happen.

Things have been going so well since I arrived here in Palm Springs. Finally, disaster struck. I'm still shaken by the experience.

There I was, sitting out behind Koffi on a perfect hot August day, peaceably enjoying my mocha freeze, when I drank my mocha freeze too quickly and got one of those sharp pains in my forehead. So you see, living here in Palm Springs is not without its challenges.

And even though you find a great apartment on your first day of looking and within five days you've signed a lease and moved in, and even though you're coming off a great first week of classes at College of the Desert--my California Building Code instructor is way hot, and even though you discover that there's a Starbucks within walking distance of your apartment, and even though ditto for one of the two leather bars in town, and even though you take these great day trips to Disney and up the mountains to Idylwild, life is full of surprises and it can just rise right up like a rattler and bite you in the form of an unexpected brain freeze from your drink out behind Koffi.

Seriously though, things have just been going great. The list goes on and on, and would probably be tedious to read. Among significant developments is the discovery that I can get to the aforementioned leather bar, the Tool Shed, by going out the back gate of my complex, down this really seedy back alley that has all kinds of potential, and be there in about three minutes.

And, because it's walking distance, for the first time in over a decade, I got totally drunk the other night. I rarely have more than a beer when I'm driving, and usually stick to Red Bull or water, but since I can walk to a leather bar, I decided to kick back and gratefully accept the shots that were bought for me when I was there. And I even had a second beer. Lightweight that I am, I was totally buzzing after that. But then, as Shot Number Three was being poured, I heard a little alarm bell go off in my head, one I don't think I've heard since I was in college (the last time), that tells me that if I have one more sip of alcohol, things are going to get really unpleasant. That night almost resulted in an episode of Drogging While Blunk, but it didn't. When I got home I opted for bed instead.

And I'm anxiously looking forward to next Friday, when the North American Van Lines truck pulls up outside the front gates and disgorges all my worldly goods into my new apartment. Or "bungalow," as I prefer to think of it. After that, there will be no prying me out of my desert home.

And, I think I got full credit on my first Spanish quiz. ¡Buenos Dias! Me llama Drew. ¿Cómo se llama usted? Totally got that down.

I'm excited about my other classes, too, which include Technical Drafting I ("the pencil is a tool of communication, and I hope to teach you how to express yourself fully with it"), the California Building Code, Intro. to Construction Management, and on Monday I'll get a taste of History of Architecture and Intro. to the Architectural Professions. And I've also signed up with the Architecture Club. Mostly it involves visiting local architecturally significant buildings such as the Kaplan House, Disney Concert Hall, and the Getty Villa and such. And, they spend the year raising money and after classes end in June, go spend a week doing archi-tourism somewhere with all the money raised.

And gosh, I've been spending time with this guy whom we'll call Cowboy. He does home remodeling here in the Coachella Valley and might have some work for me. And oh man, does he look good in his boots and Wranglers.

And I've had some fascinating conversations with some of the men I've met here. I spoke tentatively about the feeling I had of being called here, how strange it is that I feel so at home in the desert, to a couple of guys I was talking to at the Tool Shed. They did their best to conceal the looks that crept across their faces which told me that they had heard that before. Then that means you belong here, one of them offered. One of them said that there were two kinds of people who come to Palm Springs. During the season, they come from all over to enjoy our mild weather. The bars are packed. It's like the circus is in town every weekend. But many confuse the circus for the town itself and move here expecting it to be a party that never ends. But they don't stay. But there are others who come here because something calls to them, and after they hear the call, there's no other place that they can be.

It's a mystical place. In the middle of the desert, and oasis. We sit on top of an enormous aquifer. The Coachella Valley is the only place in the entire state of California that doesn't have to bring in water from somewhere else. Surrounded by the San Jacinto mountains to the South and West and by the San Bernardino mountains to the North and East. An incredible place.

And it's my home.

Happiest. Place. On. Earth.

2008-08-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

A week ago, if I had received a phone call informing me that I had won an all expenses paid trip to Disneyland, my response would have been, "Uh... Could I get the cash equivalent?"

I had no interest in Disneyland. I never went there as a kid. And if my parents had presented to me the option of a vacation for my birthday (something my parents wouldn't have done if they had the means to do so; it was a different time when I was a child), I would have opted for Paris or London or the beach. Disney wouldn't have entered my mind.

But two guys I've met here in Palm Springs are all about Disney. They proposed and I accepted. It seemed like an appropriate way of introducing myself to Southern California.

Thus, yesterday morning, I was leaving my beloved Palm Springs and headed to Anaheim.

On the way, we watched a DVD about Disneyland and listened too a Disney sing-a-long CD. So the pump was primed.

So you go up to the gate and you pay the price of admission and there you are in Disneyland! And sure enough, there was Mickey and Goofy and Minnie. First order of business was to get something to eat. We went to a restaurant on Main Street U.S.A. There were about eight things on the menu, but it took them forever to come up with our orders. What up wid dat?

But after a mediocre lunch, we started in on the rides.

Oh man.

The rides were great.

I had never quite realized how much Disney had seeped into our collective unconscious. Space Mountain, the Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, Frontier Land... I knew what the deal was before I set foot in the Magic Kingdom. Space Mountain by far was my favorite of the day, but the Haunted Mansion was also pretty great. When I was a young'n, I had a record called "Disney's Sounds Of A Haunted House." It was basically a collection of sound effects strung together with a narrative. I was enthralled by it. And there I was, listening to it all, and seeing the ghostly figures dancing in the ballroom and the terrified gravedigger and the ghostly bride.

The attention to detail at Disney is incredible. Everything you're seeing is just so well thought out. The plantings are great, the design details are flawless. It was all pretty impressive.

There's this addition to Disney that's only a few years old. It's called Californialand. In the northern part of Californialand, there were pines and ferns and such. And some really cool rides. The elevator ride in the Hollywood Hotel totally rocked, but one of the highlights of the day was Soarin' California. It was basically watching a movie, aerial shots of various places in the Golden State, but it was maginficent. You're suspended in a chair and the photography is magnificent. And while "flying" over the orange groves, you smell oranges. And over the waves of the Pacific (so close!) you smell the salt air. When they showed Palm Springs (golfing? all they could come up with was golfing?), we all gave a little cheer.

At about 9:00 p.m., I had had about all the happiness I could take. We went on a couple more rides, one of which, Splash Mountain, involved me getting wet, and then headed for home. On the way to the gates, I noticed something: Main Street U.S.A. bears a strong resemblance to Doylestown, PA. It apparently was modeled on Walt Disney's home town, but it sure could be the county seat of Bucks County. The implications of that are way too much for my sun-baked brain to comprehend at this point.

Late at night in Palm Springs, the only thing open is Denny's, so that's where we went for dinner. Opening the door of the car in the Denny's parking lot, I felt that great warm air. I was home. Home again. Back from my adventures. Back in the desert.

Getting some food put me in a better disposition. I think I'm starting to have blood sugar issues. And then it was back to my humble abode. The place is still empty, my furniture won't be showing up until about September 12th, but it's the place where I live here in Palm Springs.

As far as I'm concerned, this is the happiest place on earth.

The attention to detail is terrifically impressive.

(Main Street USA = Doylestown)

The Implications Are Staggering!

2008-08-20T23:07:00.001-07:00

Whoa.

So after I sign the lease at eleven a.m. tomorrow, I'll have a legal address in California. Next stop will be the DMV to get a California driver's license, and put calls in to get cable and have the electric put in my name.

So what it all boils down to is: I'll be a California resident.

Like, officially!

"Hi! I'm from California!"

Wow does that ever not roll right off the tongue.

It'll take some getting used to, that's for sure.

But I don't think that process will go on for very long.

Last night, I was talking to a friend of mine, a native floridian who has lived in San Francisco for a while. He was calling from his cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains. He was waxing rhapsodic about the State: there are so many beautiful parts of California, and so much wonderful about life here. You're really going to enjoy living here.

And I do feel like I'm a part of something. Similar to living in NYC, where I often felt like I was involved in some great project with nine million other people. That said, in my first years in the city, I thought of myself as a simple country boy, and in many ways I was. I think that mostly enabled me to avoid falling into the trap of the whole "because this great thing happened in a burned out performance space in a crack house on Avenue D in 1989 and because I was there that makes me way cooler than you" thing. I always found that to be really unappealing.

But still, living in NYC conferred on me a certain cosmopolitan perspective, but in the best sense of that word. Just because something was novel didn't make it good, but at the same time, it didn't make it bad.

Too, there's the whole September 11th thing. Living in the city through that showed me just how good nine million people can be to one another, and despite a great deal of evidence to the contrary, it has forever convinced me that people--all people--are fundamentally decent and kind.

This fellow-feeling was wholly absent from my time in Pennsylvania, even way back when I was growing up there. There are identities there--philadelphian, Amish, pittsburgher, coal cracker--but the label "pennsylvanian" doesn't confer any additional information about a person. In fact, I don't think I've ever heard the term "pennsylvanian" used by anybody besides various governors of the Commonwealth. I definitely have never heard anyone say, "I'm a pennsylvanian."

But tomorrow, I will become a californian.

California girls. The Gay Marriage state (vote 'No' on Prop 8!). Californication. California, here I come! The Gold Rush. The Golden State. La La Land. San Francisco values. Big Sur.

The list of things that California evokes is almost endless.

"For about a decade, they lived in this place outside LA called Thousand Oaks. And they had this whole California lifestyle that they were living. With the swimming pool and the hot tub and the Ford Fairlane."

The people thus described to me were a fairly sedentary couple living in Westchester County. The response it prompted was, "Really? I can't picture that at all."

And at the time, I couldn't.

But now, I think I can.

Nephtali left me a voicemail message earlier this evening saying, "Where are you? Why can't you pick up my call? You're not in the pool again, are you? You'll shrivel up like a prune!"

I wasn't in the pool; I was watching Project Runway.

But now, as I type this, I'm sitting out by the pool, looking at the moon through the fronds of a palm tree.

Maybe getting a jump on becoming a californian tomorrow.

And It's Joe!

2008-08-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

Oh cool!

Joe, the guy I'm rooting for on Project Runway, won the challenge!

Interestingly, Joe, the straight guy from Detroit, shone through in designing a dress for a drag queen. And what's more, Varla Jean Merman is totally my favorite drag queen.

And Daniel got eliminated.

One of the things I love about Project Runway is the almost shakespearean quality: we each carry the seeds of our own destruction within ourselves. (Not that hearing "you're out" from Heidi Klum would count as "destruction" by any definition of that word, but y'know.) But at the same time, the folks who really struggle to find their voices as artists and take risks putting themselves out almost always prevail.

And Joe won.

Can anything not go my way this week?

I swear.

Is it my biorhythms, or what?

Home

2008-08-20T17:23:00.000-07:00

Well that was easy.

It was the third place I looked at. And walking in the door, I knew right away.

But c'mon. This was Monday. I hadn't yet been in town two full days. I decided to look at a few more places, and I did that today, for a grand total of six potential apartments viewed before making my decision.

The landlord is himself recently arrived from San Francisco. And we hit it off--to the extent that you can do that in a landlord-tenant situation--right away. It's located in the south end of town, at the end of a cul de sac. The cul de sac ends on North Riverside Drive, which runs along something referred to as "the Wash." The Wash appears as blue on a map, just like the Delaware River would be. And when it rains here every two-and-a-half years or so, the Wash is indeed filled with water. That will be interesting to behold.

There's a Starbucks within walking distance, and it's also a few short blocks from one of the local leather bars which is the site of the annual Palm Springs Leather Thing every November.

My new place (Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!) is a sweet little two bedroom, one bath. The kitchen is kind of minimal, but it's got great outdoor space. The wall surrounding the outdoor space is six feet high. My landlord explained that you couldn't build a wall that high these days as they can only be five feet by code. Half of it is paved with concrete, and half is hardscape garden with bougainvillea and lantana.

So... Two bedrooms?

Yes.

Two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms will be my bedroom, and the other bedroom will be my play space. Let's call it the rec room. I like that. My rec room.

For the first time in my adult life, I'll have a specific space for whipping men and chaining them up and sticking them in my cage.

I have so totally earned that.

Interestingly, I'm not sure how much action the rec room will see. With everything I've been through lately, it's just not where my head is at. I don't know that I'm up for recreational SM. I think I'd feel diminished by that experience, rather than sustained. And of course, for the next two years my focus will be on school. And on sorting some stuff out in my head.

And most importantly, my new place (Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!) will be a perfect setting for that.

It's not officially official yet. Landlord Guy is calling my references (you know who you are!) and unless he hears something dissuasive, I'll go over there tomorrow at eleven a.m. to sign the lease, write out a check, and pick up the keys.

Among my people, it is a tradition that the first things you bring into a new home are bread and salt. The bread is to ensure that you'll always be able to offer hospitality to others, and the salt ensures that you won't know want while you live there.

Oh man.

I think it will work really well.

Big News!

2008-08-18T23:12:00.000-07:00

Okay.

August 29th.

It's a new Vin Diesel movie!

It's been a long time since Vin (Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss) Diesel has had a movie in theaters, so I'd best go over the First Rule Of Singletails.

Now as opposed to some other weblogs you might read, you will notice that here at Singletails, we do not subject you to advertising nor do we have a tip jar. There's only one small thing that you as a reader are asked to do: go see every movie that Vin (Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss) Diesel appears in. And then, when the DVD release happens, you have to go buy the DVD or download the whole movie on iTunes.

That's all that's asked of you.

You see, I am totally obsessed with Vin (Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss) Diesel. For a full four minutes on screen in XXX, he was wearing handcuffs. In Pitch Black, he spends the first sequences of the movie restrained into this frame kind of thing. And then in the Pitch Black prequel, whatever the hell it was called, he was threatened with being turned into an obedient, mindless zombie. All of these work nicely into my fantasy of having Vin chained and helpless at my feet, his face contorted with impotent rage while I douse him with a nice load of my piss. I want to see Vin (Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss) Diesel have a long, long, long career in movies. Especially action movies. (It's okay if you missed the movie where he plays the Navy Seal guy who's being a babysitter since that's not exactly my genre of choice.) But if he doesn't do big box office, he'll be back to working as a doorman which does me no good whatsoever.

Thus, all I ask of you in return for the many pleasures of reading SingleTails is that you sit through 90 minutes of Vin.

So make your plans now for August 29th.

Here. Now.

2008-08-18T20:04:00.000-07:00

At 10 in the morning, it was already hot in Phoenix. I can see palm trees outside my window in the lot of the car dealership across the street. Four hours west on Route 10 and I’ll be in Palm Springs.

But it sure feels to me like I’ve arrived.

In ways good and bad.

Phoenix strikes me as a hard-bitten and mean place. A get-out-of-my-way kind of place. It’s North Jersey with cactus.

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin West is here in Phoenix, or rather right next door in Scottsdale. I think I’ll head there as soon as I have a shower.

Quite the drive yesterday. I started out in Tucumcari and headed west. Ever onward to the West. Is there any part of New Mexico that isn’t so strikingly beautiful? If there is, I haven’t seen it. The red rocks, the pale gray-green of the sage, and the dark green of the juniper and piñon are just incredible. And everywhere these incredible mesas. With a wee bit less self-control, I would have left my car at the side of the highway and hiked off to climb to the top of a mesa a hundred times. Mountains don’t have that effect on me, but mesas sure do. What’s there? What’s at the top? Who else has been there? Did they leave any sign for those who would come after them?

I had lunch in Albuquerque, which is a much bigger city than I remembered it to be. My preconceived notion was to settling in to local fare in the mission-y old town of Albuquerque, but instead I ate at a kind of mall that seemed to be part of an attempt to start developing “Uptown” Albuquerque. While I ate, I watched the U.S. Olympic Baseball Team take on Cuba. I was in an airport in 2000 waiting for a connecting flight and saw the same match-up. It was the best baseball game I’ve ever seen. On the U.S. team were a bunch of kids just starting out and guys--some of them in their forties--who had spent their whole lives in the minor leagues and never made it to the Big Leagues. They were taking on the best baseball players that Cuba had to offer, and the pitcher was consistently throwing 93 mile an hour sliders. But giving it all they had, the U.S. team managed to squeak out a win. I especially felt for those older guys on the U.S. team: it was their last shot at glory and they pulled it out.

The current team didn’t seem to be so lucky. In the tenth inning, the cubans had two men on base when I left to get back on the road. I sometimes run into problems watching baseball in public. The pressure and the emotion and the drama get to be too much for me. I sit there choking on sobs, a mass of tics and spasms. But if I hear that the U.S. team won, I’ll be really sorry I left before the proverbial overweight woman sang.
Heading west from Albuquerque brought more beautiful landscape, with the addition of beds of these black, volcanic rocks. A lot of them together and you get mal pais, badlands. It’s a strange lunar landscape that the anasazi--the ancient inhabitants of New Mexico--looked upon with fear and reverence.

And I crossed the Continental Divide. As if the other demarcations of this trip weren’t enough--leaving Pennsylvania, crossing the Mississippi--now all the rivers are flowing in the same direction I’m headed, to the Pacific coast.

I made it to Flagstaff for dinner. I guess I should have known that Flagstaff serves as the south entrance to the Grand Canyon. But I didn’t. When I want to see the Grand Canyon, I’ll take a drive up from Palm Springs and spend some time with it. I wonder what role the Grand Canyon plays for people who live here in the West? I wonder if it’s akin to the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty for new yorkers: a place where you take friends and family visiting from out of town if you go there at all. I went to the top of the Empire State Building with my church youth group when I was eleven or twelve, but not once during the fourteen years I lived in the City. Not that I want to knock it! From what I hear it’s pretty cool. But it’s hard to determine to go somewhere that theoretically you could go anytime you want.

Dinner in Flagstaff was to be had at this great mexican restaurant. I knew it was going to be good because I had trouble finding a place in the parking lot. And it was good.

But after dinner, I checked Google Maps on my Blackberry (Mr. Pibb’s plus Red Vines = Mad Delicious!) and decided that I would be spending the night in Phoenix. Oh that I could rethink that. Interstate 17 between Flagstaff and Phoenix is apparently very scenic and makes a great drive. But at night when there’s a rain, that twisty, turning decent is a wee bit harrowing for unfamiliar drivers such as myself. I was thrilled to see silhouetted against the night sky those cactus (Sonoran? Segurro?) that I’ve really only seen in cartoons. And the almost-full moon looked beautiful over the mountains. But mostly I-17 was pretty harrowing. My hands were cramped from gripping the steering wheel for dear live.

But I did get to Phoenix and I did manage to find a Motel 6 to spend the night. Albeit a pretty crappy Motel 6. And in the morning light, I got a very bad impression of Phoenix, “the New L.A.”.

But the one sight along the way I decided to interrupt my journey for was located next door to Phoenix in Scottsdale: I wanted to visit Taliesin West.

And I’m glad I did. Now I guess I could get all guide-booky and wax poetic about Frank Lloyd Wright’s western partner to Taliesin in Wisconsin, but I won’t. Suffice it to say that Wright did a really great job when he himself was the client. So many of his ideas just made so much sense. Even to the crowd of people around me whose homes didn’t look much like Taliesin West.

After archi-tourism, I found a Starbucks and a burrito, then hit the road (this time I-10, my final interstate highway) and headed west.

Next stop: Palm Springs, California.

West of Phoenix, the Arizona desert gets kind of bleak. The drive was only four hours, but seemed to take forever, so great was my anticipation.

In the back seat of my jeep was my 120-year-old christmas cactus, the gift of an elderly friend of my Aunt Helen when I was about then years old. (The cactus was then 90.) When I had a consultation with my mover, I asked him how best to pack a live plant for a six day road trip. He told me that I might have trouble bringing it into California. They had a lot of rules about what you could and couldn’t bring into the state.

“Yeah,” I said, “But it’s not like they have a checkpoint at the border, right?”

Guess what! California totally has a check point at the border. And the nice young man in the uniform grilled me about the provenance of my christmas cactus. When I assured him that it was a houseplant and that it was in potting soil, he waved me through the gate. I breathed a sigh of relief. What the hell would I have done if he had confiscated my christmas cactus? I’m not sure. But it would have been ugly. I probably would have cried some.

For just about the first time the whole trip, I was pressing my luck with the speed limit, going four or five miles-an-hour over. And finally finally finally, after driving for six days straight, there was the exit for Palm Springs.

As though in a trance, I headed west on Vista Chino. After getting lost because I mistook Sunrise for Indian Canyon, I found my way to the Chaps Inn.

I had arrived.

Not too long ago, I saw that great movie set in Southern California, The Graduate , starring Dustin Hoffman. I’ve always been struck by the ending, y’know, after Ben interrupts Elaine Robinson’s wedding by pounding on the door and she makes a break for it and he locks everyone up in the church by putting the big cross through the bars on the door and they jump on a bus. But then, while Simon & Garfunkle sing in the background, there camera just watches their faces. I always thought that ending was so perfect. All along, you’re rooting for Ben and Elaine, and then, the boy gets the girl.

End of movie.

Roll the credits.

But no.

The ending, Ben and Elaine on the bus, begs the question: what the hell are they going to do now? They had barely had a conversation up to that point. What was to become of the romanticism that drove the plot? Would they find a J.O.P. and get married? Would they just live together? Would Elaine go back to Stamford? Would Ben get a job? Where would they live? Would they have kids?

And so, the end of the movie isn’t the ending at all. It’s just the beginning.

And that’s how I felt sitting in my jeep outside of the Chaps Inn. This isn’t the end of the journey; it’s just the beginning.

What happens next?

Well, what happened next was I went inside. The place was crowded. Bunches of guys sitting around on the deck chairs. It turned out that The 15, a leather club in SF, was having their annual sojourn in the desert that weekend. And omigosh! There was Peter F.! Peter is a man I first met at Inferno, although we didn’t quite meet then and there because as by reputation he was a man I revered, I fled from him. But over time, he and I developed a nice acquaintance with one another. It was wonderful to find him here waiting for me.

I stayed up talking for a bit, and then unloaded my jeep. Not just my overnight bag for a change. All of it. For the first time since Monday, I’d be staying in the same place more than one night. I would be here at the Chaps Inn for a while. Until I found an apartment, the place where I will live for the next two years here in Palm Springs.

The next morning, when I got up, everyone was already up and about. A few of the guys were locals, but most had come down from San Francisco. I told them all about moving to Palm Springs. It turns out that Peter spends the winters here. About eleven o’clock, I announced that I was hungry, so I was going to go take a shower and head out and find something to eat. I went into my room, crowded as it is with my worldly goods, sat down on the bed, laid back on the bed, and woke up five hours later.

At points, I would sort of wake up, and chide myself: what the hell? you had a good night’s sleep! you don’t need a nap! get the hell up and go get something to eat!

This happened three or four times, until I answered myself: this isn’t a nap. this is about you shutting down. this is a stress reaction. you take all the time you need.

When I finally woke up and got out of bed, I considered what had just happened, trying to discern what brought that on.

And I have a pretty good idea.

There I was, playing in the pool. Swimming underwater, turning summersaults, a casual lap here and there, looking up in the palm trees, letting myself drift into dreamy aquatic reverie. “It’s so beautiful here,” I thought, “Imagine: it’s a place people come for vacation, and I’m going to be living here.”

Uh oh.

Is that a good idea ever? I mean, you go to Disney and have a great time, but it probably wouldn’t be good for your soul to live the rest of your life in the Enchanted Kingdom, right?

Those misgivings faded, but they didn’t quite leave me.

I mean, I don’t think it’s totally off base. And moving to Palm Springs isn’t everybody’s idea of a great thing to do. Nothing much happens here. I don’t think there’s a Type A personality within a hundred mile radius. It’s not without it’s flaws and blemishes.

But I think after the past ~~seven months~~ ~~five years~~ ~~seven years~~ fourteen years or so, this could be the place where for two years anyway, I can take The Big Time Out.

I’d like to find a therapist. Or maybe a pastoral counselor.

I’ve got some stuff to work out.

What’s with these lingering resentments I still bear towards my Ex? Why does he loom so large? And that Dark Night Of The Soul I’ve been through job-wise? And man, do I still have some grieving to do about my father’s death. And losing Faithful Companion. And my sister, way back in 1999.

Maybe that five hour nap wasn’t about misgivings I had picking up and moving to Palm Springs. Maybe, now that the decks are cleared, now that I’m here in the desert, the place for reflection and self-evaluation, all my birds have suddenly come home to roost.

Best I get to know them while I can.

Land Of Enchantment

2008-08-15T06:25:00.000-07:00

Well good morning from Tucumcari, New Mexico!

Quite the day I had yesterday!

--interesting. For a minute there I couldn't remember where I spent last night. I know, not the first time, but usually the circumstances are different. But indeed, it was in Oklahoma. I was smiling to myself wondering how many other people in Oklahoma were tuning in to Project Runway. Anyway--

I left Tulsa yesterday morning and decided to try my hand at following Route 66 rather than I-40. This worked well for about an hour, and as the speed limit on 66 is 65 m.p.h., I made pretty good time. But 66 goes through little towns rather than around them. This made it interesting. I took bunches of pictures of Chandler, I think it was. And that perhaps was my downfall. I came into Chandler on Route 66 but when I came out of Chandler, after driving for about twenty minutes I realized that I was going South, not West. And that I hadn't seen a highway marker. It seemed to me the easiest thing to do would be to make a right so I was going West again.

And so I did.

Onto something called, if I recall, 990 Road.

What started out as a substantial looking road paved with cement slabs became less and less substantial with every mile. Soon, I was on a dirt road, going up hill and downhill. The clay on the roadbed was a beautiful shade of red. Now and then there would be a little farm house, but there definitely seemed to be a lot more cattle than people in this part of Oklahoma.

I consulted Google Maps on my Blackberry. (Mr. Pibbs plus Red Vines equals Mad Delicious!) Well actually, no I didn't. I had no signal, no wireless, no nothing. I was on my own.

Now Oklahoma isn't that complicated. It's basically two main roads bisecting the state, one north-south and one east-west. Go in one direction long enough and you'll hit something. So that's what I did. And sure enough, in no time at all (three hours), I was back on I-40. Since Route 66 runs alongside I-40, I could keep an eye on it without having to find my way through wee little towns every fifteen minutes.

My sister used to have a handy saying: Let's not and say we did!

It comes in handy.

On I-40, Oklahoma went by pretty quick. Soon enough, I was crossing the border into Texas. The welcoming sign that let me know this also pointed out, "We're proud of our President, George W. Bush."

I flashed back to going to Inferno in 2005. I refused to stop for gas in Ohio, running on fumes to the Indiana border. It was there fault that we had four more awful years of that idiot so I was intent on boycotting Ohio. Unfortunately, I didn't fill up before leaving Oklahoma--O that I had since they're only paying $3.37 a gallon there--and I couldn't boycott Texas.

Took me forever to get to Amarillo. And Amarillo was my goal, because that's where the Starbucks is. I was thinking lunch in Amarillo, but I hadn't had breakfast so hunger got the better of me. I decided to stop at the much advertised Cherokee Trading Post Restaurant, having been prompted to do so by countless billboards littering the highway. (I thought Lady Bird Johnson took care of that when she was first lady. Did Texas get some kind of a reprieve? Or is it just that they don't care? Assholes.)

The Cherokee Restaurant was a huge mistake.

Worst. Lunch. Ever.

And the worst roadfood I encountered on this trip.

I sat at the counter for about fifteen minutes before one of the waitresses saw an opportunity for a tip and took my order. And the place was dead mind you. It might have been confusing for them because none of them had bothered to bus any of the people who had left, so I was sitting at the counter surrounded by dirty dishes.

I ordered a Rueben. That's always safe. It's difficult to screw up a Rueben.

But at the Cherokee Trading Post Restaurant, they seemed to have found a way.

As we all know, a Rueben is corned beef, saur kraut, and russian dressing on rye, grilled, with mustard served on the side. That "we" does not include the staff of the Cherokee Trading Post Restaurant, who only got the corned beef, saur kraut, and the grilling part. My sandwich was slathered with mayonnaise and topped with american cheese. The really awful kind of american cheese. For sustenance, since after having to sit in a restaurant for forty minutes before I got food put in front of me, I was fucking starving, I had to extricate the corned beef from the sandwich and just eat that.

At the cash register, I was posed the question, "So how was everything today?"

When I said, "It was pretty awful," the reply came, "Well that's nice! You come back and see us again, y'hear?" and one of those sweet southern smiles. That brief interaction summed up everything I hate about the South.

"That's pretty unlikely," I said, and headed out the door.

Headed for Amarillo, and Starbucks.

On the road to Amarillo, I ran into some weather. As in pouring rain and hale.

When it broke, I was on the phone with Naphtali (you all got the memo that the Baron will henceforth be known as Naphtali, right?), and he was encouraging me in the strongest possible terms to take it easy for the next two years after all I've been through in the previous five and just concentrate on going to school. When he asked what was behind all of the Aaaahhh's and Omigod's on my end and I told him about the biblical weather I was driving through, Naphtali said that was God sending out a big What He Said so I should pay attention.

I informed both Naphtali and my Creator that this is indeed the plan.

In my musings way back when about After, one of the thoughts that occurred to me was to find a nice monastery somewhere and retire from the world and just be quiet for a while. Although this is not quite that, I'm using it for much the same purposes. I have earned at least two years of kick-back time.

The storm let up some, and I got back on the road again. The landscape had become much drier, wildflowers giving way to sage brush and such. And of course, the desert after the rain is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, those beautiful colors all coming to life.

In due time, I reached the outskirts of Amarillo, although I'm not convinced that Amarillo is anything but outskirts, since I didn't see a mass of tall buildings anywhere and it's pretty flat in those parts. And pretty easily, I found the Starbucks.

I got my venti iced quad no-ice latté and a Vivano and settled into one of the available comfy chairs. I thought about sitting out on their porch, but decided against it since the view offered was a Big Lots parking lot and a I-40. I looked up just in time to suddenly see all the porch furniture--tables, chairs, umbrella stands--suddenly swept to one side of the fenced in porch by a strong and sudden gust of wind.

I mean, it was like they were all just brushed aside by a giant invisible hand.

Huh. I'm in tornado alley here, right?

Just how memorable will this stop at the Starbucks be?

I saw in my mind's eye the Hollywood version of my journey westward, and how we'd all be stuck in that Starbucks in the middle of the Big Lots parking lot during the Mother Of All Tornados or something. There would be shattered glass as we all cowered behind the counter. Someone would almost get sucked out but we'd manage to drag them back in. We'd have to tie the green Starbucks aprons together to form a tether so we could rescue a child clinging for life to a utility pole out in the Big Lots parking lot.

And I have to say it came close, but not quite.

When the wind and rain abated for the second time that day, I headed deeper into Amarillo in search of dinner. And whaddya know? I found a nice little thai restaurant! Chicken pad thai is one of my don't-have-to-think-about-it foods: even when it's bad, it's not that bad, and the difference between bad pad thai and good pad thai is pretty negligible.

After dinner, I found my way back to I-40, which was a lot more complicated than it seemed it needed to be, and got back on the road with one goal in mind: get the hell out of Texas never to return.

And seventy miles later, I crossed the border into New Mexico, the land of enchantment.

I love New Mexico. It is, of course, the new home of my Ex of the awful seven-and-a-half years, and I'm not supposed to be here. But if you are able to visit and spend some time there, I encourage you to do so. It's beautiful and the people are great. Don't miss Acoma and Cañon de Chelly.

What if I run into my Ex? What would I say to him?

I thought about that on my drive into Tucumcari.

Isn't it interesting how the mind only seems to record injuries and insults in the memory? Remember that perfect day you had last October when the weather was beautiful and everything went great and you got a lot done and everybody you dealt with was pleasant and thoughtful? Of course you don't. It's gone. We never remember that. Memory is like an old Techni-Color movie, where the blues and greens--all the sweetness and tenderness and kindness--fade to gray, but the oranges and reds--the hurt and pain and misery--remain vivid. Probably the result of evolution, since remembering the sources of pain for future reference is a good way to stay alive.

And so it is with my relationship with my Ex. It was bad, but it couldn't have been that bad. There must have been times with him when it was just perfect and beautiful and I felt loved and cherished.

But they're all gone.

No doubt, he has much the same story to tell about me, although from a slightly different perspective. His narrative would be about betrayal and deception and cruelty. The me that lives in my memory would no doubt be unrecognizable to me. Just as the him that I carry around with me is a distorted version of the genuine article.

(Although let's remember: he's the one that dug up the cremains of my cat and sent them to me scattered in with a bunch of old clothes and papers in a garbage bag. Who does that??)

Well, enough.

Onward through New Mexico.

I was planning on spending tonight in Albuquerque, but I'm thinking I might press on to Arizona. It's Friday, and my reservation in Palm Springs at the guest house where I'll be staying doesn't start until Sunday. So it seems I have a day to kill.

Where will the road take me? I'm interested to find out.

Where The Wind Comes Sweeping Down The Plain!

2008-08-13T21:18:00.000-07:00

...and where eleven year olds seem to have taken over the State Department of Transportation.

Greetings from Tulsa, Oklahoma!

I'm very excited. By my calculations, there are 1,320 miles behind me and 1,320 miles ahead of me. In other words, Tulsa sits halfway between Point Pleasant and Palm Springs.

But driving here is totally whack. The speed limit signs read as follows:

MAXIMUM SPEED 75
MINIMUM SPEED 50
No Tolerance

A minimum speed of 50? I was afraid to replay songs on my iPod lest it make me drop into the low speed danger zone. And I'm guessing that the "No Tolerance" thing means that they're So Cereal.

I was hoping to be spending the night a bit farther down the road in Oklahoma City, but it was not to be. As I was passing through St. Louis, I wanted to spend some time with my old friend GlovedTop. GT was one of my only internet meet-ups that worked, all those years ago when I was living in Jersey City. We had a standing date to go to the beach on the Sunday between Session A and Session B of Inferno, although that hasn't worked out so well in the past few years as he and I never seemed to make Inferno at the same time.

One of the absolute hightlights of my visit with GT was the tour of his amazing dungeon. boys, if you are ever in St. Louis, or if it's at all possible for you to get to St. Louis, then spending some time in GT's dungeon--like maybe chained up in his cell or lashed to his St. Andrew's Cross--will sure make your trip memorable in ways that seeing the Gateway Arch or having a cement from Ted Drewe's won't.

There was one fly in the ointment, though. When I pulled up outside of Stately GT Manor in Compton Heights, St. Louis' up-and-comingest up and coming neighborhood, it occurred to me that parking my Jeep Liberty on the street overnight packed with my most valuable possessions would not be a great idea. After consulting with GT, he made some phone calls and we were on our way to the new home of Mark, yet another talented handsome sadist living in St. Louis. Mark was just back from visiting his boy in Seattle. The three of us repaired to a diner--possibly on Euclid, as I recall from previous visits that's the street where things are hap'nin'--where I had a really nice porkloin with gravy.

The next morning, GT went to the local AAA office and picked up several pounds of information on following historic Route 66 on my westward journey. I'm torn between wanting to make that trip and wanting to get to Palm Springs as quickly as possible, but my AAA Trip Tick book will definitely be put to use at some point. I am SO going to join AAA at the first available opportunity.

Finally, I managed to hit the road. I wasn't exactly following Route 66, but for most of the trip down I-44 through Missouri, it was right there, off to my right. I wanted to get to Oklahoma as soon as possible. (How many times have those words been strung together in a sentence? I'm betting not many.) But y'see, I've been through Ohio and Indiana and Illinois and spent some time in Missouri--once almost losing my life on a canoe trip in the Ozarks--and Oklahoma represented the first place on my westward journey where I had never been before.

And here I am. I stopped for dinner at a Pizza Hut in Vitalia, a town that smelled like a cow barn. Which was a good thing! I love cow barns! And grasshoppers seem to be everywhere. I've got a pretty thick coating of them on my windshield.

Anyway. I had a good night's sleep and I'm off on the road again.

Next stop: Albuquerque!

I am keenly aware on this leg of the journey that I've been banned from New Mexico. I lost it in a divorce. When I left my Ex of seven and a half years, he moved to New Mexico, a place where we had spent a memorable vacation, although it was probably memorable for each of us in different ways. (I remember him screaming at me--again--when after a long day of driving I didn't want to jump up and go visit Georgia O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch fifteen minutes before they closed; and I remember getting a phone call letting me know that my sister had died and that we'd have to cut our vacation there short.) He told me that he was moving to New Mexico in part to get away from me, and threatened that if he ever found me there he'd kill me.

So let's hope that he's home watching television tonight.

Indiana's Early Morning Dew

2008-08-11T20:25:00.000-07:00

Kudos to you if you can identify the pop cultural reference in the title of this post! And if you can, I wouldn't admit to that if I were you as it's sure indication that back in junior high school, you were as big a freak as I was.

Anyway.

So I'm on the road.

Last night, I drove Naphtali back down to ~~Chestnut Hill~~ the C'hill, then came back to the Ol' Homestead. After watching Mad Men (did you see Don Draper wipe his hands with his napkin after he fingered Bobbie???), I puttered a bit then went to bed. Save for the bed, the house is all but empty. Just me, knocking around in there alone.

I woke up this morning and loaded up the car. Everything I wanted to take fit, and I still have good sight lines looking out the back windows. Even my 120 year old Christmas cactus is snug and secure, although I don't doubt that it will be pretty stressed by the ride. (And in that, the Christmas cactus is not alone, huh?)

So. Nothing to do now but hit the road.

I said a brief prayer, asking for safety on the road, no rain, that kind of thing. But somehow I wasn't quite ready to take my leave. And then, I was inspired.

I went back to the bedroom that had been my father's smoking room, the walls freshly painted (over a couple of coats of Kilz). I opted for a nice parchment color, which is a little inside joke where I'm the only one on the inside: y'see, it's roughly the color the smoke from my father's cigars had turned the walls. I knocked on the open door.

"Hey Dad, I'm heading out now. Not sure when I'll be back."

That little scene had played itself out hundreds of times over the past five years. Whether I was going to work, to NYC, to the ~~SuperFresh~~ StoopidFresh, or off to Inferno for a week.

My father's inevitable reply: Do you have to go? Delivered mock pleadingly, but not too mock. He was serious.

And so I answered. "Yeah, Dad. I do have to go. It's time for me to go."

I paused.

"But Kathy, Kathleen, Ruby, Mother, Nana and Pop will keep you company. You'll be alright."

I choked up at the mention of my deceased sister, my stepmothers and mother, and his parents.

With tears in my eyes now, I headed out into the hallway and towards the kitchen. I called out to Faithful Companion, and shouted encouragingly, "Cartrip!"

He knew that word. He loved that word. A ride in the car. Off to smell New Smells and explore New Places and maybe meet New Dogs and New Places. Very exciting for my little brown eyed boy. I always loved his eagerness to be piled into the back of my jeep and head out to parts unknown with me.

I wasn't going to leave him behind. I had promised him that he'd come with me to the desert. That he'd have the chance to prick up his ears listening to the howling of the coyotes. Since I collected them from the vet when I returned from my trip back in June, his cremains (what an awful neologism) have been sitting in the back of my car. I wasn't going to forget about my boy-boy.

I could almost see him, standing there in the kitchen, tail wagging, looking up at me with those black eyes of his.

And so we set off.

How to get to the Pennsylvania Turnpike? I had thought to go out Ferry Road to 309 and pick it up at Fort Washington. But as I headed out the driveway, I changed my mind. Instead, I went through Doylestown. I drove by Wuperior Soodcraft, recognizing half the cars in the parking lot as I went by. The guys had just headed back in from the morning break at 9:30. And I stopped at Starbucks to get an iced quad venti no-ice latté to speed me on my way. And there on the porch, by an amazing coincidence, was a crew of people I've been hanging out with for the past five years.

"Drew! You're still here?"

I'm heading out as we speak. This is it for me and Starbucks.

Best wishes and good luck all around.

Then it was down 611 and onto the Turnpike at Willow Grove, heading West. I passed Reading and Harrisburg and all those little towns with names I've never heard of in Western Pennsylvania. I was on my way, stopping to replenish the latté at various Service Plazas. I cut south on I-70, and crossed the Monongahela and then the Ohio. And that was it for Pennsylvania.

Ah, the broad, green Ohio Valley.

Dinner the first night was great. When traveling on I-70, be sure to take Exit 66 and stop in South Vienna, Ohio, at the barbecue place. You make a right at the end of the ramp and it's right there on the right hand side, just past the Hardee's. Their pulled pork was awesome. And so were the potato salad and the collard greens. And the sweet tea was perfect. Somehow the sign over the door saying, "To God Be The Glory" was my first indicator that I was in for a treat. A half-and-half combination of their sweet sauce and their hot sauce, in the yellow and red squeeze bottles respectively, were spot on.

After barbecue, I ran into some construction back on I-70, and traffic slowed to a crawl. I noted wryly that no one was cutting ahead by driving up the shoulder as would drivers would be doing in droves in and around NYC. But then I thought too soon. Up the shoulder came a grey-green Buick Le Sabre. He came to parallel with me and put his turn signal on. I wasn't about to let him cut in. I kept my jeep inches from the bumper of the car in front of me. But I realized that Mr. Buick LeSabre was still cutting in. His car was just inches away from mine. He was going to hit me. I swerved into the gravel and relented. And laid on the horn to let him know I was pissed.

He had New York tags.

At this point I'm furious. Only the fact that I was in the Mid-West, where people in passing cars had cordially nodded "hello" to me as we crawled past each other kept me from full-blown roadrage. I wanted to position my left headlight so it would be shining right in his side mirror and put the high beams on but worried that I'd annoy other cars ahead of me. I wanted to continue to lay on the horn, but how annoying would that be? And so I just snarled and cursed with the windows up.

After we passed the construction, he hit the accelerator and swerved in and out of the trucks that are limited to 55 m.p.h. by Ohio's split speed limits and lost me.

It took me a while to calm down. Reminding myself that I was going to live in a place where I would leave encounters with behavior like that far, far behind did the trick.

I passed the time thinking up slogans for my adopted home town...

Welcome to Palm Springs! It's beautiful, and nothing much happens here.

Welcome to Palm Springs! Experience Life in the Slow Lane!

Welcome to Palm Springs! That sun really wears you out so don't try to do to much.

Welcome to Palm Springs! It's a friendly town, but don't expect much more than that because we can't be bothered.

Interesting. I'm going to Palm Springs to work, but in a way, I'm going there to retire. But retire from what exactly? I'm still going to be filling my days and nights with stuff that I already do and enjoy doing. I've even agreed to load down this hot muscle-y boy of a guy I had breakfast with back in June once I get settled. And once my 200 pounds of chain arrives courtesy of Allied Van Lines. I think the difference will be that I'll be totally mellow and chill and relaxed about the whole thing.

Or that's my hope anyway.

And tonight, here I am at a Days Inn in Richmond, Indiana, just west of the Ohio state line. Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, I'll get on the road again and head to St. Louis, where I'll be paying a visit to my buddy GlovedTop, with whom I spent a Fourth of July weekend riding on the back of his Harley a few years ago.

So it's happening. I'm Moving To California.

Five Days And Counting

2008-08-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

Eeeeeeeeee!

My life is in boxes. Everything all stored away. Tomorrow the movers come to put everything I'm not taking with me in my Jeep into storage until the haul it cross country to my new place in Palm Springs.

The Baron has been staying with me for the past week to help out with the moving. Given that the Baron has some Very Strong Opinions and Firm Beliefs about moving and packing, as he does about many things, this has been taxing at times. But slowly but surely, box by box, To Do list item by To Do list item, things are falling into place.

It is, of course, bittersweet. This can all be summed up in terms of sweet corn: I can't believe I'm moving to Palm Springs just as sweet corn is coming into season!

Ah, sweet corn. The paramount experience of Summer. There is nothing better than sweet corn, a dozen cobs of Silver Queen, glistening with butter and salt. It's been hot a dry this summer. The corn is a little bit behind. The local rule of thumb is "knee-high by July," and it wasn't. But something tells me this will be a good year for sweet corn.

And I don't doubt that sweet corn will be available at my local Von's in Palm Springs. But I'll pass it by. Just like I did sweet corn at the D'Agostino's in NYC and the StoopidFresh (SuperFresh) in Jersey City. If that's the only sweet corn you've ever had in your life, than I have nothing but pity for you, you pathetic sonofabitch. You have truly missed out.

Because you see, the instant that ear of corn is plucked from the stalk, the sugars in the corn start converting into starch. So every moment it goes by, it becomes less and less sweet. When sweet corn isn't sweet any more, around these parts it gets fed to livestock. But not people. And not served up on the table with butter and salt.

My stepmother had the phone numbers of all the local corn farmers. And they had her number. And they'd give her a call: "Mrs. Kramer, we're bringing in corn tomorrow morning. We should be coming in off the fields at about eight o'clock." And when they came in, there would be my stepmother, waiting with the trunk of her car open. After it was loaded and payment was made, she'd drive home like a bat out of hell. My father would be waiting, with every burner on the stove holding a big pot of boiling water. When she got home, they'd set to work, shucking the corn and getting it on the boil as if lives were at stake. (As soon as it's boiled, the sugar-to-starch process stops.) After it boiled for about seven-and-a-half minutes, it would go into the sink, filled with ice water, and then they'd cut it off the cob and it would go right into the freezer.

When the call came in the afternoon, that would mean we'd have corn for dinner. During the season, this would go down sometimes six days out of the week. Sweet corn is not something you get tired of. My stepmother would put away a mere six ears, and my father and I would finish off about a dozen each. And the corn in the freezer assured that often throughout the year there would be corn fritters with applebutter, chicken corn soup, corn chowder, corn as a side dish, corn relish, corn with succotash.

For the past five years, I've done my best to keep up my family's obsession with sweet corn. On my Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter tables, there's always been corn that I put up the previous Summer. And even though my father could only eat a half dozen ears, we would have it for dinner during the season as often as I could get it fresh.

I wouldn't be surprised if as I drove down to get on the Pennsylvania Turnpike heading west, I passed a sign outside of Helrick's Farm that announced "First Corn Of The Season!!! White and Yellow. Yes! We Have Silver Queen!", just to remind me what I'm missing out on.

All my life, I've taken it for granted that I'd have sweet corn in the Summer. And so this Summer, sweet corn has come to represent everything I'm leaving behind. The Jersey Shore, TastyCakes, Rosenberger's Iced Tea, Queen Anne's Lace and cornflowers, spring peepers, maple leaves, the Delaware River... All those things that I barely notice because I've been seeing them my whole life.

In the desert, everything will be new, I'll be seeing it all with fresh eyes.

And one more thing.

When I find an apartment, one of the first things I plan to do is go out and get myself a kumquat tree. Or bush. Or whatever.

When I was young, for a few years I went to a local Mennonite Church. One Sunday, some members of the parish had recently returned from a trip to Florida, and they brought with them several crates of kumquats. The kids gathered around, "What are they?"

We were not put at ease upon learning the name, which sounded to us like something profane and dirty. And we were even more tentative when it was explained to us that you don't peel kumquats, you put them in your mouth whole. And there was a trick to eating them: if you took a little bite, you'd get all of the bitterness of the skin in your mouth. Rather, you put the kumquat back in your mouth between your upper and lower molars and bit down hard. I was one of the first to take the plunge. My mouth filled with tangy sweetness.

I liked kumquats. Weird and exotic as they were.

A lot.

When I visited my friend John in San Diego last year, there out by the garage he had a kumquat tree sitting in a big pot. And kumquats were in season. And I spent a lot of time standing there, picking off kumquats and plopping them in my mouth, calling to John when I got a really good, sweet one.

At my home in Palm Springs, I will have a kumquat tree.

And so, I'm trading sweet corn for kumquats. Life offers its little compensations to us, no?

*sigh*

Just got a call from the movers. They'll be here between 9:30 and ten o'clock tomorrow morning.

D Minus 13 Days And Counting

2008-07-28T20:32:00.000-07:00

Whoa!

I got hella done today!

Yesterday was my final day wearing the fabled Orange Apron at Ho(t)me(n) Depot. It was bittersweet. My department head came in on the last day of his vacation to say goodbye and wish me well; everyone in Kitchen and Bath gathered around to let me know what a great guy I was to work with. An assistant manager gave me a hug.

Then I went home to watch the Season Two opener of Mad Men and have a total stress reaction.

I mean, Geez! This is it! No turning back now.

I was worried that I'd spend the day sitting around in my pajamas and pulling my lower lip with my index finger to make a "b-bih-b-bih-b-bih-b-bih" sound. That was circumvented by having to get my lazy ass out of the house to go and take my car to get the AC fixed. While it was in the shop, I went and sat at Starbucks at State and Main in Doylestown.

Oh. And I brought the local phone book with me.

And hence: I got hella done today!

To wit: tomorrow a guy from My Handyman is coming to my house (alas, not Marshall, the hot one) to fix the tile in the back bathroom, replace a the wall mounted air conditioner with one that works, and clean the gutters; next Monday, Ben will be here from the moving company to give me an estimate on what it will take to move my stuff to Palm Springs; my AWOL painter, Gus, is back on board and will be here to finish up Wednesday through Saturday; tomorrow night the owner of Do It Now Services who previously cleaned up my backyard back in the Spring will come by and put in a bid to clean out the tenant house next door; I figured out a way to sell my dad's '96 Ford Taurus with a V8 engine and only 35,000 miles on it from here in Pennsylvania; I bought an air conditioner for the guy from My Handyman tomorrow (not Marshall the hot one) so he'll have something to work with; and returned a few phone calls.

Unfortunately, one thing I didn't manage to accomplish was getting AC in my Jeep Liberty. It seems I need a new compressor, and they didn't have a new one lying around. So I'll have to take care of that anon.

And slowly but surely, things are making their way into boxes and the boxes are getting stacked in the livingroom for transport to my storage space.

Every day I'm a little bit closer to Palm Springs.

And here's an interesting thought that occurred to me: I'm going to die in Palm Springs.

Don't be alarmed.

I'm not talking within a few days of my arrival. Or months or years. Hopefully not for a long time.

But I just have this peaceful sense that one day--hopefully far in the future--I'll breathe my last in the Coachella Valley.

I've never felt this way before about any place I lived. Dying in Philadelphia? Can you imagine anything worse? But what about dying in NYC? Auspicious, surely. But complicated, too, right? I mean, unless you have a lot of money, it would mean a really bumpy ride on a guerney down the four flights of stairs that lead to your cramped walk-up. And although being buried out of the Church of St. Luke in the Fields is a nice thought, buried where exactly? Or, more correctly, spread where? On the tracks of the subway line you rode most often? Having my ashes spread in the Fire Island Pines has its appeal, but on whom could I prevail to tote the little box of me out the LIE, down to the ferry, across the Great South Bay, and so on to find a nice spot for my eternal repose? And Bucks County would be a nice place to die, but I've always felt that beautiful as it is, I don't belong here. No one I love or care about lives in Bucks County. Not that I know many people in Palm Springs, but I sense that will change. It seems so permeable there. Something of a "Welcome, Stranger!" vibe to the place.

But dying in Palm Springs just works. It seems like such a pleasant place to spend your last days. And I imagine friends and acquaintances gathering after the service over chardonnay at poolside somewhere. And it's a short drive out into the beautiful desert for the spreading o' the ashes. And if at the end of my life, I'm in reduced circumstances, I can't help but feel that California State Government would just be a little bit more benevolent than New York or Pennsylvania. That from some quarter I'd hear, "Don't worry about that, Mr. Kramer, we're taking care of that down at the office."

But overall, I feel like I'm going home. Like John Denver to the Colorado Rockies. Y'know, "Its like going home again to a place you've never been."

I'm here in Bucks County for thirteen more days. And then, I'm going home. Where the heart is. Where one day I shall die.

Media Trifecta

2008-07-22T10:39:00.000-07:00

Can you handle it???

I'm not sure I can.

'Kay. Last week we got the opener for Season Five of Project Runway. This Sunday, there's the premiere of Mad Men on AMC. And guess what? Coming soon (early September maybe?) is the next volume of Heroes. So there will indeed be a period when basically the only things I care about on television are going to be running simultaneously.

This is great!

Or is it?

I can see myself demanding of the front desk clerk of the Red Roof Inn in Colorado Springs or wherever, "Do I get Bravo in my room?" And then, of course, there's the whole issue of there I am, the new guy in town in Palm Springs, squandering that New Guy In Town mystique by staying home and watching television three nights a week. And if getting connecting to cable is as much of an ordeal in Palm Springs as it is in NYC (truth: right in front of me, the cable guy turns around, whips out his dick, and takes a piss in a pot of impatiens in my back yard. And no, it totally wasn't "hot."), then there might be a lot of desperate screaming and pleading on the phone ("I can't get AMC and it's already seven o'clock! Please! I'll do anything! Please send out a technician! Please!")

Still, all these changes... New town, new men, new climate, new church, new place to live, new tragedies and triumphs... It will be good to have some constants in my life. Constants such as Tim Gunn, Don Draper, and Hiro Nakamura.

And 'bastian and I have had some lengthy phone conversations concerning Heroes. When I saw the first promo for Volume Three, I pictured us somehow getting together to watch, rapt as the episode unfolded, with 'bastian down at my boots. If I was more adept at the internet, maybe I could host a Mad Men or Project Runway Finale viewing party on craigslist or something as a way of meeting new people when I get settled in Palm Springs.

But we'll see.

Make it work!

When Cakes Go Wrong

2008-07-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

Here's a weblog devoted entirely to bad cake decoration. I think once or twice I've come close, but overall I managed to avoid anything this bad.

Columbus-St. Louis-Wichita-Denver-Albuquerque-Sedona

2008-07-18T20:57:00.000-07:00

First anxiety attack of this endeavor! Right there in the middle of Ho(t)me(n) Depot! All of a sudden I just thought, "Are you crazy? Going back to college? That'll never work!"

It didn't even slow me down much, little less give me pause. I don't know that it's about the wisdom of my plans or the lack thereof, but it's more about what a huge deal this is. I've left one place where I was comfortable and secure and headed off into the unknown before in my life--when I went to college, when I moved to Philadelphia after college, when I moved to NYC from Philadelphia, when I left NYC to come back here five years ago--and I took all of those in stride. But adventures of this are not without some degree of self-doubt.

Largely this wee little anxiety attack evaporated when it was replaced by another thought: it will all begin with me driving across the country.

This is something I've wanted to do since I was in high school, when I first read Kerouac's On The Road. I've always loved road trips, setting off, music cued, a full tank of gas.

I don't move particularly fast. I rarely can resist a sign indicating there's a Starbucks or some quirkily named diner at the next exit. In a pinch I'll grab fast food for lunch, but I much prefer to go riding around some small town somewhere looking for a local sandwich shop. And, or course, I always stop for barbecue. And once I get west of the Mississippi, I'll be hoping for a nice steakhouse for dinner.

And this will be my first trip aided by the Google Maps feature on my Blackberry. I only just discovered the possibilities when I was in California back in June, there you are, through the wonders of GPS, a little blue dot moving your way along the map.

So cool.

And a wee bit less to worry about since I'll have my route all mapped out for me. And that will mean it will just be pure driving, clearing my head, leaving me free to enjoy the passing scenery of forests and fields and climbing up one side of the Rockies and down the other.

And So It Begins

2008-07-16T23:02:00.001-07:00

Good thing I was handled a challenge at work tonight, because being on the schedule to close meant that I would be missing the opener of Season Five of Project Runway.

O! The injustice of it all!

I broke all the speed limits on the way home and managed to watch the last half hour on the re-broadcast. A couple of pretty annoying contestants, but mostly a pretty impressive group. At the 1 a.m. re-broadcast, I learned something pretty interesting: not only do I like the designs of one of the contestants, I own one... two... three... four pieces designed by one of the Project Runway contestants.

Truth!

Y'see, Joe Faris is the designer for Schott Brothers. I came by my first Schott Perfecto leather MC jacket when I was eighteen years old. I bought it off my college roommate. It took a beating over the years (back in my ACT UP days, there was this fad of putting stickers on the back of your leather jacket and unfortunately the stickers take off the finish). I replaced it in 2001 with a new Schott Perfecto jacket which I found on eBay. It has this amazing leatherwork of Old Glory on the back. The leatherwork is amazing. So then, a few years ago, I was in Dave's Army/Navy Store in NYC and they had these great nylon cargo pants with an orange fleece zip up hoodie. They are so way cool. So that's four Joe Faris designed clothes.

So Go Joe Faris!

Joe Faris rocks!

And I think his pasta dress was pretty cool, too.

Ricotta Cheesecake

2008-07-14T08:02:00.000-07:00

Here are the components of the cheesecake...

For the cheesecake:
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons finely grated lemon peel
1 8-ounce packages cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 cup whole-milk ricotta cheese
1 large egg

You combine the sugar and lemon juice until the sugar is dissolved, then add the cream cheese and the ricotta and finally the egg, whipping it until it's nice and light. Then it's 18 minutes in a pre-heated oven at 425°. And, of course, using a graham cracker crust.

Enjoy!

Not Again!

2008-07-11T18:19:00.000-07:00

Omigosh.

In order to get my dual associates degrees in Construction Management and Architectural Drafting at the College of the Desert, I'm going to have to have four credits of gym.

No, really.

Now probably, since this is the 21st Century and all, they probably offer things like weight training and yoga and ballroom dancing and such. But I'm having a fun time imagining being forced to play flag football and medicine ball soccer where you're on those little scooters and having to climb the rope for the President's Physical Fitness Test and such. And having to wear the regulation white gym shorts and a tshirt or else you get marked as "Unprepared."

And stuffing people in lockers. Interestingly, these days I'd be much more likely to be the stuffer as opposed to the stuffee. Although it would all be very Safe, Sane, and Consensual and such.

The Future Is Now

2008-07-07T22:33:00.001-07:00

Oh jiminy crickets.

Here I was berating myself for being so lazy today. Work yesterday was mind-numbing. And I forged on through the day thinking about My Day Off. Which would be today. A day to do all that work on the house, a day to take my car in for the ol' fluids, belts, and filters thing, a day to get to the gym for a good workout without having to worry about rushing out of there to get to work.

First off, I totally overslept this morning. I was sleeping for ten solid hours. My alarm had ceased to go off when I finally got up. When I did finally get up, it was like moving around with a trailer in tow. Everything seemed to be beyond my grasp. I did manage to clean up the kitchen some, a wee bit of a disaster as I rushed out the door on Saturday without cleaning up after my baking. But then that seemed to exhaust me an awful lot as I decided to take a brief nap. None too brief as it turned out, as I woke up at 6:55 p.m., about five minutes before I was due to head down to Dilly's to meet up with my buddy Michael Michael Motorcycle and his new boyfriend. I called, apologizing and headed down there. At Dilly's MMM was nowhere to be seen. A message was waiting for me when I finally checked my cell phone (forgotten in the car when I got home from work yesterday) asking if we could postpone till Wednesday.

I drove to Starbucks in Doylestown. Best to unwind a bit on the porch.

And I got to thinking.

So. So you're going to enroll at the College of the Desert. So that would probably be about the first week of September. So that means that you'll want to be in Palm Springs about August 15th so you have two weeks to find an apartment and such. And since it will be about a week to drive out there, you best be hitting the road around the 10th...

And so on.

Funny thing that. I make the decision about what to do in September and it has all kinds of implications for today, July 7th, 2008. Implications that I hadn't thought threw at all. Really.

Holy hell.

So it all just sort of swept over me in waves, all of it sinking in.

And gosh, no wonder I had trouble getting going today.

Duh.

I was kind of in shock.

Okay.

So taking a Big Deep Breath.

"Take each day as it comes." That insight has gotten me through the past four months. Just focus on what you have to do today. And today, there's not a lot I have to do to make sure I'm sitting in class bright eyed and bushy tailed at the College of the Desert on September 2nd. In fact, nothing I have to do really to make that happen until July 14th, a week away. At that point, I'll need to give my two weeks notice at Ho(t)me(n) Depot. And then the machinery starts to whirr and the gears start turning. So I have one more week of being in this interstitial mode. For one week, seven days, it'll just be the same ol' same ol' get up, go to work, come home, make dinner, hey-what's-up-y'know-not-much.

Anyway.

It's late. I work tomorrow. Time to get to bed.

And tomorrow I'll see about taking my jeep in for the fluids, belts, and filters deal.

Take each day as it comes.

First Saturday In July

2008-07-07T09:49:00.000-07:00

Some men love their country, some men love their dog, some men love their guns, some men love their trucks, some men love their jobs. I love, or have loved, all of those things. But right now, what I really Really REALLY love is my KitchenAide Stand Mixer. I call him Big Guy, and he has changed my life. Ain't NOBODY got cake batter lighter and fluffier than me. And ask me about my home made butter!

Bright and early Saturday morning, I gave Big Guy a work out. The planned dessert this year was a ricotta cheese cake with graham cracker crust topped with fresh strawberries. And oh man, I am so saving that recipe. Nothing could be easier. You mix up cream cheese, ricotta, lemon juice and lemon zest, and some sugar, put it into your cheese cake tin (or tins, in my case), and bake it for eighteen minutes at 425° and there you go. As my sister used to say, "Boom. Done."

And I kept the cheesecakes in the tins to make them easier to transport.

Driving out to DogTopper and JPZapper's farmhouse in Pottsgrove I had the iPod set to my Orange Mix (upbeat songs in a major key). There was rain at times, but just enough to wet the grass and spot my windshield and have me close the moonroof, only to open it again in a minute or two when it stopped. In no time at all, I was climbing up the driveway, spitting stones behind me.

Very cool.

First task at hand was to plate my dessert, and luckily there were some guys hanging out in the dining room who could offer appreciative oooohs and ahhhhs. Then, I put my cheesecake tins back in my jeep and joined the party.

The crowd changes yearly, always a mix of guys I know and guys I don't. Very quickly, I was in the swing of things, eating chicken and hotdogs and chatting and chatting up. With the guys I know, it was the first time I had seen them since my father died, so there were expressions of condolences and inquiries about how I'm doing.

And how am I doing?

Okay. I'm doing okay. Working a lot at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, getting the house ready to go on the market.

And oh yeah, I'm moving to Palm Springs.

Having to say that over and over and over again had the effect of making it really sink in.

I'm moving to Palm Springs.

As in, I'm leaving the East Coast and moving 2,600 miles away to Palm Springs, California. DogTopper and JPZapper's farm will no longer be an hour and fifteen minutes away. It will require travel by plane and such. It'll be a Whole Deal.

Well, gosh.

And another realization was that if it's my intention to be settled when I start school in September, and if it's now July, then that means I'll be leaving Next Month.

Omigosh.

Holy Cow.

These realizations more or less went down as background. Being surrounded by hot mostly shirtless men ensured that I wouldn't be distracted by heavy rumination. And besides, there was the hot tub. I spent, as per usual, a lot of time in the hot tub, talking with DogTopper about all those contemporary art museums that seem to be cropping up in the Midwest. DogTopper has recently visited Milwaukee's (which he liked a lot), and Denver's, done by Daniel Liebeskind, which he liked not so much. I mentioned the Dia as pretty much my ideal: an old space repurposed, and a Nineteenth Century industrial space (schwing!) at that.

After the hot tub, we all got busy in the dungeon and various outbuildings.

This year, there was not so much BDSM going on. A Master and slave couple did some great shibari that was fun to watch, and DogTopper did this amazing scene with a very hot man that had this beautiful, slow-motion underwater quality to it.

Last year, I noticed that it all seemed to be about PBJs, as in Power Blow Jobs, where there's much choking and gagging and even vomit involved. This year, not so much. This year, it was all about Ass Sex. Lots and lots of Ass Sex. Ass Sex as though it had just been invented that night. Ass Sex everywhere. Driven, hard-thrusting Ass Sex. Aw FugYEAH Daddy Ass Sex. There was even Hand Shake Ass Sex, like when you stick it up his hole and ride a little bit by way of introducing yourself. No matter where you looked, there was Ass Sex.

Now, how much fun was that?

Lots.

Or more appropriately, Loads.

Has there already been a porn movie titled "Loads Of Fun?" Has that been taken? Probably so, right? No matter, JPZapper and DogTopper's party was definitely Loads Of Fun.

Now, if'n you go to JPZapper and DogTopper's First Saturday In July party sometime, stay over night. There's this great breakfast thing that happens. Bring a tent to pitch on the lawn or sack out on one of the mattresses up in the attic. Tragically, as I had to be at work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot at noon the next day, there would be no such breakfast pleasures for me.

But just when I was thinking that I had shot my wad, both literally and figuratively, and was pretty much done for the night, along comes Datt, of Datt and Male fame, getting all cuddly and puppy-ish.

Perfect.

We kind of snuggled for a bit, and then I said, "I would really enjoy a backrub right now."

And Datt responded, "I would really enjoy giving a backrub right now."

And we moved over to the wrestling mat and Datt got to work on me.

Okay. I've got some Huge News that will no doubt rock the leather community internationally: Datt, famed as an exquisitely submissive man, has lurking somewhere deep within him an Evil Vicious Top just waiting to be released to wreck havoc on an unsuspecting world.

It's true!

I saw it! I was there! I was the unsuspecting world in microcosm!

Oh MAN did he put me through my paces! At one point, he managed to dig his fingers under my shoulderblade and flip it up like opening the lid of a music box. Or at least, that's what it felt like. Although the music coming out of me wasn't a tinkly rendition of Edelweis, it was me going, "Ooh! Aah! Eee! Yah! Ngah! Uhh!"

Omigod! Here I am at the mercy of an Evil Vicious Top, and I don't have a safeword! All I could offer was, "Umm, I don't thing that actually comes off," referring to my ribcage or something. But Datt was unrelenting (Duh! Like an Evil Vicious Top would relent?).

And there was enough gentle caresses to lull me now and again into a sense of security before it was All About Agony again.

In short, Datt gives a great backrub.

I'm still totally, totally relaxed, as relaxed as I've ever been, relaxed in every fiber of my being, and I expect I'll remain relaxed until about 2012.

Afterwards, when I revealed to Datt that he was pretty... uh... rough with his backrub, he responded simply by letting me know that "Male is a lot more brutal."

And Male confirmed this.

But it was time for me to head for home.

Okay okay okay. One more dip in the hot tub, and then I'd head for home. (Yeah. You know me. Bait the trap with a hot tub and I'll walk right in every time.)

After soaking for about an hour, I put my clothes back on and went to bid goodnight to my hosts. After doing so, I briefly chatted with this awfully handsome man I hadn't seen through much of the night's festivities (that would be Ass Sex), but of whom I had gotten quite an eyeful during dinner. I haven't seen him at one of these here First Saturday In July parties before, but he sure was a welcome addition. Apparently, he's a contractor who has done some work for JPZapper and DogTopper. How enticing is that? When I sent along a thank-you email, I asked DogTopper to inquire of Contractor Guy if he wanted to meet up sometime.

*sigh*

Sometime before I move to Palm Springs that is.

So we'll see.

Summer Fun!

2008-07-05T11:29:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, I made my initial foray to the beach. As in Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook, recently featured in the New York Times. On that fabled highway, I-78, I noticed something peculiar. The speed limit on that road is sixty-five miles per hour, and most of the drivers were going sixty-five miles per hour!!!

I know, right?

Gas at $4.00 a gallon sure seems to be having an impact. I wonder if in years to come we'll all be telling young'ns, "Sheeeyit. Why I 'member back when if the speed limit was sixty-five, that meant you could go seventy-five and not worry about cops stopping you. You might not know this but if you go over the speed limit, the cops will stop you. Just like now if you go too slow, back then they'd stop you from going too fast. And what's more, when you would be driving along at seventy-five, there'd be cars passing you going eighty-five or better! It's the truth! Cross muh heart! Well you just go on and don't believe me. Damn kids."

I only got lost once, missing Exit 117 off the Parkway, but I got off at Long Branch and made my way north back up 35, and after passing through the town of Sea Brite (a bunch of us went there on a road trip when I was in college and re-named the place "Star Burst City"), I crossed the bridge and entered the Gateway National Recreation Area at Sandy Hook.

It was a perfect beach day--hazy, hot, and humid--and since it's only July, the water was still nice and cool and felt bracing when you were first going in. And since it wasn't warm enough for jellyfish, I paddled around in the surf to my hearts content.

Sunbathing, unfortunately, was another story. The black flies were out. O the look of horror on my face when I looked down and saw a black fly prepared to do his worst right on the head of my dick. So I would stay out of the water for as long as I could take the black fly bites, then head down into the ocean. As a result, I'm still well behind in my Tanning Objectives, despite baking in the desert sun only a few weeks ago.

And that, of course, got me to thinking. When I move to California, what will I do for trips to the beach? Don't let them lie to you: the Pacific is too cold to swim. Maybe that changes somewhere down in Mexico, but neoprene was developed so people in California could stay in the water for more than a minute. We easterners are spoiled by the warm tides of the Atlantic that caress our shores. Perhaps this will entail an annual sojourn to Fort Lauderdale or Fire Island. But gosh, what will it be like not being able to jump in the car, drive an hour or two, and go to the beach when the weather is right?

My one criticism of Sandy Hook are there are no mom-and-pop seafood places that I've been able to spot. I have yet to find a good post-beach place to eat. On a beach trip last summer with UnFortunate, it took us about three hours of driving around to find some fudge, and we ended up going to a mall for that.

But still and all, it was a good day at the beach.

Yesterday, July 4th, was a work day for me. And I was crabby all day. Driving in, I posed to myself the rhetorical question, "Who the hell spends the 4th of July shopping for toilets and towel bars and such at Ho(t)me(n) Depot. To my horror, I realized, only the most miserable and unsociable among us, whom no one has deemed worthy of an invitation to their barbecue.

And I was spot-on with that assumption.

The crowd was surly.

"You mean I have to wait here until your done with those customers before you'll read the labels on those water filters for me? Well I think I'll just go somewhere else then."

Oh boo hoo. My heart is broken. My thoughts turn to self-slaughter.

It was like that all day long.

And hardly any DILFs to make the day interesting.

With One Notable Exception. This guy who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Clean was shopping in the moulding aisle wearing vintage green nylon gym shorts, the really short kind where the hem falls just below your ass cheeks and if you don't watch it your balls will fall out. And he was wearing white athletic socks with thick green and yellow stripes at the calves. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, get a hold of some gay porn from 1977.

I swear!

Was he cryogenically frozen after being abducted from a roller disco?

I was sure he must be a homo, and must be Really Working It, until he brought his crown moulding selections over to his wife for a greenlight.

Really?

Really???

The ways of heterosexuals in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania are strange to me.

Now today is the annual July barbecue and dungeon party hosted by the excellent JPZapper and DogTopper. And I'm going. And I'm making a dessert.

What is it this year?

Well, I was toying with the idea of choux pastry filled with crème fraîche and topped with strawberries. But somewhere in the back of my head, I remember something about puff pastry only really working on winter afternoons when the sun is shining. And this would so not be one of those. So what I ended up with are mini ricotta cheese cheesecakes topped with strawberries. And I used lemon juice and lemon zest in the cheesecakes. They're sitting in the fridge cooling now, or I'd be on my way over already.

So looking forward to it.

And now, it's time to take a shower, put on somethin' special, pack up my gear bag, and head to Pottstown.

Those details that I'm able to divulge you can look forward to reading about here.

FYI

2008-07-02T18:32:00.000-07:00

I just made the second donation to a political campaign in my life. Fifty dollars of my hard earned cash (about six hours of work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot went to Barack Obama. (I love how spellcheck on Blogger still puts red dashes under both his first and last name. Maybe after the Convention in August?)

Interestingly, the last time I made a donation was to John McCain in 2000.

Why?

Well, I want exactly three things from our next President. I want us to get the hell out of Iraq, I want an affordable national healthcare program (can you imagine what it would do to the U.S. economy if the burden was lifted from employers to provide healthcare to their employees?), and I want returning veterans to have absolutely the best medical and mental health care available. Of the two contenders, it seems to me that a trifecta is more likely with Senator Obama.

(Please don't tell the Baron. Please don't. Please.)

Work Boots And Basketball Shorts

2008-06-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

If you're as old as I am, you know what the word "cathect" means. The author M. Scott Peck taught us all about cathecting in his book "The Road Less Travel," which was mandatory reading back in the 'Eighties, suggested reading by friends and strangers alike. At the time, coming off having spent four years reading philosophy, theology, and american literature in college, I found the book problematic: I liked the people Peck described in his book better before they were "cured" by his ministrations than afterwards.

But back to "cathecting." It means to invest emotions or feelings in someone or something. To have something start to matter to you. Peck felt that the ability to cathect was the basis for a loving relationship, necessary for that Holy Grail of the 1980s, True Intimacy.

So now, back here in Bucks County, I'm feeling myself de-cathecting my present life, and beginning to cathect a future life for myself, one that will unfold at the edge of the californian desert.

The business of my life remains much the same. I get up, go to work, come home, make myself dinner, daydream in the hammock on the porch, go to bed. Work has become a wee bit more stressful than it was when I left it. There's a new assistant manager at my Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Although initially we got on pretty well, I can almost pinpoint the moment when that turned, and now he doesn't like me at all. As far as I can tell, I haven't done anything to prompt this turnaround, and I'm detecting a few whiffs of the stench of homophobia in the air. I think what happened is he figured out I was gay. So where previously work was either tedious or fairly enjoyable, now there's some stress running through it like an electric current. Nothing too serious, mind you. Just enough to be annoying.

The odd thing is that never before in my entire life have I encountered this. In every job I've ever had since I was sixteen, I've never been The Only Homosexual in the workplace, and even among straights I worked with, me being queer has never been an issue.

Of course, work still offers me the opportunity for fantasizing that gives me a hardon underneath my orange apron. Yesterday, an particularly well built bearish man with a nice beer gut--one of those solid round beachballs--was shopping with his wife and infant daughter. He was wearing a Miller Light tshirt, and that got me thinking. As in, thinking about him tied up and me pouring bottle after bottle of beer into him, growling in his ear, "I hope you can handle it, Boss, because when you pass out drunk, I'm gonna bend you over and fuck you till you bleed. I'm gonna wreck your whole so bad you'll have to wear a diaper from now on." *sigh* Ah, reverie.

Yesterday morning before work, I put my brother on a plane back to Florida. His visit up here was to show the house to those folks at the yard sale who had expressed interest in buying. We hosted an open house, even placing an ad in the paper. And no one showed. Which I was expecting. My brother and his wife see us as competing on the market with the mcmansions and capecodders in subdivisions in the area. And because we don't have Granite Countertops! and All New Fixtures! and a Spectacular Master Bedroom Suite!, they'd like to lower the price to bargain basement levels for a quick sale.

I'm opposed to that.

This is not a house for everyone, but it's a house that some people could fall in love with. The woods out back are beautiful this time of year, the fireplace from locally quarried stone, the open floor plan, the little house on the property that's close enough for friends or family or long-term guests but far enough away to rent out and get some extra income... It all adds up to a pretty nice piece of property. Particularly for a couple from NYC (which is less than two hours drive away) to get away to on the weekends, and later maybe live here full time. That's my strategy. It's not a house for everybody, but it's a house that some people out there could totally fall in love with when they pull in the driveway. But my strategy doesn't add up to a quick sale. Patience is required. And I'm teaching my brother and his wife to be patient.

But of course, more and more, I'm thinking of the Coachella Valley.

I've rented a storage space, 10x15, and I'm packing up the stuff that I'll be taking with me and putting it in there. As longtime readers know, I'm a sucker for the kind of examen du conscience that such a process entails. My values and my identity are reflected in those few possessions I choose to own, and so it's all about the editing thereof.

Yesterday it was 116° in Palm Springs. The kind of heat where you have to be careful where you park your motorcycle or the kickstand will sink into the all but liquified asphalt and your bike will topple over. It seems to me that this is another reason why there's nothing to do in Palm Springs. During half the year, you do your best not to be outside between Noon and 7 p.m. Unless you're sitting in the shade at Koffi drinking an iced tea and reading the paper. And about forty percent of the population is gay. And the cost of living is mostly affordable. (I saw apartments listed with rents of less than $1000.) I will go to Palm Springs and get a degree in Construction Management and learn to weld and get my California contractor's license and become a study up on the ins and outs of LEED certification. And then we'll see what happens.

But in the meantime, here I am in Bucks County. Today is a day off. The painters are putting paint on the outside of the house. I'm a wee bit disappointed that the crew working for my painter, Gus, consists entirely of young women in their early twenties, his daughters and nieces mostly, but they seem to be doing good work. The colors I picked out for the exterior were a deep blue-green and a sort of cranberry red. The red is going on today, and it's less cranberry and more a kind of mexican red. In other words, a shade of orange. I am not at all displeased since I love orange. I don't work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot today, so I'm doing some stuff here around the house, packing up books and winter clothes and such to take to my storage place. For the past week, there's been a "chance of severe thundershowers" and I feel cheated that we haven't gotten a drop of rain out of it. The lawn and gardens sure could use it and there's only so much I can do with my sprinkler and the hose.

And it's Summer. My favorite season. Time for eating peaches and grilling steak. And today in Doylestown, I want to get a boat launch license for my kayak.

And go to the gym today.

I found a new gym. And it's a great gym. It's a gym right out of gay porn. If there are spinning or aerobics classes and such, I'm unaware of them. There are, however, a few competitive bodybuilders, and all these hot young boys who come in for a workout after their construction jobs to show off the new tattoos they got down at the Jersey Shore. And these hot heavily tattooed men who park their Harleys on the sidewalk out front. It's that kind of a gym. It makes me slap the side of my head with wonder that I stuck it out all these years with the dads and grads as I used to call them at the always-crowded-with-people-not-working-out Cornerstone Health And Fitness in Furlong, PA.

Oh! And the Fashion Phenomenon of the Summer of 2008: basketball shorts and workboots. Totally hot. Totally totally hot. And I'm seeing it more and more. If'n you live in some fashion backwater like NYC or LA or SF, you probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but here in Bucks County, men have figured out a way to show off their hot asses by draping them in shiny acetate and still wear boots. And that's just making my Summer special in so many ways.

So during this interstitial period of my life, after dad, before the desert, I'm enjoying it all. In weak moments I fall into the trap of "Life Is Elsewhere," but not too much. It's too peaceful and beautiful and I have it way too good to get sour.

Home Again.

2008-06-13T20:21:00.000-07:00

Love JetBlue, but not the red eye from Ontario to JFK. Man oh man. It leaves at 11:59 p.m. and gets into NYC at 8:30 a.m., a wee five and a half hours later. It had been my foolish hope to get some sleep on the plane, but these hopes were dashed when I got the middle seat. And, on TBS they were showing back-to-back X Files episodes, so that distracted me for three of the five-and-a-half-hours. I spent two sort of trying out different positions and praying for sleep, and I think I might have actually managed to go unconscious for a minute or two. But then there we were, coming in to Terminal Six. I retrieved my Jeep from Long Term Parking, and headed home, down the Belt Parkway, across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, across Staten Island, 287 to 78, 78 to CR-513, and soon enough, my bleary eyes were taking in the lush greenery of Bucks County, such a huge change from the golden hills of California that had been awing me so recently.

Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, this was an amazing trip. It would be wrong to call it a "vacation," because there was nothing, certainly, that was being vacated. Just the opposite. Dark and airless crevices were filled with air and sunshine. During the past two weeks, despite circumstances and that painful, terrible loss back here in Pennsylvania, I came back to life.

I was reeling from the news of the situation with Faithful Companion in San Diego. The only thing I could do was Not Think About It. Or rather, plunge into it, let the grief wash over me, then climb out, dry myself off, and fill up time and attention with other things. It was startling to me how well this strategy worked. I spent an hour curled on the guest bed in Alpha's well appointed condo sobbing, then got up, went shopping, and made meatloaf and scalloped potatoes for Alpha and his beau, which we ate while we watched Barak Obama give his amazing speech in Minneapolis. And, whilst my meatloaf and scalloped potatoes were in the oven, I ran down the street to meet up with 'bastian for coffee! Such a great guy, and I'm not just writing that because I know he's a devoted reader. That brief hour was one of the highlights of my trip. (And maybe next time we meet I'll be wearing my big ol' Wesco harness boots for 'bastian to enjoy.)

And then, we were off to LA for the Dwell On Design conference, Alpha and I. We stayed at this newish boutique hotel called the Grafton On Sunset. Nice rooms, great pool. It reminded me a bit of what the Grammercy Park Hotel used to be, offering reasonable rates for its then-unrenovated rooms, mostly to music industry types.

The Dwell thing was great. I had the opportunity to quiz a couple of developer guys and architect guys about my ideas on pursuing a career in Construction Management. What I heard was helpful, but not particularly encouraging, along the lines of, "because of the economy, I just laid off fifteen people." Yikes. I've sort of had my fill of insecurities around unemployment.

But then the real blow came when I drove over to USC to have a sit down with the guy who ran their Masters in Construction Management program. He got right to the point: "What was your GPA?" Mine--2.8, I think--sure doesn't cut it with USC. He didn't ask about my work and my life in the twenty years since I earned those grades (Executive Director of a non-profit organization with a budget of $1.8 million, Chief-Of-Staff to a member of the New York State Senate), it was all about me missing my Probability And Statistics final exam when I was nineteen years old.

Go figure.

So basically, to get into USC, I'd have to come in with some really impressive GRE scores, particularly on the math portions.

Like, Eeeeeeeew.

That was not the answer I was looking for.

So I mulled this for a bit, then forgot about it all completely on Saturday, losing myself in touring contemporary residential architecture on LA's West Side.

Oh! Wait!

Gotta tell you about Friday night.

So awhile ago, I ran across this profile on Recon. This guy had made the intriguing selection in his screen name of picking the name of the model and actor who was murdered by New York City art dealer Andrew Crispo back in the '80s. That got my attention. And it got his attention that I was able to identify the reference in his screen name right off the bat. Y'see, the Crispo murder was quite fascinating to fifteen year old me, and I have a good memory for detail. So he was in LA, and I was going to be in LA, so we agreed to meet up when I was in town.

And meet we did.

And it seems that this guy's artistic endeavors (he's a photographer and runs a gallery devoted to fetish art) and my obsessions dovetail quite closely. He's taken a lot of photographs--some of them downright iconic--of Mr. Tony Ward. When I saw the penultimate episode of Project Runway wherein Tim Gunn visits with Santino Rice in LA and Santino takes him to dinner with his friend Tony and Mr. Tony Ward opens the door to greet them, I think I actually did fall off my chair onto the floor. As far as I'm concerned, they don't come sexier than Tony Ward. At the gallery, I was shown the Tony Ward Toilet, the bathroom curated by Mr. Tony Ward himself, lined with candles and photographs of--and a couple of sketches by--Mr. Tony Ward. And I ended up buying two of them. I couldn't resist. Signed by the artist even.

So anyway, gallery owner guy expressed an interest in photographing me. To be sure, I was all in, exhibitionist ham that I am. And we were talking about my other obsession with nooses when he proposed that those be worked into the photos he takes of me, and I was cool with that. And it sort of grew and grew, so now, I'm going to make a point of being in LA in October, when he's going to have me as a model for a monthly sketch thing that that he does, and as a model of a monthly fetish photography thing that he does, and photograph me, and have me whip somebody at his October opening.

So there I am, in Hollywood, about a block off of Hollywood Boulevard, and there's this guy saying to me, "Baby, I'm gonna make you a star!"

It was my Lana Turner moment!

(Well, kind of.)

Beyond all the strokes to my ego, what a supercool way to get to know and be known by the BDSM community there in LA. October is a long ways away, and who knows what might go down between now and then, but I'm gonna do my best to make this happen.

Okay.

So back to contemporary residential architecture.

Oh. And Alpha.

Y'know, Alpha and I spent a solid week together, and he seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed his. For the entire time! Now how often does that happen that I run across someone who not only can put up with me and all my stuff ("I'm taking a bath now. Be with you again in about an hour.") but who I can put up with, too!

And Alpha was just great as a companion on the Dwell Home Tour. We both found some of the design decisions in some of the homes to be a little questionable ("that window can only open four inches because it knocks up against the downspout"). One exception was a house designed by a firm that was something like 3W or W3 or WWW. It was absolutely flawless. And the architect was a great guy. And so was the landscape architect, who was also on-hand. We spent a good two hours going over that place. Just amazing.

And the last house of the day was pretty special, too. It was the Kappe House, designed by Ray Kappe and built in 1967, that is often described as the pinacle of "nature-friendly modernism." It was just too fukken amazing to be believed. I walked through it in a trance. Everything was just so perfect. Although there were all these sort of hideaway places. Like in one of the bathroom, there were what seemed to be a stack of towel bars going up the wall. But wait, those weren't towel bars, that was a ladder, leading up to a little platform under the skylight. Ray Kappe's kids clearly had a blast growing up in that house. And Alpha found it interesting that there were all these sort of built in day beds all over the place. "Clearly there were a lot of orgies that went on in this house. This would be perfect for orgies." And I thought I detected whiffs of that musty marijuana smell coming up from the green shag carpets. Pretty quickly, our minds went to the same same place. "So this past weekend, I went over to Ray Kappe's place. Joan Didion and Mick Jagger and Neal Cassidy and Joni Mitchell were there. We all smoked a lot of pot. And then we fucked." It was the Seventies, after all! What else did people do for fun? Especially if you were in the beautiful surroundings of the Kappe house.

Sunday, Alpha and I were feeling pretty lazy in the morning, so we decided to forgo the Dwell Home tour of loft spaces in Downtown LA. Instead, we headed down the hill to watch LA's Gay Pride Parade on Santa Monica. Our favorite float was by the medical marijuana people, featuring a drag queen with a watering can and a joint as big as a baseball bat. Alpha and I wondered if this was perhaps the Controlled Substances contingent of the parade, and eagerly awaited the Crystal Meth float--millions of pieces of glitter individually glued in place by hand!--but no, other narcotic indulgences went uncelebrated.

We had to cut out early because I was eager to get on with the third leg of my trip, heading off to Palm Springs, even though that would mean parting company with Alpha. As we walked back to the car, I noticed some interesting things about cruising while wearing sunglasses. If you're cruised by some guy wearing sunglasses and you're not wearing sunglasses, it's a little unnerving, because you're not really sure if you're being cruised or not. But if you're wearing sunglasses and you're cruising someone whose not, that can make things awfully interesting, particularly if the guy you're cruising is a cop on duty at the LA Gay Pride Parade. But what's really cool is two guys wearing sunglasses cruising each other, because there's that moment when both of you just know that you're cruising each other, even without being able to see one another's eyes. That totally rocks.

Alpha drove me to Ontario Airport where I rented a car, a silver Jeep Laredo. It was enormous, and with the crappy site-lines I remember from the Jeep Grand Cherokee that I used to drive. Alpha and I said our fond farewells, and I got back on the 10 heading towards Palm Springs.

Ah, Palm Springs. No matter how you enter the Coachella Valley, it's always magical. Either coming over the mountains on that windy road from San Diego with all the little switchbacks and hairpin turns, or on the 10, which takes you right through the wind farm and all those way out of proportion huge turbines. But there it is, an oasis in the middle of the desert, green and glimmering.

During my time, I stayed at the Chaps Inn. I highly recommend the Chaps Inn. Not because of the St. Andrew's Cross standing poolside, not because it's clothing optional, and not because it's walking distance to Koffi, the great coffee place. All those things are important, sure, but what totally blew me away was that of all the clothing-optional gay resorts I've stayed at, and I've been to a few, this one was by far the cleanest. I mean, it was spotless. Scrubbed and polished. With clean soft white sheets on the bed and clean soft fluffy towels hung in the bathroom. And the hosts, Ian and Stewart, are really sweet guys. Just delightful.

As usual, I spent an inordinate amount of time sitting and drinking iced lattes and observing. And thinking things through. Particularly that question of What The Hell Am I Going To Do With The Rest Of My Life? I did make a trip out to a zoo and botanical garden called the Living Desert. And that was pretty special. There were these two roadrunners who were having a good time teasing the coyotes, jumping down from the walls of the enclosure and pretending to be all like "Oh la-di-dah, here I am just minding my own business and not paying any attention at all to the fact that I'm in the middle of the coyote enclosure at the Living Desert. And when one of the poor coyote would take note and come closer, the roadrunners would fly up over the fence.

I swear! Chuck Jones didn't have to look too far for inspiration for that Warner Brothers great. Like, Meeep-meeep! No discarded Acme Explosives Co. boxes were in sight. I think if I worked at the Living Desert I'd have that.

But my days in Palm Springs were pretty blissful. I'd get up without the alarm, go out and sunbathe for a bit, take a swim in the pool, enjoy a nice, long bath, decide where to go for breakfast, plan out my day.

On my second night there, I had this amazing dream. In the dream, I had been given two months to live. Something in my guts. I was working with the Baron to wrap things up in the time I had left to me, dividing the proceeds from the sale of my worldly goods between animal rescue operations and the library of the small, Roman Catholic liberal arts college in Reading, Pennsylvania where I earned that 2.8 GPA way back when. I was leaving them money so they could buy some books on the subject of reconciling Roman Catholic moral theology and homosexuality. The Baron was great about everything. And I was at peace with the situation. Focused and clear-headed. Not taking on too much but just making sure I did all I was able to do in the time I had left to me.

I awoke filled with love and gratitude to the Baron, off in Pennsylvania, minding my house if not my dog, having been relieved of the latter responsibilities by Fortune.

And then an idea took shape.

Not two months, but two years.

Two years.

In two years, I would set out to accomplish the following:

A.) Learn to weld. And get really good at it.
B.) Get LEED certification.
C.) Master AutoCAD.
D.) Get my California Contractor's License (one of the recommendations that I got from a guy I talked to at the Dwell conference).
E.) Get my Construction Management certificate.

And then, two years down the road, when (it is to be hoped), the economy has picked up some, I'll be prepared to go out there and make a living doing something I enjoy doing, whether that be working for someone else, or setting up my own business. And I'm going to tackle those goals living in Palm Springs, California. A place where I'm always happy. A place where I'll pull over to the side of the road and spend a half an hour watching how the sun going down behind the Sandia Mountains turns the whole sky this beautiful pale purple. A place where it's blazing hot but with only five percent humidity. A place where, from my first visit, I thought, "I could move here tomorrow."

And another thing that, thinking back on it, speaks in Palm Springs' favor.

It was my intention while I was there to get laid. And I managed to do that, but just barely on my last night there. But I met up with this really amazing former Marine for breakfast on Monday morning, felt my heart pounding in my chest with desire when I was introduced to this smoking hot russian man visiting from San Francisco and had that desire reciprocated, and finally, spent a night of carnal extravagance with a man who six years ago got off a bus in Palm Springs with no job, no car, and no money, but who quickly felt himself to be welcomed and embraced by the Coachella Valley and has made a home here and can't see himself living anywhere else in the country. (And he had a great dog, too; a beautiful rhodesian ridgeback, the coming of whom into his life was foretold to him in a dream.)

See what I'm saying?

Meeting these great guys. And not in a stupid Omigod!-You're-The-One!-It's-You-And-Me-Forever! kind of way, and not men who were kinda okay but since I don't seem to have any other options I guess I'll settle for, but really solid, mature, grown-up men with wisdom to impart and each with his own story that I want to hear.

Now don't get all excited. I haven't just come back here to pack a bag and head west. I'm unbelievably unencumbered, but I do have Stuff To Take Care Of. Like the sale of this house and all.

But hey, what better place to start a new life for myself than California, a place which exists for the purpose of starting a new life.

Everything will be all right.

And so here I am. Tonight I'll be sleeping in my own little bed. Tomorrow I head up to NYC to play three games of softball. Walking in the door and not having Faithful Companion come out to greet me was the hardest thing. And just now, when I thought, "time to get ready for bed," it dawned on me that for the first time in twelve years, that wouldn't mean heading out into the night to take Faithful Companion for his walk would be the last thing for the day.

So there you have it. Clarity. Mourning. Peace. Hope. All the rich and multifarious complexity of life. Of any life worth living at any rate. And mine is definitely worth living.

Goodbye, Boy-boy

2008-06-04T08:03:00.000-07:00

It is so much harder with Faithful Companion than it was with my dad. Awful to say, I know. But when your father dies, there's this whole thing. I'd like Faithful Companion's name to go in the paper, I'd like a thing at church for him, I'd like people I hardly know to stop me and tell me how sorry they are, I want a leave of absence from work.

I want the world to stop for a bit.

This is so tough.

This morning when I got up, I talked to him some, said goodbye, reminisced about the time we had together. Told him how much I'd miss him. When things were really crazy in my life, who was I going to go for a nice long walk with before I went to bed to talk it through and sort it all out? I confessed to him that when I say I love dogs, what I mean is that I love my dog; other people's dogs are just "okay" and not quite as perfect as my dog is.

Oh oh oh. My boy-boy with the big brown eyes.

I closed this morning by sending him off on his wanderings on the astral plane by giving him the Stern Commands I'd leave him with every morning when I left the house. I did it not because I expected his obedience, but just because he would get this serious look on his face, like an Army Air Corps pilot in some World War II movie getting orders for a bombing run over Germany. I'd say, "Okay, let's review. While I'm away, NO up on the furniture, NO pee-pee in the house, and NO barking."

And then, over my shoulder, as I was heading out the door, I'd call, "Love you! Best dog ever!"

In Threes

2008-06-03T04:48:00.000-07:00

Where to start?

See, this is the part where I should definitely learn a Life Lesson. Namely, post regularly to your goddamn blog or else...

Or else, you find yourself in the situation your now in.

But there it is. This may turn out to be quite the long post, so settle in, folks.

I am writing from the well appointed comfortably contemporary home of my dear friend Alpha in San Diego, California. It's 4:51 a.m., but not to me and my circadian rhythms, which are totally screwed. I flew in yesterday, landing at just after 2 p.m. local time, Alpha picked me up, we came back here, I had some banana walnut cake and iced tea, and after a series of traumatic revelations, I took a nap.

Which your not supposed to do. When you travel to a new time zone, your supposed to tuff it out and go to bed when everyone else goes to bed, thus resetting your internal clock. I didn't do that, so here I am at 4:54 a.m., wide awake in an otherwise sleeping city and household. I think I hear garbage trucks outside. That's comforting in a way. And if the Starbucks down the block operates by the same hours as the Starbucks in good old Bucks County, Pennsylvania, I'll only have about an hour to wait for them.

Well first the Big News. Or at least, the most recent development: I'll probably never see Faithful Companion again.

I know, right?

Last Tuesday, I noticed that Faithful Companion wasn't wagging his tail. It was just sort of there. Like Eeyore's tail. I did a web search and found out that it wasn't because he just didn't feel like it, but because something was wrong. So I made an appointment at the vet for him, and that's where we went Thursday morning. The vet said it looked to him like spinal degeneration, not uncommon among old dogs, and Faithful Companion is a very old dog at this point. He gave me some non-steroidal anti-inflammatory medication and told me to call if that did or didn't work.

Outside the vet, with Faithful Companion nestled in the back of my jeep, I cast my eyes heavenward and inquired of the Almighty, "Really? I mean, really? This is really going to happen twice in my lifetime? Are you letting John Irving take the controls for a while? Are you serious?"

What did I mean by that?

Well, I'll tell ya.

My sister, Kathy, who was thirteen years my senior, died in 1999. She and I were very close. A year before she died, she had been diagnosed with primary pulmonary hypertension. It's this strange, poorly understood debilitating disease. The only way of effectively treating it is a heart-lung transplant, and they don't exactly move forty-eight year old childless, single women with life histories of alcohol and drug abuse to the front of the line. At one point, she got a colostomy bag, and she hated that. She once woke up and something had become unattached and she was rolling around in her own shit while she slept. Plus, as she pointed out to me, "No one will date me if I have a bag of my own shit duct taped to my thigh. This is killing my love life, so called." Finally, her doctor felt that she was strong enough to reverse the colostomy and an operation was scheduled. And it was a success. Yay!

I was on vacation in New Mexico when I got the phone call. While waiting to be discharged from the hospital, a blood clot moved to my sister's brain and she died. She probably didn't know what hit her. I cut my trip short by a day and flew home to Brooklyn. First order of business when I got home was feeding the animals. The dogs were chowing down, and I noticed that my dear old cat Ned, who was usually first, wasn't joining them. I hunted for him and found him down in the laundry room, lying on his side looking angry and perplexed. He seemed to be paralyzed from below his shoulders. Off we went to the vet. Ned, it seemed, had a blood clot. He died the next day. From a blood clot.

Coming clear? There I am, reeling from the death of my sister, and my beloved cat Ned dies from the same thing my sister did.

Now let's jump ahead nine years. My father dies, after a lot of pain and misery from spinal stenosis. And within a few months, my dog develops spinal degeneration out of the blue that leaves him crippled and in pain?

Such a thing can really happen to a person twice?

It seems it can.

The Baron is up watching over the Ol' Homestead while I take my trip to Southern California. It was evident to him, as well as to me, that every time we took Faithful Companion for a walk, he seemed to be having more and more trouble. I flew out of JFK at 11:10 on Monday morning. That meant, I had to leave for the airport at around 6 a.m. After being up late packing, I didn't get to bed until just after midnight. An hour later, I was awoken from a deep sleep; Faithful Companion was stumbling around in the room in the dark bumping into things. And he kept at it. I flicked on the light, took him, put him on his little bed, stroked him gently, got back into bed, and turned off the light. In no time, he was up and at it again. On went the light again. "Settle down, Buddy!" I scolded, "Go lie down!" (A command he understands.) Off went the light. More moving around from Faithful Companion. I realized that I was looking at four hours of sleep before I had to drive up to JFK. I got angry.

On went the light.

"Okay, that's it!" I opened the door and shoved Faithful Companion through it and closed it behind him.

Well that was dumb.

Lying there in bed, I felt terrible about that. Really really terrible.

So I got up and went out to find Faithful Companion wandering around in the living room while the Baron was getting lost in the internet. Faithful companion would get himself comfy on his cushion or on one of his Special Spots where he likes to sleep, but then struggle to his feet and go find another spot, circle three times, lie down, get up again...

He was hurting.

I took him for a walk, hoping that would help, or at least exhaust him some, and gave him another treat. Then I stroked him and kissed him when he once again settled himself. Then I went to bed, and got just over two hours sleep before I had to drive up to JFK.

Oh.

And the drive up to JFK.

My trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty.

On Sunday, the Baron and I went up to NYC so I could meet with my SM/Spirituality Discussion Group and the Baron could erstwhile tool around the city. The drive up was awfully eventful and anxiety producing. While we crept through the Holland Tunnel, my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty overheated. Luckily we didn't stall, and the engine block didn't fuse or anything. We found a parking spot, went for coffee to let the engine cool down, bought some coolant, filled it up, started it, and the needle didn't more into the danger zone. So I guessed that the problem was that I had just run out of coolant.

But yesterday, driving up to JFK so I could get on a plane and come out here to sunny Southern California, Staten Island was a parking lot, as per usual, and I heard that ominous beeping, checked the temperature gauge, and found that once again, my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty was muy caliente.

Beelzebub!

On went the heat, full blast, and this seemed to do the trick. While I was speeding across the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge (I love speeding across the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge), the temperature went back to normal. So it seems that all I have to do so my trusty 2002 Jeep Liberty doesn't overheat is to not get stuck in traffic.

Not that that should be a problem.

But I made it to JFK, made my flight, was reminded why many years ago I made a rule for myself that if JetBlue doesn't fly there, then I probably don't want to go there, and managed to get to San Diego where my dear friend Alpha met me at the airport. We drove back to Alpha's new digs at the condos he designed and built, dropped off my luggage, blah-blah-blah about the flight and my car troubles, and then Alpha said, "Well I got this phone call from your friend who is staying at your house while you're out here."

It seems that about five hours after I left, Faithful Companion woke up the Baron, yelping in pain, dragging himself around on the floor, terribly distressed. The Baron called my vet, who is fabulous, and he came out, gave Faithful Companion a sedative and a pain reliever, then bundled him into the back of his white stationwagon and took him back to the clinic. And now, today, I have to call the vet. And I know just what that topic of conversation is going to be.

Oh man.

Twice in my life?

Really?

And all this would get filed under the heading of On Top Of Everything Else I'm Dealing With.

What? There's more?

Yes. Yes, there is more.

It has recently become evident that my brother and I, very different men that we are, have very different ideas about dispossessing ourselves of the Ol' Homestead. My thinking has been to fix the place up, enjoy puttering in the garden, and over the course of the summer, while some real estate broker or other occasionally brings potential buyers through, perhaps figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.

My brother, on the other hand, wants the place sold yesterday. And anything getting in the way of that--for instance me living there and cluttering up the place with those things that I refer to as My Worldly Goods--are but a nuisance.

It seems that during the yard sale, ordeal that that was, several people expressed interest in buying the place. These inquiries have lit quite the fire of urgency under my brother's butt. I know not why. I think it might have something to do with he and his wife wanting urgently to take this deluxe accommodation tour of Hungary and Romania, including a stop at Dracula's Castle. (I shit you not.)

Now as my brother and I jointly own the Ol' Homestead, I am not seriously threatened by all of this. He can do nothing unless I sign my name to an agreement of sale. But still, I'm very fond of my brother, and his wife, and I hate to see our good relationship put through the ringer and perhaps damaged irrevocably all because he and the Missus want to take pictures of themselves faux biting each other on the neck in faraway Transylvania.

So that's what I'm up against.

My dog is dying. My car is dying. My home is being sold out from under me. All I really have that I can call my own is a job selling toilets at Ho(t)Me(n) Depot.

But here in the well appointed comfortable contemporary abode of my dear friend Alpha in San Diego, California, it's light outside. The time is 6:10 a.m. locally, and I suspect that means that Starbucks might be open.

I'm here for just a couple of days, then Alpha and I are heading up to LA for this design conference put on by Dwell Magazine. Then on Sunday, I drive out to Palm Springs where it's my intention to Get Some Clarity, have some smokin hot ManSex, and sit in a goddamn hot tub looking up at goddamn palm trees.

Anyway.

Off to Starbucks.

Say a prayer for Faithful Companion.

And for me, too.

Curmudgeon Moment

2008-05-26T09:32:00.000-07:00

Here I am, poised to head in to work at Ho(t)Me(n) Depot, and I'm feeling really crabby.

It's Memorial Day dammit.

Now I will admit that for the better part of my life, Memorial Day meant a long weekend off from school before the home stretch, or an opportunity for a barbecue, or whatever. But back then, there wasn't a war on, little less a war that has taken the lives of over 4,000 americans.

Ho(t)me(n) Depot should not be open today. What the hell? If we don't sell lots of grills and patio furniture then the terr'ists win?

This black mood all came upon me last night when I was driving home and I saw fireworks over Chalfont, PA.

Fireworks? Really?

A fitting way to remember those who gave their lives?

Among the things I found cleaning up my father's bedroom was a little wire with a rippled shiny red plastic disk on one end. I knew immediately what it was. It was the faux poppy he would wear on Memorial Day every year. In his youth, the recent war was World War I, and the poem they had to memorize in school referenced poppies... "In Flanders fields the poppies grow/between the crosses, row on row..."

I believe I threw out my father's poppy, but I wish I hadn't. I would have liked to have worn it today, wrapped around the strings of my orange apron.

Off to work.

In Which Bucky And I Kiss

2008-05-23T14:25:00.000-07:00

So Bucky.

You remember him, right?

In October, 2003, this beautiful young man working behind the counter at Starbucks stopped me dead in my tracks. Many an evening I would flirt with him in my oh so subtle way on the porch when he was on his break. After a few months of that, he was off to Minnesota or somewhere in pursuit of this girl he met online. Then, back before Christmas, he re-appeared, told me the details of this homoerotic screenplay he was writing, and was once again fueling my masturbatory fantasies.

We met up for coffee, we talked about getting together for vietnamese food, I called and left a message, I never heard back.

End of story.

Until Wednesday, when I was shocked and surprised to get a phone call from him, asking if the offer of vietnamese still stood.

Absolutely it did.

We made plans to get together last night.

And then, after we said goodbye, but before he hung up, I heard him say, "Okay, so he's gonna meet me. I'll lay it all out for him at the table tomorrow night."

Lay what all out for me?

What gives?

When we met up last night at the Starbucks in Chalfont, Bucky was resplendent in his untucked white dress shirt and cargo pants. We got our respective coffees, then headed off in my Jeep to Pho Thai, the restaurant I had in mind. We talked on the way. Bucky was driving again thanks to a breathalizer thingy. He might have a job at an Outback Steakhouse, and he had found a new place to live over in Phoenixville. He had found the place on craigslist. A house on a few acres ("with a gazebo and everything!") owned by "a couple of guys who seem pretty nice." He was renting a room from them.

For sure, at this point, my antennae were so Up. Who were these two jokers that had cock blocked me? A couple of queens in Phoenixville with a gazebo for pete's sake. Who has a gazebo? (Although if Bucky was impressed by that, I guess I'll have to build a gazebo.)

I calmed myself down before I blew my cool. After all, Bucky exudes sexual ambiguity like you wouldn't believe. The boy just will not be pinned down. No doubt those guys were sitting in their gazebo right then endlessly debating "well is he or isn't he?", a conversation I have long since stopped having with myself.

And we talked about life and about writing and about books we had read and about California and about work and such.

Bucky and I both have the same conversational style, which I guess you could describe as meandering, but that would probably be giving it way too much credit. Many can't tolerate it, and so I do my best to rein it in, but with Bucky, I just let my thoughts and the conversation go wherever it will.

Pho and vietnamese spring rolls were a huge hit with Bucky. And I was glad of that. I like that he likes what I like. And I also got a charge out of introducing the boy to something new. Even if it was just a southeast asian cuisine. We were still talking up a storm when the restaurant staff stood in a line with their arms folded, all the other diners long since departed. Bucky and I headed back to where he had left his car at Starbucks. I was telling him the tale of how I dropped Extasy with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer and confused the effects of the drug with the experience of falling head over heels in love with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer ("Oh I can laugh about it now but at the time it was terrible..."). Bucky laughed with me at my recounting, and then paused and asked, "When did you first know you were gay?"

And my heart stopped. I almost drove right through a redlight I was so bent out of shape.

"I had a dream," I said.

And I told him the True Story Of My Gay Awakening.

I was fifteen years old and staying down at my grandfather's house in Olney, Philadelphia. My grandmother had died a year or so before, and my grandfather was distraught and broken. I would go down there whenever I had off school to look after him. Since my homelife at that time was awful, it was a convenient getaway. And there, sleeping in my big four poster bead in the front room, I had this dream.

In the dream, the world was coming to an end. The polar icecaps had melted, and the oceans were rising. In only a matter of time, all but the tallest mountain peaks would be underwater. I and my sister were part of a team of scientists who had been called together by the world's leaders to figure out how to save humanity. (You could tell we were scientists because we were all wearing white lab coats. I've since learned that scientists tend not to wear their white lab coats outside of their labs.) We all knew that the only reason that we were called together was so that the world's governments could prevent panic. We were just public relations. In fact, there was nothing we could do. It was all over. So we all sat around my grandparents dining room table, sending up trial balloons ("we could build a giant geodesic dome that would float on top of the waves" "Yeah. That might work." "Or, we could build giant pontoons to elevate some of the major cities." "Huh! Worth a try."). These were all half-hearted, because we all knew it was over.

Then, there was this rumbling sound. Suddenly, I was on the roof of the front porch outside the windows of my second floor front bedroom. My sister and the other scientists were down in the street. There, up Duncannon Avenue, above the rowhouses of Olney, there was this undulating blue-grey haze over the horizon line. It got darker and darker and more distinct. Then, there was a roaring sound, and a huge wall of water came surging down the street. I watched as my sister and all the other scientists were swept away in a flash.

And then, there was this roiling finger-like projection of the water, it rose like the head of a viper over me, then FWOOOOOSH, it swept over me. I vividly felt like when you go under a wave at the beach, not sure which direction was up, tossed by the surf. "I'm dying," I thought. I began to pray: "Please Lord Jesus! Please take me into Your Kingdom! Please Lord! Please!" And then, I felt this incredible peace and acceptance. It was okay. I would be alright.

And I woke up. The morning sun was streaming in through the windows of my bedroom. My dick was shooting like a geyser. "I'm peeing the bed," I thought. But it wasn't piss.

"I'm gay."

It was that simple. Just like that. No torturous questioning and wondering. It was just that simple. I'm gay.

Acceptance and self-possession.

"Huh," said Bucky, "well I'm bisexual."

At long last, now we were getting somewhere.

He told me about his first crush, when he was in 8th Grade, on an exchange student from Spain.

We were back at Starbucks now. Parked in my Jeep next to his car.

"Y'know," I said, "If you ever would want to be gay with me, I would totally be open to that. I liked you for years, Bucky. You're a great guy."

"I'd like that a lot," Bucky answered.

And so we kissed.

Bucky is a good kisser. A really good kisser. His lips are so soft, so sweet.

I was in heaven.

Bucky had to drive back to Phoenixville, so we said our goodbyes.

"And oh yeah," said Bucky, "One other thing I wanted to talk to you about."

And then Bucky proceeded to tell me about this pyramid marketing scheme ("great business opportunity") he was involved in and invited me to meet him tonight for coffee with "one of his business associates."

Oh hell.

One day I am going to take a belt to Bucky's ass and make it good and red for putting me through all this.

But not tonight. Tonight, I'm going to hear some bozo give me a spiel about some pyramid marketing scheme ("and you just sign up friends of yours as business associates and the money just rolls in!").

However, a thought has occurred to me. Maybe Bucky called on me (he must know lots of kids, right?) because he has some misgivings about getting involved in something like this and I'm the smartest guy he knows.

But we'll see.

Gotta run. Don't want to be late and make a bad impression on my new "business partners."

Come Buy My Crap!

2008-05-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

Not the best day for a yard sale. It's cold and rainy here in Bucks County. But after weeks of preparation, this is the Big Event.

My brother and his wife--especially his wife--are reveling in it. I just wasn't cut out for this. This morning, when someone asked how much I wanted for some useless thing or other, plastic plant pot that was split up the side or something, I said, "Really? You'd buy this?"

And by "this morning," I really mean This Morning. The official start time was 9 AM, but people were showing up at 6:30. Sometimes they'll make comments like "I don't know where I'm gonna put this" or "I'm not sure just what I'll use this for" but they plunk down their money and cart it off. When one guy mused, "Something like this... you don't want to throw it away, because it might come in handy for something," I just wanted to say, "Au contraire, mon confrère! It is useless crap and you don't need it." But in that instance, I managed to restrain myself.

So for minimalist me, this is like being locked in an insane asylum. All these people are in dire need of the services of mental health professionals, and here I am helping them load stuff into their trunks.

And there must be an easier way to get rid of all of this. For the first few years I lived in NYC, every Wednesday night, I'd take my laundry down to the laundramat and spend the next couple of hours washing and drying and folding. A roommate pointed out to me that that exact same laundramat offered wash and fold services. I protested: Why would I pay someone to do something that I'm perfectly capable of doing myself?

Because, he explained, your time is valuable. If you imagine paying yourself minimum wage for doing your own laundry, right away you see that it's cheaper to outsource.

And he was right. (Also, along with breakfast and fresh cut flowers, fluff-and-fold is one of the great bargains of New York City.) (Or used to be.)

And after all the hours that my brother and his wife have put into this yard sale--you should see the pricing matrix they came up with, determining what costs 10¢, what costs a quarter, 50¢, and so on... It's like a thesis project in some diabolical MBA program--I'd be hard pressed to imagine that selling mismatched china would pay them anything resembling a decent amount. (And keep in mind, all of the proceeds go into the coffers of my father's estate.) But down in Florida, they spend their Fridays buying, "fixing up," and selling stuff at a local flea market.

Now, at the lunch break, business has been swift. Someone actually bought the goofy looking oak "Entertainment Center," which means that I have to think of a good way of preparing one of my baseball caps to eat because indeed the words, "if anybody buys that, I'll eat my hat."

And out the door goes some more of the Kramer Family Treasures.

Speaking of treasured possessions and the careless shedding thereof, I had an interesting dream the other night. I was going on some kind of retreat or off to do mission work or something with some kind of religious group. We were all piling onto a bus and stowing our luggage underneath. Someone pointed out to me that my footwear, my custom made Wesco harness boots, wouldn't work where we were going. So I took them off and was provided with a pair of booties to wear on the bus. I put my boots with the luggage to be stowed and boarded. Inside the bus, I watched as my boots sat forgotten on the curb. Then a homeless guy saw them, tried them on, and walked off in them. In the dream, I was nonplussed by that, thinking something along the lines of, "Well, I guess I needed them."

However, I woke up in a mini-panic, looking over to reassure myself that my boots were still there.

And they were.

But I continue to be a little unsettled. What did that mean? Leaving behind my boots? Is that even something I could do?

Perhaps the dream, like the yard sale, raises the question: getting rid of so much, what will I keep? What will I hold onto, carrying with me into the future.

The "Entertainment Center" can definitely go. But not my Wescos.

In The Future...

2008-05-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

Years ago, I was driving with My Ex, The Man I Left Behind, up that beautiful stretch of Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn where you have the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens (in all their glory) on one side of you and Prospect Park (in all it's glory) on the other side of you.

My Ex, The Man I Left Behind, was planning out our future. "So while you're in the seminary, I'll continue to work. When you're ordained, there will be a few years where you're an assistant priest before you get your own church. Hopefully you'll find a parish here in New York City, or maybe in New Mexico. I can probably find a teaching job without too much difficulty. Then, when you get your own parish as rector, I can stop working and devote myself fulltime to making art. If we save our money, you'll be able to retire from being a fulltime rector sometime after you're 55 but before you're 60, and we can retire somewhere with you taking on an assistantship somewhere..."

And about that point, I nearly drove off the road.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt light-headed. I couldn't breathe.

Oh. My. God.

He was right.

There it was. The rest of my life, laid out before me. It probably would unfold just as he said.

Scared the bejeezus out of me, being able to imagine, with a high degree of probability where I'd be and what I'd be doing next year, and five years from now, and ten years from now.

And oh yeah. That would all involve being in a relationship with a guy who yelled at me for something or other I did or didn't do just about every day.

And that was part of the reason that I fled.

But now, possibly for the first time ever, I'm experiencing an unknown future in a different way.

I'm afraid.

I've been having these... these... these ideas.

Along the lines of, "Well gosh, after I get the house fixed up so nice, it would be crazy to just go and leave it. Why not postpone putting it on the market for a year, stay here."

Which, I have to admit, is pretty reasonable.

But there's that irrational element that stops me from embracing that wholeheartedly.

I didn't realize it until the other night. Just as I was getting into bed, I realized that I had to piss. The bathroom I currently use is situated out in the front of the house, off the livingroom. (That's not the bathroom that I'm gonna make all fabulous and such, that's going to be made into just a simple powder room.) So that meant down the hall, through the livingroom, and into the bathroom. The house was dark, so I walked slowly, finding my way with my tentative footsteps. In the livingroom, I realized that I was charting a course to avoid colliding with the recliners. As in, the two La-Z-Boys that I had tossed into the dumpster in the driveway and that were by now off in some landfill somewhere.

That nighttime experience, finding my way through a house that was no more, clinging to what I knew and what was familiar, unnerved me.

Egad. Going back to school for Construction Management! Finding a place to live with a dog! And in New York City, a place that changes you when you live there. Am I grounded enough to take that on? Would I become distracted by all that there is to distract me there? And after NYC, what? Where? With whom? How?

Overwhelming.

And a lot is overwhelming these days.

Or at the very least, now and then I feel pretty whelmed.

The other day I had this landscape architect/horticulturist guy out to look the place over and make some suggestions for improvement and listen to mine.

I was feeling pretty whelmed when he left. "Buying plants is pretty addictive," he explained. "In fact, that's what keeps me in business," he added smiling. "You come to me, and you buy a bunch of plants, and you go home and plant them, and they look great. And it's very satisfying. And a natural reaction is to go out and buy more. But you don't realize that maintaining plants takes a lot of work. They all have to be watered and looked after. In ten years, left untended, you wouldn't be able to see your house. It would all be overgrown. So be careful of trying to make it look better by buying plants."

What I should focus on was to get a dumptruck full of topsoil and put it in the front lawn to get rid of the low spots that keep puddles a week after we get an inch of rain. ("Nobody wants to buy a house where you have to wait a week after it rains to mow the lawn.) And focus on the trees, as in pruning off all the branches up to the crown, opening up the space, and letting people know that the property has been cared for and tended to.

And he went on. Move this garden there. Transplant those rose of sharon to over there by the house. Plow this garden under since it's all naturalized and turn it into lawn.

And on and on.

When he arrived, I was proud of the perennials and annuals I had put in over the past couple of weeks. Gosh, I thought to myself, the place is starting to look pretty good! I think we've got that Curb Appeal Mojo going on! When he left, I just saw all the work that had to be done, so much work that had to be done, and a big brown pile of topsoil in the front yard for two months until grass grew there. And all the money that was going to take.

So yeah, I was whelmed.

Till I sat down and thought about it. Broke it down. Made a list of things I could do right away and things that could wait and we'll see how it goes.

And I'm gonna rein in my buying and planting.

Some.

Should I stay or should I go now? Asked the Clash.

Here's what I'm gonna do.

For ten days in June, I'm heading to Southern California. On the Second, I fly into San Diego. I'll stay a few days with Alpha and meet his new Significant Other, then on the 5th or so, I head up to LA to attend this way cool conference that Dwell Magazine is hosting. They have house tours! (And if anyone has any suggestions of somewhere nice to stay on the West Side, please post a comment!) Then, I head to Palm Springs to spend some searing hot days in the desert, soaking up the sun and worshipping Frei houses and hanging at that cruisy coffee place.

So here's my fantasy of what might go down during this trip. I'll here about a job, or a place to live, or something, and I'll be inspired to come back here, pack up my stuff, plop a For Sale sign out in the yard, and head off to start my new life in Southern California. All I think I need is one small dim star to hitch my wagon to.

But we'll see.

House & Garden

2008-05-02T17:24:00.000-07:00

Loving this!

I wrote before, a while ago, about my ideas of what constitutes a "Bucks County Garden." The randomness of it, the natural merging seamlessly with the intentional, a lovely, low-maintenance disarray.

And now, I'm doing my best to make that happen. A bunch of annuals have been planted along the side of the house, including black-eyed susans, purple sage, flags, and the like. Two birch trees are awaiting planting along the driveway and I have some irises to go in somewhere near them. The organic Deer-B-Gone that I got at the garden center seems to be working and we may have hosta here for the first time in a decade or so. (I think I've discerned the Secret Ingredient in the Deer-B-Gone. It smells just like cleaning up Faithful Companion's piss.)

Tomorrow, I have a consultation with a horticulturist at Bucks County Gardens, and I hope to get from him some ideas of what I can plant in the low spots in the front lawn to dry them up, along the road under the white pines (ferns, I'm hoping), and what to do about a couple of Borders Gone Wild where the rose-of-sharon and hosta contend with poison ivy and pin oak saplings.

Having last settled into gardening in a twenty-five by forty back yard in Brooklyn, having all this acreage to deal with is a wee bit overwhelming. My strategy is to create different little "rooms" within the vastness the open spaces at the Old Homestead. There's the Vista When You Pull In The Driveway, the View From The Back Window, The Surroundings Of The Screened In Front Porch, The Eastern End Of The Front Lawn That Invites Wandering And Serendipitous Discovery, and Back By The Pond.

Oh. And then there's The North Side Of The Garage. That's going to be Firewood-Central. All the firewood will be neatly stacked there, instead of in the middle of the back yard, and there will be a chopping block for splitting and a sort of lumber yard were limbs and trees can be staged after I haul them out of the woods to be sawed up into logs. A nice lawn chair or two out there, since chopping wood is hard work it's better if you pace yourself and take a break now and then to sip some iced tea.

Right now, I'm really excited about the North Side Of The Garage project most of all. Y'see, Step One is to put down a bed of stone to even it all out over there. And the other day, I got a delivery of a half a dump truck full of stone. Step Two will be to level it all out.

And how, pray tell, is that going to happen?

I'll admit that I initially thought that would happen with shovel (check!), an iron rake (check!), and my young, strong back (uhhh...). But, my back isn't as young and strong as it once was. The guy who drove the stone truck didn't think much of the idea. And so, I went and rented some Heavy. Equipment.

Namely, one of these, the Kubota BX23. I have off on Wednesday, so it will be Mine All Mine for a whole day that day. I'm hoping that the distribution and leveling of the stone goes quickly so I can have some fun doing other stuff around here with the Kubota BX23. The possibilities seem endless. For instance, Wednesday would be a perfect day to dig a nice deep hole with that scoop thingy and plant a mailbox out at the end of the driveway. Or maybe dig a drainage ditch somewhere for some reason or other.

And gosh! What'll I wear? Tooling around on the Kubota BX23 would seem to require something pretty Carhartty, no? Perhaps there will be pictures taken of the event.

On the inside of the house, things progress, but without the immediate gratification that gardening is providing me with. It seems that some of the tile I ordered for my new bathroom won't be ready for shipment until May 24th, so the bathroom won't be going in anytime before then. In part that's a good thing, because once I have my soaking tub that holds sixty gallons of water and--something I've always wanted--a shower with a window, not to mention the beautiful tile work and the natural gauged slate floors, I'll never want to leave the house again for any reason whatsoever. Also, I really have to see about getting a Floor Guy in to tear up the carpet and see about putting down some new flooring (bamboo and cork, mon amour). However, I'm about to embark on a Murphy Brown-esque relationship with a painter, a guy I know from hanging on the porch of Starbucks named Gus. Gus will have the guest bedroom painted and ready for the impending arrival of my brother and his wife on Thursday. I'm really happy about that. Too, Gus is fine about working his way through the interior and the exterior of the house piecemeal over the next couple of months, giving me lots of time to figure out color schemes and such, and clear out furniture so he and his paint crew can work. Since I know and trust Gus, I'm cool with him coming in while I'm not here and setting to work, and so, just like on Murphy Brown, I'll be coming home from work and finding my livingroom a different color than it was when I left the house in the morning.

For the colors on the outside of the house, that's set. It's all going to be based around a Georgia O'Keefe painting, "Lake George Window." More or less. I love the soft blue-greens with the faded blacks and the pure whites. Alas, there's the pale yellow-green vinyl siding to contend with, but hopefully really strong colors will distract from that.

I'm having so much fun with this.

Maybe a little too much fun. If I bankrupt myself making this place beautiful to go on the market but then can't sell it because the real estate market is in the toilet, where will I be then?

Ah well. I'll take the long view. I make it beautiful and trust Providence, then move on to some new challenge.

The House

2008-04-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

Six-thirty!

It's six-thirty and the guy who came to install new windows in the kitchen, the laundry room, and my bedroom at eleven this morning is still here, still pounding away at something or other. I was hoping to get to the gym today, but clearly that's not going to happen.

And in many ways, this is just the start of it all. New bathroom, new powder room, new kitchen, the place painted inside and out, new floors. (Yes! I will have new floors! No matter what my brother thinks! The stained awful plastic carpet of a shade of blue that calls out for white french provincial furniture to be placed upon it must go. I will have cork and bamboo, dammit!)

For the last couple of days, I've been tossing a thought around in my head like a frisbee: maybe I'll delay putting the house on the market until next year. What's the rush? Maybe I'll spend a year living here, enjoying the place I've fixed up.

Per the current rules, I'm doing nothing with this thought, taking no action whatsoever. It's just a thought. Sometimes when it arises, it's quickly dismissed. Sometimes I'll sit with it for a while, noticing how it makes me feel.

But it makes me nervous. Design has proved to be my heroin indeed. If I wasn't trapped here all day with the guy installing the new windows, I'd have been off looking for a new lighting fixture for the kitchen. Because his keeping me here gave me time to reflect, I realized that I don't need a new lighting fixture for the kitchen.

At least not yet anyway.

I worry that being in this house means spending money on this house. There's always some new thing to tweak and, I hope, make better. But if I stay in the house too long, I won't have enough money to leave it.

Perhaps this is my father's ghost haunting me. Or the same ghost that haunted my father now haunting me.

He retired early from his job so he could work here at home. That meant planting and transplanting, painting, chopping down trees, cleaning the gutters, replacing the gutters, watering the lawn, building the tractor shed, digging pits around the basement windows... It was more than a full time job. My father resented being anywhere other than home, but especially on a "good day to get work done."

And lately, I know just how he felt. And working in America's Home Improvement Super Store sure doesn't help matters much. There I'll be, stopped dead in my tracks while I'm escorting a customer to where we have the plate hanging wire thingys over in Aisle 32 by the huge savings we're offering on Garage Storage Solutions.

For example, on Friday, I'm looking forward to painting the basement.

Let me repeat that: On Friday, I'm looking forward to painting the basement.

See what I mean?

I didn't say "playing softball" or "heading to the Eagle" or "hitting the beach" or "putting my kayak in the water for the first time this season," I said "painting the basement.

It will look beautiful. All clean and new and tidy.

And if there's time left over, I'll square up and rehang the screen doors on the front porch.

They Say We're Young And We Don't Know

2008-04-29T19:26:00.000-07:00

I have to admit I found the piece in this past Sunday Times Magazine about gay twentysomethings in Massachusetts tying the know really interesting. Although, I wonder how much of the phenom' is not a gay marriage thing but a generational thing.

Y'see, I work with bunches of guys in their twenties. And they're all married. All of them!

It's spooky!

I'll be talking to one of these kids and he'll mention, "Yeah, the other night my wife and I..."

And, without taking a formal poll or anything, I'd say that guys I work with who are in their thirties? Not married by and large.

I think that in my college graduating class, there were maybe five people who got married before they hit thirty. And this was a Catholic college.

Something is going on here.

And whatever it is, it's just another thing that makes me feel old.

Ho(t) Me(n) Depot Gets Weird

2008-04-29T18:51:00.000-07:00

I know!

No blogging!

What's with that?

Oh just take a guess.

All I do is work. And when I'm not working, I'm really really busy.

I could go on endlessly about "this thing that happened to me at work today," but I have always tried hard to make SingleTails Not That Kind Of Blog. But two recent items bear noting.

Okay. There I was at Ho(t) Me(n) Depot. It was a Saturday afternoon, a couple of weeks ago. Although Gardening was busy, not so the rest of the store. It seems that everybody was focusing on planting Spring bulbs and nobody was much interested in gussying up their bathrooms or kitchens. (Fools!)

When it's slow like that, I position myself in the center aisle of the store, right in front of the kitchen design center. A former fellow employee would refer to this as being a Wal-Mart Greeter, since it mostly involves smiling and saying hello to customers passing by and directing them to the aisle where they'll find whatever it is they're looking for.

Now, I was carrying the department phone. If'n someone calls the store they get one of those annoying menus, and one of the options is to be connected to one of the department, and if they select Kitchens and Baths, the portable phone in my apron pocket rings.

It's reeeeeeally annoying. There you'll be, busy with fetching down a bathtub from the overhead storage racks for an impatient customer, and the phone will go off. "Do you have...?" or "How much is...?" mostly. Now, since there's no way to put the phone on hold, you have to apologize to the customer your helping while you abandon them to go running through the aisles to answer the question of the caller.

So anyway, there I am, doing the Wal-Mart Greeter thing, and the phone rings.

Here's the conversation. Just about verbatim.

Me: Good Afternoon, this is Drew in Kitchen and Bath!

Caller: Hi, how are you, Drew?

Me: Pretty good. What can I do for you?

Caller: You're pretty well endowed, right?

Me: 'Scuse me?

Caller: Well from the looks of the way your filling out those pants your wearing, I'd say you're pretty well hung.

Me: Uhhh... So is there a Kitchen and Bath question that I can answer for you?

Caller: Not interested, huh? Okay.

Me: Only if it pertains to kitchens and bathrooms.

Caller: Okay. Just thought I'd ask. 'Bye.

My first thought: It was someone I knew having some fun at my expense.

Nope. No one I know would be aware of the complexities of the Ho(t) Me(n) Depot phone system to pull that off.

My second thought: It was one of my co-workers having some fun at my expense.

Uh uh. All of my co-workers who would pull anything like that are straight, and wouldn't be able to believably pull that off.

My third thought: Right now, standing there, I was the target of a voyeur. Who was probably watching me still, gauging my reaction.

Creepy. Infuriating. Flattering.

All at once.

I mean, did he know who I am? In certain circles, I'm Well Known. I've got creds. (Although not, admittedly, for being particularly well hung. I'm Standard Issue Six. Just like John Dillenger.)

But the mystery deepens. Must have been a current or former employee of Ho(t) Me(n) Depot. No one else would be able to navigate the phone system like that. But at the same time, someone who at least knew enough to know what department I worked in.

Very strange. I can't figure it out.

At the other end of the spectrum, today I worked with our store's own elected official. It was pretty slow today, but steady enough so I wasn't bored. So these two contractor guys--and, as it happens, pretty unappealing contractor guys, come up the aisle with their cart loaded down with shower doors or something. In response to my co-worker's question, "Do you need help?", one contractor guy said, "Are you a psychologist?"

"No," answered my co-worker, "But he sort of is."

(Later, in retrospect, I "got" it. Contractor guy was punning on the phrase, "needing help," using it to mean, contending with mental illness or delusion. Very witty, no? No.)

The contractor guy turned his attention to me.

"I need a psychologist," he said, "this guy I work with (indicating the other contractor with a thumb over his shoulder) is gay."

Egad!

Homophobia rears it's ugly head!

Right there in the middle of Ho(t) Me(n) Depot!

My standard retort is to say, "So have you heard they invented this stuff that turns straight guys into cock suckers? They call it 'beer.'" But I was at work. And we always have to be nice to the customers, so I let is slide, saying something mamby-pamby like, "Well, don't know that I have much to offer by way of a response there."

I think a dim light of recognition flashed on his otherwise blank face, and perhaps some aspect of his reptile brain registered the fact that, in fact, he had just addressed this to a Gin-You-Wine Homo.

Or not.

Who knows.

So it's sort of run the gamut lately.

Gay goings on at Ho(t) Me(n) Depot.

Although, last week, a call went out over the walkie-talkies, someone somewhere fielding a question from a customer they couldn't answer and appealing to all of us for help: "Do we have any pansies in the store?"

It took all I had not to answer, "Well, I'm over here in Kitchen and Bath..."

But I didn't.

Not Far From The Truth

2008-04-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

Oh gosh.

This chillingly well observed offering is from The Onion.

Home Depot Honors Fallen Soldiers With Great Prices On Tools

Sprung!

2008-04-19T17:21:00.000-07:00

Freakin' finally!

Throughout the several gray cold months now past, I have made it day by day with one image front and center in my mind's eye: me sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown drinking an venti iced latté and smoking a nice cigar.

So I was thrilled to the very core of my being when I saw that the weather report was calling for the temperature to approach Eighty this week. The time had come! And it's still only April!

Okay, so Wednesday would have been the perfect day. I even had off work. But no. In the afternoon I had a meeting with the real estate brokers who will likely represent me in the sale of the house. Afterwards, I had to stop at the bank, and then I had to do some shopping and rush home to bake a cake. Each of those elements ended up taking twice as long as I thought they would.

So close, but no cigar. So to speak.

Finally yesterday.

It wasn't looking likely. I worked 6 a.m. to 3 p.m., and then I was hosting the Baron that evening for dinner and (the aforementioned) birthday cake. I ended up working later than planned, and as I was rushing out of Ho(t)me(n) Depot to head to the supermarket, I had another idea.

Y'see, I have recently discovered this really cool mexican restaurant in Plumsteadville of all places. I was hopeful going into the place, since there actually is something of a mexican population in Plumsteadville. The food was dee-lish, and smacked of a vague authenticity. So instead of treating the Baron to one of my home-cooked dinners, I would treat him to dinner at Mariachi Restaurant of Plumsteadville.

That, I realized, would give me the time I needed. So I headed to Doylestown, and there I was, sitting on the porch of Starbucks, drinking my iced venti latté (which I've taken to ordering without the ice), and smoking a nice CAO red label maduro robusto.

And watching the boys.

Per. Fect.

For me, that event marks the First Day of Spring. Not that day on the 22nd of March, which, as I recall, was cold and overcast. Such a recipe for complete and utter bliss. After a leisurely spent afternoon, I raced home like a bat out of hell to put the icing on the Baron's birthday cake.

And there my troubles began.

In the past, I've started with about two sticks of butter and added the confectioners sugar "to taste." Usually ending up adding about a cup and a half. Two cups if I was feeling pretty daring. The recipe I found called for three sticks of butter, and two pounds--as in two one pound boxes--of confectioners sugar.

Really?

I mean, really?

Yeah.

It seems that this is the combination that works. The sugar strands stretch and stretch and you end up with an immense volume of buttercream frosting. Whereas in the past, I had to scrape the bottom of the bowl to make sure I got complete coverage of the birthday cake, I had plenty.

As in more than plenty.

So I could gleefully eat dollops of frosting and not worry about not having enough. In fact, I had plenty left over.

But sadly, I had forgotten that at my advanced age, I really can't handle all that sugar.

My heart was palpitating. My face was flushed. My throat was dry. I was jittery and edgy. When the Baron arrived, he took one look at me and asked, "Are you okay?"

I explained that I'd just eaten enormous quantities of sugar, probably more sugar in the last hour than I've had cumulatively in the past five years of my life, and I was feeling the effects. And just be warned, I explained: soon, I would be crashing. The Baron steeled himself, preparing for the possibility of me falling asleep face first in my guacamole.

Luckily, the nice mexican food at El Mariachi did me well. (I loves me my starch!) And I managed to make it all the way through dinner in an upright position. But as soon as we got in the door, I had to tell the Baron that he would have to load up his sister's SUV that he had used to drive up here with the perennials I got him for his birthday himself, because I was going to bed.

And so I did. And was asleep almost immediately.

But not before smiling to myself and remembering that April 17th was the first day of 2008 that I got to enjoy by sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown drinking an iced latté and enjoying a cigar.

From The Bitter Commonwealth

2008-04-16T16:13:00.000-07:00

I'm looking forward to watching the debates tonight, although I'll be busy baking a birthday cake for the Baron while I do so.

I have to say, it's pretty amazing having the Pennsylvania primary election be of any consequence. Bill Clinton was in Doylestown the other night. Hillary was at Quakertown High School last night. I ran into Caroline Kennedy (we had met previously) stumping for Obama outside Starbucks last month.

I have to admit, I'm fascinated by the Bitter controversy. On the one hand, talk about mountains out of molehills. But on the other, speaking as a pennsylvanian who "clings" to religion, Obama's tone and phrasing were pretty off.

Am I bitter?

Only when I think about it. About how real wages haven't increased for people who do the kind of work I do since 1973. About how the economy is so totally in the tank right now that the want-ads in the local paper amount to three-quarters of a column looking for assistant dog groomers and the like. About how our corporate masters at Ho(t)me(n) Depot are pressuring us to sign up customers for store credit cards (if you want to shut down that sales pitch, just ask, "What's the APR on that?"). About the war in Iraq that's just become a sucking vortex, devouring everything that was good and noble about our country.

All that I find terrifically embittering.

That said, I am naively looking to the current election to give me respite from these bitter, bitter draughts. I'd like to pick up the New York Times and see stories about the President doing things that don't make me scream.

I say "naively" because I don't imagine that any of the contenders are really going to provide the kind of remedy that the situation calls for. "If elected, I promise a massive redistribution of income!" Where probably not going to be hearing that, dig?

But I drifted to the conservative end of the spectrum during the Clinton years when it seemed to me that government of whatever stripe was incapable of solving any fundamental problems. All that could be done was some tinkering around the edges and making people momentarily feel better. And if that's the case, than the proper role of government--or at any rate, the one thing that government can do, is to instill good values in the citizenry, such as respect for other, self-reliance, pluralism, hard work, and responsibility. Politics, I decided, was a great big game. And it didn't really matter who was elected.

And then George W. Bush got elected.

At the outset, I viewed him benignly. How much damage can he do? He seemed like an affable dunce.

Omigod was I ever so wrong about anything ever?

So I've amended my take: The people we elect can't do a hell of a lot to make things better, but they can do a hell of a lot to make things worse.

Thus, I'm considering the matter deeply.

I have to admit that although I have my preferences, I'm agnostic on the Obama-Clinton choice. What I do want very much is for the Pennsylvania primary to be decisive, for the Democratic primary race to be over either way, and for the party to be able to focus on defeating John McCain (whom I like and admire and to whom I gave money in 2000 but who hasn't given me any indication that his presidency would be anything more than Bush's third term).

Anyway. I have a cake to bake.

But I like my tea bitter! Does that count?

But all the same, I'm naively looking

"Ow" Is Not A Safeword

2008-04-15T06:28:00.000-07:00

Ow!

I called out sick from work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot today. First time ever I've done that. What has laid me low?

Last night, I worked at another area Ho(t)me(n) Depot helping them out with their inventory. The shift was scheduled to run from 2 p.m. to 11 p.m. Anyone who has ever worked retail can tell you that inventory is always a huge fustercluck, and last night was no exception. I had huge difficulty the entire time finding Someone In Charge who could tell me what to do. Too, I wasn't given an orange apron to wear, so the entire time I had people who worked for this other area store coming up to me and asking if they could help me find anything.

I started off the shift working in Gardens, and there my troubles began. My assignment was to clear the aisles of grass seed that had to go up into the overhead above the racks of merchandise. I plunged into it with gusto. Pretty quickly, hauling fifty pound boxes of grass seed up a ladder and working them into the already crowded bays had me feeling twinges in my back.

That should have been sufficient warning. I'm Forty-Three for God's sake! I can't do stuff like that anymore! That's what teenagers are for.

Heedless, I pressed on.

After everything was nice and tidy in Gardens I found my way over to the Moulding aisle and joined in a sort of spree of counting lengths of moulding. I would grab the ten, twelve, fourteen, and sixteen foot lengths of casement or toe kick or crown mouliding or whatever out of the racks, sort it, tape them together into bundles of five to make them easy to count, and put them back in the racks.

Other than continuing complaints from my back, things were going fine until I got The Mother Of All Splinters. After that, I was bleeding for a time. I made a mental note that if I'm ever contacted by the police and asked to explain how traces of blood containing my DNA were found at the scene of a murder à la CSI, I'd be sure to ask exactly where the blood was found, and if it was on any decorative moulding around doors and windows, I've got an explanation.

Satisfied with my work in the moulding aisle, I stepped out for dinner. Upon my return, I found my way to my home turf, Kitchen & Baths. There, I was charged with organizing the faucet aisle, which was a total mess. Nothing was where it was supposed to be, stuff was on the shelves without price tags, a disaster. I spent an hour making it all Perfect, much of that involved crawling around on my hands and knees digging ancient and forgotten faucets out of the shelves.

Then came the bad time, when the No One In Charge phenomenon really kicked in. I was basically just wandering around, pitching in where I could. At ten o'clock, after I counted all the spray bottles of weed killer in a display to confirm the count done by the outside firm that does our inventory, I realized that someone else from Ho(t)me(n) Depot had already counted these spray bottles of weed killer to confirm the count.

I looked around, and it seemed that except for me, the store was deserted.

And so I left.

Now, even before I started, I had a headache. I took a couple of Tylenol, but they didn't seem to have much of an effect. I figured a good night's sleep would set me right.

Wrong.

I woke up from a deep sleep at Two in the morning with my head pounding. It was excruciating. Blinding. I couldn't make it stop. I was sure that it could only be a brain tumor or something. I climbed out of bed and went reeling to find some more Tylenol or something... anything to quell my pounding head.

After about an hour, it must have abated because I was able to get back to sleep.

And then the alarm went off, getting me up to go to work.

My back is killing me, the site of the splinter on my right hand is swollen and tender, and my headache is still there, although it feels like it's wrapped up in gauze, just waiting for the Tylenol to wear off so it can again wreck me.

While walking Faithful Companion, I considered the situation, mumbling "On the one hand... But on the other hand..." as we strolled up Tollgate Road on this beautiful Spring morning.

No no no. No work for me today. I need to stay home and take care of myself. If I'm feeling better a bit later, I'll go in then.

So I called my Ho(t)me(n) Depot and asked for the manager on duty. When I gave him the news, he replied with an "uh oh" and commented that I was the second person in the department to do that today.

Say wha?

Now that sounds impossible to me. There is no one else in the department who was scheduled to work.

But it worked perfectly. Now, I'm racked with guilt, haunted by the thought that I've Left People Down.

So we'll see. I'll take a nice long hot shower, get a good breakfast, get some stuff accomplished here around the house, and then see about heading in to work.

Damn my Work Ethic anyway!

Way Hot Man is coming up for dinner and to plunder my ass tonight, there's tons of stuff to do here at home, and it looks like sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown enjoying a cigar and a latte in the Spring sunshine this afternoon would be a sublime experience.

But nooOOOoooOOOOooo. I'm burbling over with misplaced--what? sympathy? consideration?--for a national chain of home improvement retail stores.

Chances are that I'll be there running around on those hard concrete floors, grasping my head with both hands like somebody in a SciFi movie trying to fight the effects of a Mind Control Device being used on him when my headache comes back, and putting more stress on my back.

Oh well.

At least I have a day off tomorrow.