*yawn* Tired tired tired. Less than an hour left in my penultimate day at work. Horrifyingly, I haven't even begun to write my exit memo. But, hey, how long could that take? I mean, I'm writing about doing my job. It's not like I need to head to the library to find supporting sources, right?

I was mulling going to Fort Lauderdale next week, but I've changed my mind. Saturday-Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-Friday-Saturday-Sunday. Nine days tooling around in NYC. I'll clean my apartment! I'll take my dog to Liberty State Park! I'll hang out in seedy gay bars drinking beer and flirting with boys.

Oh. And here's an interesting development. Next Friday, I'm going to get whipped.

What's that about? Well, I'll tell ya. I was talking to one of the many world renowned whipsmen at Inferno. I was sort of the blushing, stuttering ingenue, and he was the old pro. He had several helpful suggestions, and we both spoke enthusiastically about mondo singletails. Then, he looks at me dead in the eyes and said, "And you know, you must take the opportunity to feel the whip dance across your back, too." My reading of that line at the time was that he was trying to get some fresh meat. But, as one-by-one, the world renowned whipsmen showed up on the Rialto with hamburger backs, I came to realize that he wasn't just talking turkey. So I thought it through. At first, my motive was purely selfish: Surely more bottoms would be willing to let me have at them if they knew that I had taken what I've dished out. But then I started to wonder, Could I take it? Getting flogged by Does Mean Well at Inferno had a sort of playful, quid-pro-quo aspect to it. Taking a whip will be different. Think of My Fair Lady vs. Turandot. There absolutely is a quality of grand opera to whipping scenes. Showmanship, mise en scene, and, or course, blood and tears. And then it dawned on me: this will be transformative. This will touch the deepest parts of me. Special Guy once told me that he didn't understand what fisting was all about until he took a fist himself. So then it became pretty clear that this was something I had to do.

I decided that ARt would be the guy to do it. He, along with Miragisto conducted the workshop on singletails (seems like yesterday, seems like years ago) where I was introduced to the whole thing. I haven't had much subsequent interaction with Miragisto, but ARt sort of took me in hand after that and was always willing to give his time. So ARt would be the guy. We negotiated the wheres and whens via email, and it's looking like next Friday will be my day.

Nervous? Oh yeah. But not about the ordeal. He whips, I scream, he whips some more, I cry. I feel confident about letting ARt break me, because I trust him to put the pieces back together. No, here's what I'm nervous about. I don't want to be a wuss. Well, let's face facts: I am a wuss. One clothespin bites my tender flesh and I'm willing to give the Commandant all of our troop positions that he wants to know. But I hope that ARt doesn't not have a good time because our scene lasts for all of thirty-five seconds instead of an hour. But again, I trust him. He knows what he's doing. He'll be able to coach me beyond my limits. So I guess what I'm really nervous about is the fact that I'll be seeing the world in an entirely different way.

That's the fact, Jack.

Amusing Anecdote

I was in the West of Ireland looking for a wool cap in a gift shop. No Irish gift shop is complete without lots and lots of crystal and glassware. So there was this little boy, maybe nine or ten years old. American. And he was trying to sell his mother on buying a set that included a glass tray, pitcher, and four goblets. The price tag was probably around $400. He was saying something like this: "...and when we have guests over, we can make fresh lemonade, and serve it in these to our guests." Mom had a stunned look of recognition on her face. His future was there in front of her eyes. High school drama club, graphic design major in college, the Thanksgiving trip home when he would announce he was gay, telling the other members of the family, the PFLAG membership, meeting his boyfriends... It was an amazing moment to witness.

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If the Mets vs. the Yankees makes for a subway series, would the Giants vs. the Angels be an I-5 series? I'm sort of sorry that the Twins didn't go all the way. How cool would that be? Going from being slotted for contraction to winning the series? Regardless, I think being ALDS champs should give the good folks in Minnesota room to breathe easy for a while.

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I wonder if it would be worth it to list with a gay roommate finding service? What are the chances I could find a place in the West Village for less than $1000? Oh, and I have a dog and I smoke and yes, that's a St. Andrew's Cross I'm bolting to the wall. And I'd need a broad band internet connection. And lots of closet space. And what the hell do I do with my apartment full of furniture? And my car. How would I deal with having a car in Manhattan? But I could go back to Geico for car insurance and save big bucks. I guess I could haul my furniture down to Fort Lauderdale.

Not that I don't like Jersey City. I love Jersey City. Really, I do. But getting on the PATH train to get over there, particularly late at night, is just getting to be a little much. And especially with my new job and all of those responsibilities. And, do I really need to make my life more complicated than it already is?

On the other hand, I'd be able to get laid more. I could not begin to ennumerate the number of steamy conversations I've had that ended when I said I lived at the other side of the Hudson River. And, of course, His place isn't really an option because I have to walk my dog.

I used to believe that if I lived outside of Manhattan I'd develope what I referred to as a Rich Home Life. For years, that was my goal. Making a nice meal for myself, settling in with a good book, writing letters to friends, working on whatever book idea was kicking around in my head. Long, long did I lament the fact that my apartment was the place where I stopped in now and again to sleep and feed my cat. And then, I got that. Quite the rich home life. Unfortunately, it also came with my Ex. So while I was cooking a nice pot roast for dinner, I was listening to him unload his ever replenished store of rage on me. And there was never, ever time for reading or writing, as his needs and interests had to be attended to.

So screw that. I want a bed and a place for my dog to sleep. If all fails, I'll find some place in Newark to garage my car. And hell, I dealt with moving the car in Brooklyn without too much trouble. We'll see how it goes. Dang it. I think I will sign up. All I have to lose is $150. Good question to ask them: at any given time, what's the ration of people looking for rooms to people who have rooms to offer? I'm betting 80:1. Whatever they answer, I'll double it. And picture 79 quiet, bookish, well-salaried, non-smoking, non-pet owning, recent college graduate with almost no furniture kind of guys standing in line ahead of me.

I wonder if there's anyone in the extended GMSMA universe that would have a room available. I should put the word out.


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Wow. Here's a blog by a carnival geek. I've been reading this for months, but somehow the fact that the author was a carnival geek (in a sideshow no less) had eluded me. I have nothing but fond memories of the sideshow at Coney Island. Brialliant. If you missed it, you might as well just hang it up.

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The Forbes Fictional 15 rocks. Fascinating to learn that Thurston Howell III is better situated than Mr. Burns.

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One hundred and fifty visitors to SingleTails. I don't know 150 people. Who... who are you? What do you want here? Feel free to let me know at drrrew@mindspring.com.

Great stuff that I found on Lolita's page. A little context for the un-initiated. Safe, Sane, and Consensual (SSC) have become the watchwords for S/M play. 'Safe' means that though it may hurt, no one will be harmed, as in permanent or lasting physical or psychological damage; 'Sane' is variably interpreted. I've always found this second element problematic. Talk about 'in the eye of the beholder.' And Consensual means that before play, both the partners negotiate what's going to happen, what limits either of them might bring, etc. At the inception, SSC was stunning in terms of brilliance and ingenuity. To the extent that S/M has some legitimacy, it's because of Safe, Sane, and Consensual.

Lately, SSC is rarely discussed without some wag saying something that begins with the preamble, "Yeah, but what about..." and then bringing out a largely valid objection. SSC works in every case, except when it doesn't. But even then, it does. Enlightened?


Here's my bone of contention. And it's a little one, like one of those bones in the wrist or the foot. Last year at a GMSMA wednesday night program, the issue of drug use was raised. As in, "it's irresponsible to use drugs during a scene." Many heads nodded. And someone chimed in and said, "Well, except poppers." And everyone sitting around me said, "Yeah, except poppers." Well, now, it's either a duck or it's not.

Poppers (amyl nitrates, butyl nitrates, or isobutyl nitrates) are inhalents. They are vaso-dilators; they constrict the blood vessels, causing oxygen rich blood to flood the brain, so the user experiences a rush. And, they relax muscles in the butt, making it easier to accommodate getting your kitten punched. But what about that trippy feeling you get when you do poppers? Well, that's a feeling common to all inhalents. Inhalents are substances that have molecules small enough to cross the blood-brain barrier. That's why teenagers huff glue, but not say... Bosco Chocolate Syrup. The odor of Bosco is much more pleasant, but those molecules are so large that they don't go much further than your nasal passages. But the wee little molecules in inhalents go to your sinuses, and basically right from there into your brain. Your brain goes into a defensive posture and starts pumping out norepinephrine (aka, adrenaline), sensing that it's under attack. Adrenaline is what's produced by your body to ready you for the fight or flight response. Your senses are heightened, your pupils dilate to let in lots of light so you can see whatever is potentially hurled at your face, and blood flows to your arms (to hurl something back) and legs (to run and get the hell out of there) and away from less necessary muscles, such as your anal sphincter. Which relaxes. Now, your brain feels that it's under attack because your brain is under attack.

And, poppers knock out your immune system for about the next five days. And, because poppers have disinhibitory effects (risk taking can be a good thing in 'fight or flight' situations, the user may relax his or her safer sex precautions.

And, because poppers lower your blood pressure, do too much of them and you could lower your blood pressure below the level necessary to maintain consciousness. It's a bad idea to use them with Viagra, which also lowers your blood pressure.

And, because distribution and sale of poppers is illegal, you really don't know what's in that little glass vial, and what the dossage is that you're administering.

Okay, so am I being a tight-ass and declaring popper use to be bad and wrong and evil? Nothing of the sort. What I'm saying is that there are risks associated with poppers, just like there are risks associated with using alcohol, shooting heroin, taking a bump of crystal (speed mimics adrenaline and causes a psychoactive response similar, though more intense than poppers), or smoking pot. Being informed about what you are doing enables you to reduce the risks involved to a level that you find acceptable. Crossing a city street involves risk as well, but we do it anyway, but do things to reduce those risks, such as looking to see if there are cars coming.

Overall, I would not go making a blanket statement such as, 'Using drugs during a scene, or playing while intoxicated, is a violation of the principles of Safe, Sane, and Consensual S/M." Because everybody in the room might be nodding their heads, but half the people in the room are doing that most of the time that they play. But, rather than risk social stigma from their peers, they'll just not talk about it. And not get information that could enable them to reduce risks. It's not all black and white, and when declarations create the illusion that it is, people get hurt.

So anyway, on Lolita's page we find this neato essay, concerning RACK (Risk-Aware, Consensual Kink). I think it's an idea whose time has come. I'm just gonna provide the link (here), because Lolita's page is really great, and you should go there and get to know it anyway. Scroll down. You'll find it. Attaboy. (Or girl, as the case may be.)

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Uh oh.

At the bottom of the October 12th entry of girlsarepretty is a notation that says 'dear lord this is getting tiresome.' If Girlsarepretty ceases to be, I, for one, will have a damn hard time justifying all the money I spend for DSL.

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Oh oh oh. I feel weepy. I flew back from Seattle last night/this morning. I had about three hours sleep on the plane. As I was getting on the plane, I realized that I had neglected to take the keys for the rental car off the keyring that holds the keys to my apartment, for work, etc. It was too late to do anything then but get on the plane. I called when I landed in New York, and the nice lady I spoke to at the rental car place was useless. Hopefully I'll be able to work this out. All they have to do is drop the keys in a Fedex envelope and send it to me. That's all.

(I opened a Fedex account number this morning. I'm somebody...)

So this afternoon was my going away party. I was a wee bit nervous going into it. And woozy from only three hours sleep. So I was presented with a gift. A black football jacket, wool with leather sleeves, that says 'Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center' on the back in white lettering. It's beautiful. Really, really beautiful. I'm really moved by this.

Then, I came back to the office and I was reviewing my email from when I was away. (Thankfully, there isn't a lot.) Among the stuff sent my way, I found the minutes of a board/staff meeting that was held on Friday, in my absence. The staff here was given an opportunity to share what they wanted in a new Executive Director. Here's the list...

• Understands and believes in harm reduction
• Isn’t an egomaniac, and understands the agency belongs to all of the staff!
• Is inclusive and willing to work in the direction the agency is already going in
• Builds on the vision established for the agency
• Isn’t afraid to challenge the system
• Is as comfortable working behind the exchange counter as working on a budget
• Has a history of dedication, commitment, and community activism against HIV
• Empowers the staff, as “good leaders create leaders”
• Keeps the mission focused on where we come from
• Respects the grassroots part of who we are
• Has experience in harm reduction and drug use issues
• Knows how to work the system/bureaucracy to get funding, so we can support our programs (and our staff) and also grow and diversify our programs
• Ready to roll up their sleeves and partner with the entire staff (with the understanding that sometimes this involves unplugging the toilet!)

Yes, that's right. Unplugging the toilet. Before we moved to our fabulous new space, we occupied three ratty storefronts on Avenue C. In the rear of each storefront was a bathroom. The plumbing was rotten. One toilet in particular, in the bathroom used most frequently by our clients, was always clogging up. Standard procedure was to put an out-of-order sign on the door and call the plumber. For a clogged toilet! Unbelievable. Don't these New York City apartment raised folks know how to operate a plunger? Well, let a Pennsylvania farm boy show you how it's done. Trouble is, there seemed to be a reluctance to learn after I decide to... uh... plunge in. So, I'd be sitting at my desk and I'd get a call: "The toilet's clogged up again. Could you come over and fix it?" It was that or spend $200 to have a plumber come, so off I'd go. As I was doing my duty, I'd be saying in a stage whisper, "When the toilet's clogged over at GMHC, it isn't Ana Oliveira that gets the phone call. I bet that Keith Cylar and Charles King don't unplug the toilets at Housing Works. You think that Elsa Rios unclogs the toilets at the HIV Law Project? I don't think so. 'Gee, what's it like being the Executive Director of the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center?' Well, I'll tell ya, always make sure your plunger is handy."

Why in God's name didn't I tell some member of the staff to do that? Well, years and years ago, I worked in Mother's Restaurant in New Hope, Pennsylvania. Mother's was then owned by Joey Luccaro and Stephanie Weiser. One night--a really busy Friday night--one of the waitresses called back into the kitchen, 'Tell the dishwasher that the bathroom needs a mop." So this poor kid grabs the mop and heads to the bathroom. Minutes later, he returns and says to Stephanie (who happened to be the boss on the premises), "Uh uh. No way. You can fire me. I'm not gonna do that." Stephanie and staff went to investigate. A customer's colostomy bag had burst, and the contents were splattered everywhere. So, Stephanie took off her jewelry, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work with disinfectant and a sponge. She told the dishwasher, "I would never ask you or anyone else to do anything that I wouldn't do myself. If you could help me clean this up, I'd appreciate it." And so they worked together.

I wasn't there that night to witness that, but I only heard my fellow employees speak of Stephanie with absolute admiration and respect afterwards. From that moment on, there was nothing she couldn't ask from us that we wouldn't do.

And that's the kind of boss I've tried to be.

So it gets me right there that the staff listed cleaning the toilet as a qualification of my successor.

*sigh* It's not gonna be easy to leave this place.

Congratulations to newlyweds Sapphire and Tourmeline! The liturgy was wonderful, with music that was at the same time lyrically poignant and rollicking. S. and T. belong to a alternative Roman Catholic community of faith called 'Journey.' It's Christian in context, with sharing of bread and wine ("Do this in remembrance of Me."), but everything is reinterpreted in an egalitarian way. The wedding was well attended. S. and T. surely have touched many, many lives. I'm certainly grateful that they've touched mine.

After the reception, I came back to my Host's apartment and sat down on the bed for a minute or two to collect myself. And then I woke up and it was 1 am. I quickly got dressed and headed to the Eagle, getting there in time to have two O'Doul's (swill, but better than water), and meet a really nice guy. He's an artist. This is always dicey, as I tend to have opinions about art. And when I meet an artist whose art I don't like, well... that's sort of damning. But, I liked his art a lot. And he was a sexy man. Sex was fun and playful. This morning, we got up and went out for eggs. He relates well and seems to have good solid, caring friendships. If he didn't live in Portland, I'd be tempted to date him. Luckily, he lives in Portland. However, he gets to Fort Lauderdale with some regularity, and we talked about meeting up there come January. Enjoyed spending time with him. He was a good guy to meet.

Y'know, in the wake of the wedding, a celebration of S. and T.'s love for one another and their commitment to one another, I'm feeling sooooo cynical. I very much felt on the outside looking in, but beyond that which is experienced by all single people at weddings. Because, at no time did I feel a longing to 'have' what S. and T. so obviously 'have.' I guess if I allowed myself, I could easily question whether or not it was possible to have such a thing at all. It's not outside the realm of possibility that S. and T. are deluding themselves, but that seems unlikely to me given the fact that both S. and T. are two of the most intelligent, compassionate, insightful, questioning, and self-aware people I've ever known. Truly authentic and engaged in their lives, and in their life together. I'm more inclined to think that I just don't have those genes, so to speak. Possibly it's a function of the fact that I'm a man, and men and women are differently socialized and biologically wired. Not that I would go so far as to say that a committed, loving, lifelong relationship between two men would be impossible, but I think I would say it would be unlikely. I don't know that I've ever encountered it.

Which is why I don't believe in same sex marriage. I don't think I've ever encountered a same sex couple that had the level of a 'shared life together' that I've witnessed in heterosexual couples. I've often sensed that pledges of love and fidelity were 'protesting too much,' and that there was an underlying necessity sprung from a desire not to be alone, leading to decisions to subsume the ego in order to accommodate the other person. Maybe that's universally true, and that's the only way that two people can be married to one another, whether they be straight or queer. I could be universalizingmy own experience, namely "I'm better off being single, therefore everyone is better off being single and those that are saying otherwise are lying." That could have a lot more to do with the fact that my brother and sister were older than I am by more than a decade, so I was essentially raised as an only child. I've never felt lonely, and I've never minded being alone.

Anyway, I'm off to liturgy at the church where the wedding took place yesterday. Mustn't be late. S. and T. had an open house at their place this afternoon, but, again, I got back from spending the late morning/early afternoon with Last Night's Artist, sat down on the bed to collect myself, and woke up at 4 pm. Missing out again. But maybe seeing S. and T. before I head back tomorrow is a salvageable plan.

Ciao for now.

I am so clean; or Good Cloacal Health
WARNING: The following blog entry may be unsuitable for those faint of heart or delicate of constitution!

So My Host has one of those douche attachment things in his shower. So I thought, why not? So I did. Wow. Except for the recurrent feelings of dizzyness (there's a term for that; like when you stand up quickly; there's a large blood vessel connecting your rectum and your brain), it was lots of fun. "But," you might ask, "what about the experience of fishing your turds out of the drain in the bathtub and lobbing them into the toilet?" Good question! Strangely, given all the anti-bacterial soap and nice warm water involved, it wasn't repugnant. Keep in mind that I've been cleaning up dog poop and vomit for most of my adult life. It wasn't my favorite part of the experience, but I was alright with it. But clenching my sphincter and feeling myself fill up with water, then releasing and feeling like this great sense of release and purging (which, in fact, it was), that was great. I'm always very suspicious of new age-y ideas, but y'know, it was all very purging and releasing. I feel like I've unburdened myself, gotten rid of a bunch of crap that I've been carrying around needlessly. (And in fact...) I feel really clean and renewed. Very clean. So clean. Inside and out clean. Almost inhumanly clean. I'm real clean.

With only 18 shopping days left until my birthday, savvy Singletails Blog afficionados should have not doubt about what I really want.


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Wow.

I just saw a bald eagle, the symbol of our great nation, fly about twenty feet over my head while I was out on the deck smoking.

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I am ornery. Uh huh. Went to the pre-wedding party yesterday of my friends who are getting married out here. We'll call them Sapphire and Tourmeline. We had pizza and beer, and were invited to go up one by one and share stories of S and T. Such a great ideal. Because so much of spending time with S and T involves telling stories. "In Alaska, I just had to go to the site of the Idittaride, where they have the dog sledding races. Which was amazing. But walking around, you find all these discarded booties form the dogs, so I made this collection of all these sled dog booties. And for a while I had them in a basket in my apartment, and I kept them just so people would look at them and as, 'What are those?' and I could say, 'Sled dog booties.' And they say, 'Do you race sled dogs?' and I'd say, 'In Portland, Oregon?' And then they'd say, 'Why do you have a basket of sled dog booties then?' And I'd get to say something like, 'Why are you so interested in my sled dog booties?' or look off into space and say something cryptic like, 'I just do.' That kind of thing."

Get the picture? It's sort of interesting that they're commencing their marriage with stories. My story-telling used to drive my Ex up the wall. I'd start in and get maybe a sentence when he'd be rolling his eyes (angrily, or course), or he'd break in and say something like, "Is this going to take long?" What a dick. I was at pains to explain to him that Not only did I like to tell and listen to stories, but I have a wide circle of friends who also delight in telling and listening to stories. I think Sapphire and Tourmeline pretty much ushered me into that circle, eighteen years ago when I met them in college.

Afterwards (which would be 2:45 am EDT, which is what my body clock is on), I went to the local watering holes. First stop was the Dirty Duck. If indeed there was a 'gathering of the leather tribe' at the Duck last night, they were either yet to gather, or had gathered and dispersed. I was just about the only person in there. (I later learned that the sort of salty and course woman who owns the Dirty Duck has a beautiful, refined daughter who became Miss Oregon. The Dirty Duck begets the beautiful swan? The effects of growing up around drag queens? Next stop was the Eagle PDX. Really like the layout of the place, there's sort of an upstairs loft. Y'know, the porn was really good. Usually I'm not much interested in porn, but this stuff was fun to watch. And the crowd was friendly. Came so close to coming home with a guy. Tragically, when we went to his car to drive it to my car so he could follow me home, he has this former police vehicle, still painted black and white, and rainbow streamers coming from the radio antenna. And his dog Bella was in the car. Now, I'm a huge fan of Portland Wackiness, but not in the men I sleep with. We drove up to my Host's sort of Mountain Retreat, and I got the last parking space on the premises. He drove around several times and found nothing. I suggested that what we could do would be to drive back into town, find a space for him, drive back in my car, and I could drive him back to his car tomorrow morning. He said that would be great, but he would have to go back to his car tonight, as he had to be home at 5:00 am when his lover got up. I explained that even though the clock said half past two in the morning, my body was telling me it was 5:30 am. And, cumming always renders me uncounscious. So he rumbled away in the festooned cruiser.

Hopefully, I'll have better luck tonight.

Odd thing about my Host's apartment. There's nothing here. Well, not nothing, but definitely the bare minimum. The freezer had icecubes. The refrigerator had a grapefruit and some coffee. The only books are hiking and travel guides. Either he took anything and everything that might indicate personal idiosyncracy and stored it down in the garage prior to my arrival, or there's not a lot in the way of personal idiosyncracy going on. Or (and most likely), he adheres to a 'small footprint' ideal, that's sort of the code among hikers: take only what you need, leave no trace. Now, I'm sort of minimalist myself (okay, except when it comes to bags), but he makes me feel like a packrat. for example, I went out on his deck to have a cigaret, and I wanted something I could use as an ashtray. Like an ashtray. Or a jar lid. Or an old saucer. Or an old soap dish. Basically, any burnproof item that's fallen into desuetude would do. There was nada. I'm picking him up at the airport tomorrow night. I'm really glad that I didn't bring him as a gift a copy of the FDNY beefcake calendar that the Fire Fighters' Widows and Orphans Fund is selling as a fundraiser. It would have been in the recycling bin on Tuesday. Think of a fully decorated christmas tree in a buddhist temple. I'll endeavor to find some fun foodstuffs while I'm out for a 'welcome home' snack.

And now, time to get myself out the door and go find something to eat. Speaking of foodstuffs.

Weeell... (Did I ever mention that I've been told I do a dead-on Ronald Reagan impersonation? "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" 'Member that?) I've got an hour and twenty-three minutes before the Welcome party for my friends who are getting married. Sounds like an opportunity to find some nice little place and get something caffeinated. Being in the Pacific Northwest means over-caffeinating yourself to the point that you can feel your hair folicles vibrating.

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Check it out. I'm blogging from the Pacific Northwest.

Last night (local time 11:45pm, body clock time 2:45 am) I flew into Seattle-Tacoma, spent a night sleeping as though drugged at the nearby Sleep Inn, picked up my rental car the next morning, and headed south on I-5 to Portland. The ride down was really gorgeous. Every time I'm out here, I'm just astounded how beautiful it is. The towering fir trees, the enormous sky, the meandering rivers. The leaves on the trees are just starting to turn here. Soooo nice. I drove into Portland, and found out that my directions, obtained from mapblast.com were good for squat. Why, there's no such exit off of I-5, and there's no such exit off of I-405. Eventually, I found my way into downtown Portland, bought a map at a Chevron Station, found my host's apartment, and settled in.

I think my host is secretly a canadian. His home page is the canadian broadcasting company. He subscribes to Maclean's, and not a few other odd things about. Why would he conceal that fact from me. Perhaps he's a canadian spy...

People are so kind and courteous here. And not in that way that they are in the South, where it's sooooo obvious that they don't mean it. If you listen, you can hear them whisper 'asshole!' under their breath after every saccharine pronouncement. "Well, Hi, Har ee-ew? (Asshole.). It's so good to see ee-ew (Asshole). Ah hope y'all will come bah 'n see us agin sometahm (Asshole). Bah now (Asshole)! Hinjaw yer weeek-ind (Asshole)" Drives me batty when I'm down there. Here, you feel that they mean it. The hostess who seated me and rang me up at the restaurant where I had lunch seemed like she was ready to drop everything and run away with me. Or at least co-sign a mortgage. Lost though I was, I didn't dare ask anyone walking on the sidewalk for directions as I know from experience that it would be a frozen zone for a three block radius while everybody stopped what they were doing and rushed to my assistance.

Very few people are wearing shorts as the weather is sort of brisk, but of course on those that are, you note my favorite feature of Portland, Oregon: Everybody has calves like honeydew melons. All that hiking up Mount Hood, I guess. Everybody. From toddlers to octagenarians.

My Host informs me that tonight at the Dirty Duck there's a 'gathering of the leather tribe' that takes place every Friday. That's how it's referred to, as the 'gathering of the leather tribe.' Isn't that sweet? It sounds like something you'd want to bring a hot dish to, doesn't it? Some franks and beans, or baked pineapple? I can't wait to 'gather' with my fellow members of the tribe. What rites might our tribal elders have planned for us this evening? In NYC, it would be called something like, Firday Night Sleazefest, and if you go there, it would be a bunch of guys in chaps standing around drinking beer and chatting with their friends. No sleaze. Not especially festive. But I bet that when I go to the 'gathering of the leather tribe,' it will totally live up to it's name.

I could move here tomorrow. Wait. No, I couldn't. I wouldn't want to live in a place without an ocean you can swim in.

Aw, heck. No food for me today. Good meeting with my new boss, but it ran twice as long as I thought it would. Really good news: I got a week off in between leaving here and going there. Should I go somewhere? Maybe down to Fort Lauderdale? A little beach action? Hmmm...

Yo. Only 19 more shopping days until my birthday. Go here now and just pick out anything. I'm not too particular. I swear.

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Word of the Day: Impecunious. Sounds so much better than goddam flat broke, doesn't it?

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What in the name of all that's holy am I doing blogging? Since Sunday night I've probably had a total of 7 hours sleep. I can't even see straight. Well, just got back from a GMSMA program, folllowed by dinner with Past President. My apartment is tidy, no dishes in the sink, and my bed is made. Today at work was productive. I'm not as pathetic at being GMSMA's treasurer as I thought I was.

Item: I made deposits for GMSMA today. There is this total hottie of a teller at the bank. He's about 5'8", pale complexion, steely blue eyes, built for days, and when he turned his head to ask a question, a tatoo peaked above the collar of his shirt. I'd prefer my boy to wear a leather collar as opposed to a chain collar, but I'd want him to wear a chain collar so his tatoo wouldn't be covered up. I had the most depraved and evil thoughts eyeing him while my teller processed my multiple transactions. I didn't get a look from him, but I'm pretty sure he knew I was clocking him. When he stood up and turned around, it became apparent that he has an ass on him that should earn him some manner of international recognition. I broke a sweat at that point. So when all was done, my teller said to me, "Did you know that on the second floor there's a special section for our business accounts? Next time you come, you should go there. You'll be in and out faster." I don't want to be in and out faster. I will never see the second floor of the Sheridan Square Chase Bank. Well, if I come in to make a deposit and teller boy isn't in sight, I'll happen upstairs to see if he's working there that day. Keep the money flowing into the coffers of GMSMA, folks. Give me lots of reason to stop in there. There are laws against stalking in New York State, so I need a reason.

Item: On the issue of my bed being made, my dog has developed an interesting habit. When I get home from work, the bed is trashed. This morning, I had a bright idea. I read somewhere that if you don't want your dog digging in your garden, you can sprinkle cayenne pepper around your flower beds. So this morning, before I left, I took some finely ground white pepper and doused my bed. When I got home tonight, the bed was unmolested. So I was all happy. And then I thought, "Hmmm... What's it going to be like sleeping in a bed with all of that finely ground white pepper?" I've got a bad feeling.

We now return to our story, already in progress.

So in all respects, I'm feeling on top of my game. And then I get home and there are messages on my answering machine. The first one is from the wacko who's going to be taking my dog this weekend. She seems to need maximum interaction. I just know I'm going to be running like OJ Simpson through the Terminal Six at JFK tomorrow because of her lunacy. And the second one ws from the Special Guy. He tried to call me on my cell phone today to see if we could have lunch (we could have) or dinner (we couldn't have). And then he said "lotsa love." Just like that. "Lotsa love!" When we've talked on the phone since The Dumping, I've sort of scrupulously avoided the L-word. And there he goes giving it too me. Lotsa. What is up with that? Hey, and how come when we were boyfriends I was always the one calling him and asking for time?

I am sore confused.

HCL 'checks in on' me. No more problems with insomnia here. I'll just keep that happy thought in my head and drift off to pleasant dreams of arm wrestling to see who wears the cowboy hat in the game of My Lil Pony.

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Today, I'm wearing my new J. Lindberg suit. Wide lapels, way tight and stretchy in the his and crotch (love that.), and bell bottoms. Very bling-bling, but not too in your face. Sort of like a jaguar says, "I'm so wealthy that I don't care how often I have to take this thing into the shop," this suit kind of says, I have so much money that it won't even matter to me when I drop this thing off at Goodwill in a few months. Or maybe not. Funky in a masculine way. Kind of like Robert Redford in 'All The President's Men.'

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I have no idea who Tori Amos is, but I kinda want to find out after sampling this tasty site.

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I was listening to the debates in Congress on the Presidents Iraq resolution. Apparently, the position of the anti-invasion Democrats is shaping up along these lines: If we attack Saddam Hussein, he'll do everything in his power to attack us back, including using the resources at his disposal (chemical and biological weapons) to strike at innocent American civilians on these shores.

This is based on the testimony of a CIA operative who testified earlier (I didn't hear it) saying that at this point, Saddam is unlikely to strike because he fears retaliation. But, if we were to invade, he'd have no reason to hold back.

This is wrong for so many reasons. First off, it's an acknowledgement of the fact that Saddam has capabilities despite eleven years of UN resolutions aimed at preventing him from acquiring or having those capabilities. So, Saddam is a threat. Not just regionally, but certainly to his neighbors. Second, is it good foreign policy to basically say that Saddam Hussein is one badass muthafugga and we are staying away from his corner? Surely that would only serve to bolster that despot's willingness to be the aggressor, even more so than he has been until now.

War is a terrible, terrible thing. Peace is a wonderful thing. Hate war. Love peace. But when war is the only availabe measure, we've got to step up to the plate. Especially with the possibility of establishing democratic governments in a part of the world where they're noticeably absent. I wish there were other options, but I don't think there are. Doing whatever is necessary to bring about a regime change in Iraq is the only course of action that makes sense, and I think the scandalously weak arguments being presented by opponents of that move make that abundantly clear.

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It's the big new phenomenon sweeping the gay community in NYC: Rugby! I would totally be there, but I wouldn't want to dilute the softball experience. Here's an interesting twist. There's sort of a thing about Rugby related injuries.

Guy #1: "Damn! What did you do to your knee?"
Guy #2: "Messed it up playing rugby."

At this point in the conversation, if Guy #2 wants to bed Guy#1, all he has to do is say so. Guy #1 is putty in Guy#2's hand.

It's things like this that make me get down on my knees and thank God that I'm a gay man.

__________________________________________________________________

I could get seriously crushed out on this hot man.

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Love this guy's blog, but I think he's kind of off base on his anger at bois (I guess that should be boies) and bodies. Although I don't support unnecessary spelling changes ('boy' works fine; why fix it?), I have no problem with a 35, 45, or 55 year old man calling himself a boy. Doing so is not an admission of being a fan of the Power Rangers, being anxious about the onset of puberty, spending Saturdays skateboarding in Union Square, or the like. Rather, it's positioning oneself as seeking a Daddy. Preferably a Hot Daddy. Basking in the love and attention of a strong, self-confident, seasoned, butch guy. Possibly taking a sexually submissive role as well, but not necessarily.

As an aspirant Daddy (when the guy behind the counter at Starbucks says, "Will that be all, Sir?" I just want to jump across that counter and kiss him hard), I'd love to mold myself into a man that boys will be drawn to. And it's work, believe me. You can't mentor until you've got your act together in a big, big way.

And that includes your physical health and well-being. I certainly don't take issue with his disparaging gay men who use the size of their biceps and body fat percentage as the only props holding up their precariously perched egos. But I would maintain that it has to be part of the picture. There is just no excuse not to work out. At home, at the gym, lifting weights or just doing sit-ups and push-ups. It's not fun. It's one of the more tedious activities I can name. But it's necessary. Why? Because that's how we're hard-wired. Why do male birds often have such elaborate plummage? Because for birds (think of the peacock), that plummage is what's called a secondary sex characteristic. There are visual cues in the brains of the simples organisms that reproduce sexually that indicate, "Oh, that's a male." Evolution dictates that those secondary sex characteristics become exagerated over time, as the peacock with the biggest feathers will register as "Yo! That's very much a male!" and be out reproducing his dowdy fellows.

Broad shoulders, facial hair, sturdy musculature, body hair, baldness, and a narrow waist are among the secondary sex characteristics of the human male. In short, if you want to be attractive to potential sexual partners, you want to make sure as many of those as possible are in place, and the more, the better. Am I a body fascist? No, not a bit. One of my favorite secondary sex characteristics of the human male is a beer gut. To me, a gut speaks of a lover of life, and indulger in life's simpler pleasures (i.e., good food and beer).

Huh. I’m writing this in Word for posting later as there seems to be a problem with Blogger. Hope that resolves itself. I got stuff to say today.

When you last tuned in, I was recounting how I only had four hours sleep on Sunday night, thus making me a wreck all day yesterday. So, after a work meeting yesterday with one of our funders, I headed for the PATH train and went home. Got home, fed and walked the dog, fell into bed, and was no more animate than a plush toy for the next several hours. I awoke at the stroke of midnight (Bewah-hahahahaaaah!), fixed myself a bowl of cereal, spent some time on AOL, and about 1:30 am decided, ‘Time to hit the hay!’

I got into bed, and no dice. There I was, obsessively thinking about money. Will I be making enough with the pay cut I’m taking with my new job? Will I be able to afford the renovations I’m making to my condo in Lauderdale? Are the renovations too design-forward? Will I decimate the resale value? How will I be able to get down there to manage the renovations? What if I run out of money? What if I exhaust my bank account? Why can’t I save? Why can’t I manage my money better? Goddamn my Ex anyway for sticking me with this whopping huge car payment because he insisted that his name be taken off the lease for our old car, forcing me to subsume that lease into the new car I leased. It drives me nuts when I see a commercial for a Jaguar that has lower lease payments than I’m making. Maybe I could renegotiate the lease now that I’ve paid a year on it, and stretch the remaining three years over four…

And then, and it was more of a sensation than something cognitive, I just had this thought that I just wasn’t managing my life. That it was all beyond me, slipping through my fingers. I dropped the reins and the horses were running wild. I was incapable. I couldn't do it. I couldn't cope.

I looked at the clock, and whaddyaknow, it’s ten minutes before four. Thank the Lord I brought from my parents a Perry Mason mystery, “The Case of the Grinning Gorilla.” That put me to sleep after only a few pages.

I haven't had a nocturnal panic attack like that for years. They used to be centered around work. But before that, it was all about what I could call 'life management.' This worries me. It was that general sense of life management incompetence that propelled me into the seven year stint I did with my Ex. A very unsuitable relationship for me. But, at the time, my calculus was that it's better than being alone. Since I left just over a year ago, I have reveled in being alone, a sole practitioner, accountable to no one but me, breathing the sweet air of freedom. My bed was made, there were no piles of dirty laundry on my floor, there were no dirty dishes in my sink. I had it together. I was on top of my game. I was Mr. Leatherguy on the scene, flirting with boys at every opportunity, bringing such joy into the world with my floggers and my whips. What I had been aiming for was a sort of secular monastacism. Life of the mind, life of the spirit, strength of the body, the joys of sexual congress.

And then, there was Special Guy. I opted for a relationship instead of being single, because the chances of meeting someone so perfectly matched for me again were vanishingly small. I didn't want the opportunity to go by. And I fell in love, as in, head over heels, for the first time ever. All the time, there was a sort of tension within me: what about that freedom? What about that commitment to being alone you spoke of so eloquently? But overall, I jumped in, both feet.

And then, Special Guy dumped me. My initial response was, "Yeah. Okay." It was almost a non-event. And then, out of nowhere, unbidden, came the thought: "I miss Special Guy. I wish he was still my boyfriend." And then, last night, the Bed Panic. Huh. And another thing, I haven't had sex since I got back from Inferno. Sex is sort of feeling like way too much to take on. I know what's happening there. There can, or there can not be an emotional component to sex. It can either be a bonding, renewing, and incredibly intimate experience for two people who love each other; or, it can be a game where you don't have all the parts. (I watch Sex in the City so I know about these things.) Big problems come in (and this I know from experience)(a wealth of experience, I might add) when one person is playing the game and the other person is going through the bonding-renewing-intimate thing. I am in danger of doing the bonding-renewing-intimate thing with an unwitting partner who's playing the game. After it's over, he's thinking, "Wow. That was nice." and I'm thinking, "I love you and I want to be with you forever."

So okay, Kramer! Get your sorry act together.

1. Clean your apartment.
2. Go to the gym religiously.
3. Go to church religiously.
4. Flirt shamelessly with every hot boy that crosses your path.
5. Have lots and lots of wild, meaningless sex.

Oh, and eat right and take your multi-vitamin.

Once again, for the nice folks planning my send off party, let's run over the key elements:

1. Vin Diesel pops out of the cake;
2. Mocha icing on the cake.


Posted by Drew Kramer, 10/7/2002 at 12:45 pm

Huh. When you google 'singletails,' this website is hit number 3. But when you google my name, it doesn't come up at all. I guess that's fine, though.

Posted by Drew Kramer, 10/72002 at 3:15 pm

I am soooooo feeling like I only had 4 hours of sleep last night.
Oyeme.

Oh. Even when GIRLSAREPRETTY misses, it hits. Such a great site.

Posted by Drew Kramer, 10/7/2002 at 12:45 pm

Adieu, pacifisme francaise?

With the possible terrorist attack on the french ship in the middle east, I wonder if the french are asking themselves all those questions that they urged Amercans to ask themselves in the wake of September 11th? Why are we hated? Why are we to be singled out? What crimes against humanity have we committed lately?

Here are some possible answers. Maybe because of your long history of arming whatever venal despot has the money, the moral underpinnings of your foreign policy have essentially collapsed. Maybe because the rise of anti-semitism in France has gone unchecked and completely disregarded by your leaders you sent the message that you were a supine target. (After all, if french civilians can be beaten and killed and french synagogues can be bombed on french soil, why should it concern the french if military personnel are killed?) Maybe because if you're applauding the work of Palestinian suicide bombers and calling them freedom fighters, then it must mean that you accept the murder of innocent civilians to be business as usual. Maybe your smug attitude that 'a tsing like zee onze septembre wooed neverre 'appen to us' caused french military intelligence to relax their guard.

Peut etre.

Posted by Drew Kramer, 10/7/2002 at 11:58 am

Headachey. Staring. Unable to focus. Cold. Thinking about that nice warm bed. I feel like I only got four hours sleep last night. Probably because I only got four hours sleep last night.

Sometimes, showing up at work on time is totally beside the point. Dig? There will probably not be a lot of productivity happening.

Posted by Drew Kramer, 10/7/2002 at 8:25 am

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Oh. Maybe you've noticed. I installed a hit counter, but all the titles of my entries, as well as the little tags that say 'Posted by Drew Kramer [10/7/2002 7:38:58 AM]' have vanished. I have no clue about why this happened or how to get them back. I sent email to Blogger. Hopefully someone there will kindly take the time, go to my site, look into the HTML, and fix the problem.

Uh huh. And just what planet am I living on?

In the meantime, I'll do that myself.

Posted by Drew Kramer, 10/7/2002 at um... 7:44 am.

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Interlude of Servitude
Okay. An interesting weekend. Friday night, I came home to watch the game (the one in which the Angels defeated the Yankees). I logged on to AOL, where my screen name is NYYankeesM4M. I went to the Musclebears chat room. They're usually a friendly and communicative group. Very shortly, I was exchanging instant messages with the six other gay men on AOL that were also watching the game. And then, into the chatroom came a Master guy. In his profile, he declared himself to be in search of a slave, or rather, a masculine, muscular guy to become his slave.

Moi? Entertain fantasies of being a slave? Yeah. Not for years though. Back in the bad old days when I was with my Ex, I had a whole string of AOL misadventures in slavery. Usually, these went down when I was feeling particularly bad about myself. Low self-esteem coupled with a feeling of being trapped and desperate. In other words, they were really fantasies of self-annnihilation. If I were looking for a slave, and I came across me, I would probably read the situation pretty quickly and move on.

But anyway, this guy sounded pretty hot, and so I flagged him down and sent him my picture. Thus ensued a conversation. He basically made up his mind that I was the ticket. I was pretty up front in all respects. I'm a Top. I do whipping and flogging. I don't have a submissive bone in my body. Although a certain boneless organ does from time to time respond to the idea of submission, I'm not a very good bottom. When it comes to processing pain, I'm inept. When it comes to letting go and giving myself over, I'm hopeless. My experiences in trying to do either usually have left me feeling resentful and angry. But we kept on talking.

I guess what moved me was his persistence, and his apparent desire to have me. The more he told me about himself, the more I liked him. He was a big, powerful guy. Smart, sane, and self-aware. Being desired by a chucklehead is bothersome. Being strongly desired by a hot man--no matter what the specifics of his desire might be--is quite the aphrodisiacal tonic. It sure put wood in me.

We were on the phone for a few hours. "I will own you. You will wear my collar. We both know that's you're destiny, don't we? Beg me for this opportunity, boy." He had me 'in position,' that is to say, naked and on my knees, hands behind my back, while we spoke.

So there I was, re-writing the script for my life. After a few visits (which would be sublime), I'd resign my job and head down there to Atlanta. (Atlanta, a city that has no appeal to me whatsoever.) I'd be collared, and become his slave, giving up my will and identity, disolving into submission. We talked more (a lot more) on Saturday, the next day. At this point, concerns had cropped up for me. I re-iterated all the things I believed would make me ineligible for slavery. He responded well in every case. He described to me how he had had a slave who had been in every way his ideal. The guy's name was Jason, and he was a New York City Police Officer, killed in the line of duty. When I had gotten off the phone the night before, it was like I had stepped off the plane of reality onto the tarmac of fantasy. Although it did seem possible that I could, with effort, make fantasy my reality. By the time he was done with me on Saturday, it felt like my wearing his collar was an inevitable thing. All roads lead to that destination. I had no other choice.

Saturday, I loaded up my dog in my car and headed to my parents. *sigh* My stepmother's health (she has congestive heart failure) continues to deteriorate. There's little she can do with herself at this point. Because insufficient oxygen is getting to her brain, she has no short term memory. She forgets what she's doing as she's doing it. My father has rallied somewhat in order to take care of her, but he isn't in great shape either. They had practicallly no food in the house. My plan for Sunday was to leave in the morning, get back to New York, attend a fundraiser for a buddy of mine who is the reigning Mr. Northeast Leather Sir so he can go down to Florida and compete to become Mr. Leather Sir Period, and also go to my church for the Feast of St. Francis Blessing of the Beasts to get my beast blessed. These plans had to be scrapped. I went shopping for my parents, and made chicken cutlets, enough to last them a week. I left after we ate and I cleaned up the kitchen. I called Sir in Atlanta and we talked on my way home. I went deeper and deeper.

I told him that my plans for the evening included going to Beer Blast at the Dugout. "Remember, boy, you're my property. No one touches you. I want you to be aware of that at every second. Feel the weight of the collar around your neck."

"Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir."

I went to the Dugout. Oddly, I knew no one there, although it was packed as always. I wore my motorcycle leathers that I bought at Inferno. It's one piece, zipping up the front, and it has no pockets. I was flagging neither left nor right. I can easily picture myself bound securely with chains and padlocks wearing it. No one touched me. After the Dugout, I got some dinner, and I stopped into Ty's to see San Francisco beat Atlanta (yes!) in the National League series. I got home about 12:45am, got naked, got into position, and called Sir. He ordered me to stay in position and naked until he called me back. I remained there until 1:30. Then, I had to get to bed as tomorrow (today) is a work day. With phone by my side, I brushed my teeth, swabbed out my piercings with bactine, and got into bed.

I started to reflect. No phone call came in. So he had essentially ordered me to do something that he knew I'd be incapable of doing. (I imagine that I'd still be there, as my phone still hasn't rung.) Was that punishment for calling him later than he had anticipated? Or for going to the Dugout at all? Whatever the case, it was irresponsible. I, as a Top, would never do something like that. It's unfair. Submission is all about trust, and that was a betrayal of trust.

An idea occcurred to me. I did a Google search and found the National Police Memorial website. On it are listed the names of all police officers nationwide who died in the line of duty. There has only been one law enforcement officer named Jason in New York who died in the line of duty. He was with the Tuxedo Falls Police Department. Sir hadn't been telling me the truth about this.

"Oh gosh!" you're saying. "What a shocker! Someone being not entirely upfront on AOL." Yeah yeah yeah. But usually I'm (keenly) aware of that. And use it to my advantage. I mean, if it's obviously all fantasy for the guy you're communicating with, then it's license for you to fantasize right back. "On the internet, nobody knows you're a dog."

But I took this guy for real, and I was real for him, and what he kindled in me was real. Except that it wasn't.

So now, what? And where did this come from? Why now?

I woke up this morning at 6:15 am, about four hours after I finally got to sleep last night. I was thinking, "I'll go on line, and find out what programs are offered at the University of Miami. I'll move down to Fort Lauderdale, be a student again. I want to get out of New York." At the Dugout last night, I felt sort of sad.

Now, it's probably not coincidence that this episode was a bookmark to a planned trip to see my parents. And something else, too. When I was going to bed last night, I tried to get it together for a masturbatory fantasy. It was like reaching into an empty box. Sir was suddenly not there. I ran through the inventory of hot men at the Dugout and Ty's (and there were several). Finally, I settled on one. In my fantasy, he was chained up and helpless while I beat him around some. Afterwards, while cleaning up, I realized something: I miss the Special Guy. I miss him. I wish he was still my boyfriend.

The Nobel Prize has been announced for life sciences. Once again my important research into male human sexuality has been ignored! Those blockheads in Stockholm will one day rue their scoffing at my work...

I thought I had a GMSMA mailing to do tomorrow. But no. It's next Saturday. (When I'm away. Sorry, GMSMA.) Anyway, that means that now I'm going to call the Old People (aka, my parents) and let them know that I'm going home, packing a bag, throwing the dog in the car, and I'm heading to see them for the weekend. They'll be sooooo pleased. I'm also planning on Crossing The Big Threshhold and casually strolling to the door at 10pm tomorrow wearing my chaps and saying, "Don't wait up. I'm off to a gay bar. 'Night." Odds are I won't have the testicular fortitude to pull that off. Or I'll wait until they go to bed and sneak out like I used to do when I was seventeen.

Will I ever not be seventeen when it comes to me, my parents, and getting laid?

This guy is purdy. I bet he smells nice.

Yippee. There it be. If you scroll all the way down (Keep going. Further. A little more. Almost there. There ya go!) you'll see a hit counter. I'm sooo pleased. Next challenge: uploading images!

Huh. I put the wingadajing in the cheese box and I getta no provalone.
(Translation: "Hey! Where's the hit counter I just attached to my blog?")

Those 26 Questions Making The Rounds in the Blogosphere

Here's my go at them:

1. What's on your bedside table?
Book of Common Prayer, condoms, lube, handcuffs
2. What's the geekiest part of your music collection?
The Rainbow song from the Muppet Movie
3. What do you eat when you raid the fridge at night?
Cereal
4. What is your secret guaranteed weeping film?
What isn’t? I cry at just about every movie I see. A League of Our Own probably tops the list though.
5. If you could have plastic surgery, what would you have done?
Electrolysis on my nose hair
6. Do you have a completely irrational fear?
Yeah. Snakes.
7. What is the little physical habit that gives away your insecure moments?
Avoiding eye contact.
8. Do you ever have to beg?
I don’t even ask for directions when I’m lost.
9. Do you have too many love interests?
I have a much to short span of attention to describe romantic inclinations as ‘interests.’
10. Do you know anyone famous?
I have a million ‘I know somebody who knows…’
11. Describe your bed.
Just as it came from Dial-a-Mattress. No headboard. It’s firm and full size.
12. Spontaneous or plan?
Spontaneous always.
13. Who should play you in a movie about your life?
Rupert Everett
14. Do you know how to play poker?
Somewhat
15. What do you carry with you at all times?
The book I’m reading, my cell phone, and my PDA
16. How do you drive?
Fast.
17. What do you miss most about being little?
My sister
18. are you happy with your given name?
Actually I’m not. It’s one of those words (like ‘water’ or ‘marry’) that different people pronounce differently. I hear Der-ooo, True, Droooo, Driewww. And then there are those variations. Drewster. Drewber. Droopy-drawers. I’ve always wanted someone to give me a nickname that would stick. My middle name is ‘Devoe.’ I was named after my Great Uncle, Devoe Arbegast. Everyone called him Uncle Bo. I’ve thought about going as D. Devoe Kramer and having people call me ‘Bo’ familiarly.
9. What color is your bedroom?
It’s all pretty white in there.
20. What was the last song you were listening to?
Hold Me Now by the Thompson Twins
21. Have you ever been in a school play?
Can’t easily be avoided. Not past 7th grade, though. I never did the Drama Club thing.
22. Have you ever been in love?
Just recently. And for the first time in my life.
23. Do you like yourself and believe in yourself?
I do like myself. I think I’m too riddled with self doubt to say that I ‘believe in myself.’
24. Have you ever done any illegal drugs?
Yes, but not since I was 21. I’ve done pot, cocaine, and crystal meth.
25. Do you think you're cute?
‘Cute’ isn’t the word I’d used, and not one that I think has been applied to me lately. I like to think I’m sexy. That’s sooooo 1970s, but so am I in many ways.
26. Do you consider yourself to be a nice person?
I do. I’m just about never mean to anyone. But, often I’ll feign pre-occupation or obliviousness to avoid talking to someone.

Poetry

Oh Happy Day!

My new amazon.com order came in today. Wishing Chair, the second album put out by the 10,000 Maniacs, way back when in 1985. It's my understanding that the band used poems that Natalie Merchant had written for a creative writing class at the local community college in Jamestown, New York, as lyrics for their songs. Whatever the case may be, the lyrics are amazing.

Rarely have I been in a leather bar when 'Scorpio Rising' (inspired, doubtless, by the Kenneth Anger film) doesn't run through my mind...

power
dizzy with it stumble
detail
a chance for us to quarrel
anger
my head is shaken violent

if i could calm or restrain you
for the sake of pity
save the pistol
save the cynic's tongue
save that cool white stare
and treat me to an honest face sometime

amaze me now

trust is
the greatest human error
empty
used me as a vessel
ruthless
you're not known for subtlety

if i could only restrain you
for the sake of pity
save the pistol
save the cynic's tongue
save that cool white stare
and treat me to an honest face sometime

amaze me now

artful
well there's a skill to torture
half smile
was it all you could deliver
token
so hard to be pleasant

if you could calm or restrain it
for the sake of pity
save the pistol
save the cynic's tongue
save that cool white stare
and treat me to an honest face somehow

amaze me now

Love that. Every word is just perfect. Although there's not much in the way of literal sense, it's so impressionistic. A quality I always look for in poetry. Wallace Stephens, Andrew Marvell, John Donne, Edna St. Vincent Millay...

There's a great poem by William Carlos Williams:

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

In college, when we discussed the poem in my Modern American Poetry class, the prof had us all write down answers to the following questions...

What is the position of the wheelbarrow?
Is it raining now?
How many chickens?

Ninety-percent of the class--independently--answered

Balanced on it's nose with the handles straight up
No, the sun is out
Five

Sort of uncanny.

And notice how the shape of the stanzas resembles a wheelbarrow? And the meter (da-DA-da-DA-da-DA, da-DA-DA-da-da, DA-da-da-DA-da, da-DA-da-DA-DA-da) is like wheeling a wheelbarrow over rough ground?

One of the Psalms uses the phrase 'Deep is calling on deep.' That, essentially, is my theory of poetry. Beyond their literal sense, words are vessels holding cups of the poets unconscious. Reading a poem sets up those vessels, and the corresponding aspects of your unsconscious flow in. Poetry is language, but it's beyond language. Writing a poem is almost like automatic writing (for the first draft, anyway). The words just sort of come. You have no idea where it's going most of the time. The image of the Muse whispering in your ear is so apt. Truly, that's what it's like. Being a poet, more than anything else, is living in a quiet state of hyper-awareness. You're always listening, waiting for a poem to come. You see sunlight streaming through a window with that mid-winter slant and Bam! You're off and going.

Here's a poem I wrote almost twenty years ago. (Among those that they didn't think much of at the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Temple University):


Wednesday

As if words could hold language
Like baskets hold laundry

Serenity: the oxford cloth shirts I just ironed
Hung in the closet
Pink and blue and yellow
Muted by washwater, sunlight,
And my sweat.

Girlsarepretty is particularly sublime today.

Overall, the brilliance of the opus (daily entries! when do they sleep?) is just staggering. Some rainy day at home I'm just gonna go back through the archives to review all the stuff I missed.

Sex and Politics Discussed!

I had a really interesting exchange with a guy from London on Leather Navigator today. He mentioned that he was disgusted with the recent rightward tilt of the Labour Party and we plunged into a great discussion about politics. For the first time, I think I was able to articulate why I'm a Republican. It all comes down to the role of government. "You can't legislate morality!" is the slogan hurled frequently at the religious rigght. And I agree with that. But, I would also add that you can't legislate compassion, kindness, civility, decency, intelligence, or brotherly love. The United States of America is unique in our (oft maligned) cult of individualism. But ultimately, this engenders self-reliance, clear-sightedness, and the 'live and let live' attitude that ensures individual liberty. Not that I'm against compassion, kindness, civility, and the rest. But surely national government is inappropriate to encourage these virtues. Rather, church, clubs, fraternal organizations, and smaller political groups are better fora. Londoner responded that Margaret Thatcher once stated that 'there is no such thing as a society; there are only individuals' and said that this attitude resulted in greed and selfishness. I don't know if that's the necessary result of individualism. I don't think most people desire unlimited wealth (and are willing to stop at nothing to attain it). Rather, I think that most people simply want enough to be comfortable and to be left in peace. "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."

So, my conversational partner noted at one point how odd it was that here we were discussing politics on Leather Navigator. I responded, "Not odd at all. In fact, I find it to be generally true that leathermen tend to be extraordinarily intelligent, thoughtful, and insighful. I think there's a direct correlation between a superabundance of brains and adventurous, transcendent, powerplay-oriented sex."

Here's the text of our exchange uninterpreted. Mind you, Leather Navigator is where horned up leathermen from around the world connect in order to get their respective rocks off.


London Calling: sorry missed that last message, my pc is a bit shit
Yours Truly: When I was in Vegas I took the same tack. Found nothing of interest in the town. The so-called leather bar was without a doubt the worst I've seen. But I headed out and had a great time at Zion National Park and Death Valley.
London Calling: I didnt even bother to check out the leather sceene there, I dont gamble but had a great time. Was only there for two days tho. We flew over the Grand Canyon and we stopped in a ghost town called Calico. Its the kind of place you either love or hate. LA was a dump and I would never recommend it but I met some great people there which made the trip
Yours Truly: I could move to LA tomorrow. Ever been to Fort Lauderdale? A sleepy south florida beach town with a population of 1.5m and 6 leather bars. It's sort of becoming for leathermen what San Francisco is for gays in general.
London Calling: That will have to go on the list then. I found LA to be a constant beauty parade. When you walk in a coffee shop all the heads turn, they could almost hold up score cards. They are also really flaky people, obsessed with their looks and all thinking that thats what everyone else is like. I had a great night of passion (not leather) with the editor of one of your national gay mags.... cant remember its name but he was a really intelligent guy and we had fun.... so I have only good memories of LA
Yours Truly: I find that LA attitude to be refreshingly honest in a way. Sort of primal. I have to run off and get something to eat now. When you're in town, give me a call. I'm away from the 10th to the 14th, but if we're both in the city at the same time and it's convenient, I'd be happy to buy you a beer or meet up for dinner.
London Calling: That would be nice, my email is justneveryoumind!@aol.com wd probably have to be a beer with the bf, he is LCsBF. What is yr number?
Yours Truly: (Sorry, Readers. Ya gotta ask me for that) is my mobile. That's the best way to reach me.
London Calling: OK will do
Yours Truly: Great. My long weekend in Portland, Oregon will serve as what's called 'disruptive interference' in cognitive psychology. Please don't be offended if I pick up the phone and say, "Now, who are you?", totally forgetting this conversation .
London Calling: Oh your a psychologist then, the long weekend doesnt sound like a barrel load of laughs
Yours Truly: Not a psychologist, just a dilletante. The long weekend will be a lesbian wedding, including lots of friends from college I haven't seen in 15 years or more. And, I hope, whipping some local boys while I'm in town.
London Calling: lol - be careful, portland oregon sounds like small town land to me, I bet the lesbians can be pretty butch out there too
Yours Truly: Portland is an amazing place. The surrounding area is beautiful, and folks who move there do so for that reason. Lots of former (and current) hippies. You can't go too far without running across someone smoking pot. Every man in Portland has calves like melons. From hiking I imagine. My friends who are getting married meet no definition of butch that I can think of. Well, Carol prefers dogs to cats... They're both very brainy and very religious. Conversations--always intense--tend to go on and on into the wee hours of the morning.
London Calling: That sounds great, I think the west country is a bit like that, particularly Bath and Bristol. I went to a rave down there this summer, in between a railway line and a canal. It was amazing to enjoy the dawn with a load of drugged up hippies and my mates, very straight tho. So what do you do for a living then?
Yours Truly: I'm switching jobs. Right now I run a social services agency. We do needle exchange and other services to drug users. On Oct 21, I start my new job as chief of staff to a member of the State Legislature. He's one of the most liberal elected officials in the city (and therefore the world), and I'm fairly conservative in my politics, but I worked for him years ago, and we get on well, so it should be a good run. And, politics of whatever stripe is always an interesting game.
London Calling: I used to be very active in the Labour party but its gone far too right wing for me now. I worked on my MP's campaign when he first won the seat that had once been the safest Labour seat in the UK. The week after I took him to Madame JOJo's to celebrate. It was his first time in a gaybar and I was so proud of him, he could have got a lot of flak for that had the press caught him. He is now the Minister for London. I reckon you'll enjoy working for him, maybe he will tease out some more liberalism in you.
Yours Truly: Or the opposite might be true. He has a staff of talented young people to work on all the lefty issues, and I can devote myself to economic development, public art and architecture, and care for stray dogs. He was first elected as openly gay and openly HIV positive, and I worked hard on his campaign way back then. Keep in mind that in this part of the country, Republicans like myself would more likely be Democrats anywhere else. Our mayor and governor are both persona non grata in the national party.
London Calling: It soulds like you've got all the interesting stuff anyway, part from the stray dogs. I have a great interest in economics and am pretty keynsian. I can't really understand Republicanism, Regan was a worry and I think Bush may be worse. From over here it seems as if Clinton put the USA back on track for a while. I guess we could have a really good chat if we meet up
Yours Truly: For me, it comes down to a keen awareness of the limits of what government can do. Morality cannot be legislated, but neither can compassion, kindness, civility, guidance, values, tolerance, or generosity.
London Calling: I agree, we had a Tory PM John Major, he set off a moral crusade called 'back to basics' Cabinet ministers were losing their jobs left right and centre as a result of affairs. However it has now come to light that he was having an affair with one of the women who he later promoted into the cabinet. Gross hypocracy really. I find the conservatives here are the first to sit in judgement against the rest of society whilst not applying that morality to themselves. I totally agree that morality cannot be legislated. I'm not so sure that Government cant have a good or bad effect on society and values such as kindness compassion and civility. Margaret Thatcher declared that there was no such thing as society, only indivividuals. A lot of people hold her up as a great leader. I think she was an evil witch who presided over the destruction of many of our great achievements, the worst of her work was in changin peoples belief away from compassion and kindness and towards greed and commercialism.
Yours Truly: I'm a great believer in compassion, kindness, and civility. But I think that smaller, local, and more appropriate communities (church, social groups, etc.) are best suited to engender those values. Vast portions of this country (notably the West) have raised rugged individualism to great heights. The result is an overall 'live and let live' outlook that leads to self-reliance, intelligence, and (dare I say) happiness. Most people don't hope to become wealthy beyond their wildest imaginings. They just want to be comfortable and to be left alone in peace.
London Calling: Thats one of our big differences, you have space. We are a little island with a 60m population thats one sixth of the US. We dont have space for rugged individualism, we have to live in small spaces in cities.
Yours Truly: Very true. Before I wanted to jump in and say that Maggie had a point, it occurred to me that whereas that might make sense in Montana, it might not translate well to Leicester.
London Calling: I think that the US is still a land of opportunity, it is possible for the individual to work and make a life, I know that you have a great deal of shiftless poor (we do see Jerry Springer) as do we, I think that they are better looked after here. I know there is an argument that the successful should not have to pay for the feckless. I understand it entirely and I think it lives at the heart of Republicanism as well as Conservatism. However, in my view our system is more caring and compassionate, we have a great National Health system and have not yet completely dismanteld the welfare state. We made all of our progress after the two world wars, because ordinary people wanted a better world for everyone. If you look at real wealth and power it is held not by rugged individuals who have made their way in the world, it is managed and owned by relativley few, most of whom have inherited it. The system is rather too exclusive for my liking. The values that I hold have not come from a christian foundation. My parents were hard working blue collar types who worked and made a lot of money for others and a little for themselves. I have done a lot better but I will never forget the injustice of my roots. I bet you never expected to get into a political debate here did ya?
Yours Truly: I find it just about universally true that leathermen are all brilliant. I think there's absolutely a correlation between a superabundance of intelligence and adventurous, powerplay oriented sex. My people were coal miners. One of my great grandfathers got off the boat one morning from Poland and was down in the mines before the sun set. They got themselves or their children out of the mines as soon as was possible. They were all religious, though not fanatically so. More as a safe haven when times were tough. I've always said that the only prejudice I really harbor is towards the wealthy, whom I expect to be idiots.
London Calling: Ahah we are both coming from the same direction, just ended up in different destinations. I did have a christian upbringing, never found the church to be very gay friendly what with leviticus and all that. So where you see the government screwing the working guy I see it as capitalism. I think our system was influenced by the soviet union to a greater extent than is ever admitted. We both live under benevelent capitalism, where there is an understanding that the working guy needs to be looked after (of course we can also thank the french revolution and the war of independence). The wealthy are not all idiots and if they are they get some talent in to look after the baubles. Thats how the likes of you and I do okay I think. Of course leather guys are the best and the brightest, you gotta have a bit to buy the gear in the first place. I'm planning to add to the collection while I'm there.

Sort of high-fallutin' discourse, no?

Like you care.

Among the playlists on my iPod is one I call 'Treasures.' Treasures is essentially the soundtrack of my life at the time when I create it. Here's what's spinning now.
Up on a Roof by James Taylor
Castles Burning by Annie Lennox
Home and Dry by Pet Shop Boys
Roller Coaster by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Wish You Were Here by Fred Durst and Johnny Reznick
Walking on Broken Glass by Annie Lennox
The Painted Desert by 10,000 Maniacs
Disseminated by Soul Coughing
Go West by the Pet Shop Boys
What's the Frequency, Kenneth? by REM
Freedom 90 by George Michael
Please Come to Boston by Joan Baez
Blake's Jerusalem by Billy Bragg
Layla by Eric Clapton
Father Figure by George Michael
Farther Along by Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstandt, and Emmylou Harris
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road by Lucinda Williams
(Don't Go Back To) Rockville by REM
Mission Impossible Theme by Moby
Take a Chance on Me by Erasure
Jambalya by John Prine and Emmylou Harris
I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry by the Cowboy Junkies
To Know Him Is To Love Him by Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstandt, and Emmylou Harris
Revolution by the Stone Temple Pilots
Daniel by Elton John
Thou Swell by Blossum Dearie
Breaking the Girl by the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Loves Me Like A Rock by Paul Simon
We Got The Beat by the Go Gos
Stockton Gala Days by 10,000 Maniacs
Brotherhood of Man from the Soundtrack of 'How To Succeed In Business...' by Robert Morse and Ruth Kobart
Roam by the B-52s
Punk Rock Girl by Dead Milkmen
The Windmills Of Your Mind by Dusty Springfield
No Scrubs by TLC
I've Been High by REM
The Tide Is High by Blondie
Sweet Forgiveness by Iris Dement
Wild World by Cat Stevens
La Bamba by Los Lobos
Name of the Game by The Crystal Method
Let the Mystery Be by Iris Dement
Eyes Without A Face by Billy Idol
Beautiful Day by U2
Theme for Peter Gunn by Henry Mancini
Spanish Inquisition Part I by Monty Python
Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel
Go Your Own Way by The Cranberries
Everyday People (Sly and the Family Stone cover) by Pearl Jam
The Promised Land by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Better Man by Pearl Jam
All The Young Dudes by Mott The Hoople
Kodachrome by Paul Simon
Wild Wild Life by the Talking Heads
Imitation of Life by REM
Inexile by Capercailie with Sibeba
Father and Son by Cat Stevens
California by Joni Mitchell
Sweet Old World by Lucinda Williams
Because the Night by 10,000 Maniacs
Rosalita (Come Out Tonight) by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Second Hand News by Fleetwood Mac
I'm a Believer by Smashmouth
Music by Madonna
Ferry Across The Mersey by Gerry & The Pacemakers
This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) by the Talking Heads
Linger by the Cranberries
The Ladies Who Lunch from 'Company' by Elaine Stritch
How Soon Is Now by the Smiths
The Finer Things Keep Shining Through by Steve Winwood
Discoteque by U2
Hold Me Now by the Thompson Twins
Pale Blue Eyes by Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground
Stand By Your Man by Lyle Lovett
Reeling In The Years by Steely Dan
In My Hour of Darkness by the Rolling Creekdippers
I Saw The Light by Hank Williams
Fame by David Bowie
Hot Blood by Lucinda Williams
Tough Guy by The Crystal Method
Can't Keep It In by Cat Stevens
Negra Presentuosa by Susana Baca
Closer To Fine by Indigo Girls
Elevation by U2
Justified and Ancient by KLF and Tammy Wynette
Panic by the Smiths
Falling In Love Again by Marlene Dietrich
Growing Up by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John
Our Town by Iris Dement
Why Can't We Be Friends by Smashmouth
Oboe Concerto in D Minor by Antonio Marcello
Crying by kd lang and Roy Orbison
Angel by Annie Lennox
A Whiter Shade of Pale by Annnie Lennox
Brasilia Crossed With Trenton by Bob Mould
Angel of the Morning by Dusty Springfield
The Air That I Breathe by kd lang
Theme from 'Maude'
Forever Young by Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan
Walk Like An Egyptian by the Bangles
Something in the Way She Moves by james Taylor
Timmy Freestyles from South Park
Diamonds and Rust by Joan Baez
No Mor I Love You's by Annnie Lennox
Carmina Burana by Karl Orff
Smooth by Santana
Leaving On A Jet Plane by Peter Paul and Mary
I Will Always Love You by Dolly Parton
California Stars by Billy Bragg and Wilco
I Hear Music by Blossum Dearie
Come To My Window by Melissa Etheridge
Play That Funky Music White Boy by George Clinton
Everyday by Dave Matthews Band
Lake Charles by Lucinda Williams
Misguided Angel by the Cowboy Junkies
Parking Lot by Joni Mitchell
I'll Stand By You by the Pretenders
Give A Little Bit by Supertramp
Assode by Groupe Oyiwan
Last Of The International Playboys by Morrissey
The Chain by Fleetwood Mac
Vacation by the Go Gos
Handsome Devil by the Smiths
Don't Stop Till You Get Enough by Michael Jackson
Verdi Cries by the 10,000 Maniacs
Piece of My Heart by Janis Joplin
Prove My Love by Lucinda Williams
Perfect Day by Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground
The Internationale by Billy Bragg
Blue Moon Revisited (A Song for Elvis) by the Cowboy Junkies
Shoplifters Of The World Unite by the Smiths
Morning Has Broken by Cat Stevens
Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
Analyse by The Cranberries
A Song by Toshi Reagon and Bernice Johnson
Zombie by The Cranberries
Come As You Are by Nirvana
Damn, Sam (I love a woman that rains) by Ryan Adams
Don't Talk by 10,000 Maniacs
The First Cut Is The Deepest by Cat Stevens
These Are Days by 10,000 Maniacs
Baseball Song from the Simpsons
In My Time Of Need by Ryan Adams
End Of The World As We Know It by REM
A Campfire Song by 10,000 Maniacs
Under The Bridge by the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Don't Stop by Fleetwood Mac
Skylark by kd lang
Don't Fence Me In by Cole Porter
A Fine Spring Morning by Blossum Dearie
Wild Montana Skies by John Denver and Emmylou Harris

I defy anyone to come up with an all-encompassing theme for all of those songs. What would be the format of the radio station that would have a playlist like that? How about "A Gay White Guy Who's Eclectic, But In A Bland Kind Of Way"?

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Thunder Road

I once had a brainstorm in the shower. As a teenage homo, I listened to all the songs my heterosexual peers did, but in some respects they spoke to me differently. Just once, I wanted Bruce Springsteen or Anthony Keidas or Billy Idol to sing a song to me. Things have come a long way since I was in highschool, and I wonder if it would be possible to round up a bunch of rock stars to sing songs of teenage lust and longing that give voice to same sex attraction? If a compilation CD were put together, the proceeds could go to benefit suicide prevention among lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, and questioning youth.

A song that still gets me all choked up to sing along with is Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road. I think I was about 17 when I started to slightly alter the lyrics. So here they are. My Thunder Road. (Apologies to you, Bruce. But somehow I don't think you'll take offense.)

The screen door slams
Jim’s old hound bays
He hushes his dog and stands on the porch
As the radio plays
Jimmy Summerville singing for the lonely
Hey that’s me and I want you only
Don’t turn me home again
I just can face my self alone
Don’t run back inside, Jimmy
Let me explain what I’m here for
So you’re scared and you’re thinking
That maybe we ain’t that young anymore
Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night
You ain’t Ben Afleck buy hey you’re alright
Oh and that’s alright with me.

You can stay in your basement
Lifting your weights
Jerk off alone
And be a no-show for internet dates
Waste your summer praying in vain
For the man of your dreams to come by
Well I’m no one’s dream
That’s understood
But I never done you wrong
And you once said I done you good
This is our last chance to find that good somehow
And what else can we do now
Except roll down the window
And let the wind blow through your hair.
Well the night’s busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back
Heaven’s waiting on down the tracks.

Oh oh come take my hand
We’re riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road
Oh Thunder Road
Lying out there like a killer in the sun
Hey I know it’s late we can make it if we run
Oh Thunder Road, sit tight, take hold

I got a buddy out west and
He got me a job tending bar
There’s room for two on this trip
And a full tank of gas in this car
From your front porch to my front seat
The door is open but the ride ain’t free
I know you’re lonely for words
That I ain’t spoken
But tonight we’ll be free
All the promises’ll be broken

There was lust in the eyes of all the circuit boys you sent away
They haunt the streets of West Chelsea
Begging strangers for one more bump of K

They scream your name at night in the bars
Wishing they could have what once was ours
They see a man but I know the boy
Stranger to pain but also to joy
With a heart that hate can’t destroy

Or turn to stone. Jimmy climb in
It’s town for losers
And we’re pulling out of here to win.

I'm off to the gym. But first a trip to a bookstore to see if I can find a book that would let me know enough about html to enhance my blog somewhat.

Dang. Special Guy and I were supposed to get together for dinner t'night. He just called and said he woke up with a fever. He's going for an endoscopy on Friday.

Dang.

Jiminy Crickets. So I head off to lunch today, thinking "I'll take care of getting calling cards printed up!" This has been on my To Do list like forever. I made a mock-up of what I wanted and headed to my dear pals at Milo Printing. I did a mock up of what I wanted... an image of a coiled snake whip (I found the jpeg on the internet) and my name, address, etc.

I walked into Milo. Milo printed up some brochures for work. They were absolutely a pleasure to work with.

So I walk up to the counter and say, "Hi! I'm here for some business cards."
"Got it on a disk?" came the reply.

Well, this wasn't quite what I was expecting. I was thinking that someone would sit down with me, look at what I was after, and help me come up with a design. We could have some fun. I'd pay handsomely and be grateful and send all my friends there. Or something.

"Uh... no... but this is an idea of what I'm after" I said, producing my mock-up.

"This isn't Quark, is it? It needs to be in Quark. And this picture... you got that off the internet, right? Won't work. Got to be 300 dpi. Probably only 24 dpi."

"Oh. Okay." I put my mock-up back in my bag. Slowly headed to the door. I was expecting them to say something like, "Whoa whoa whoa! Let's see what we can do for you.." Nope. There I was, back on the sidewalk. Pathetically clutching my wee little mock-up.

I mean, c'mon. So you want business cards? Step One: Learn to use Quark. That's nuts, right? So why don't I see note cards posted in coffee bars to the effect of 'Need a Business Card with catchy design? Call me now!" Someone with Quark and an eye for design could make money hand over fist. Lord knows New York City is the land of "Need headshots? Professional Photographer will blah blah blah." There are a hell of a lot more people out there who need business cards than there are who need head shots.

Here it is...

12/2/02 5:45 pm - 7:15 pm
Gay Sex Panel
Suite 424
BARRIERS TO HIV PREVENTION: Non-identified and Heterosexual identified men, With same sex attraction and/or same sex behavior.
Dave Nisbett
Barebacking??!!! The Failure of an Abstinence-Based HIV-Prevention Intervention
Drew D. Kramer

This is a presentation I'm giving at a conference in December. Now, all I have to do is write it! Not really. 'Organize my thoughts' is a better way of describing it. It's an issue I've been giving a lot of thought to over the past year or so. I wonder what the other guy is gonna be talking about. I think he's from Harlem United, doing HIV prevention work in African-American communities here in NYC. I'm pretty pleased with the provacative title I came up. At this conference several years ago I gave a presentation on 'Institutional Barriers to Implementation of Harm Reduction Grounded Prevention Programs.' About four people showed up for that rip-roarin' good time.

Gosh, I am such the jet-setter. In a week and a half I fly out to Portland, Oregon for a wedding. In November, I am likely going to be going to Chicago for a Chicago Hellfire Club event, then in December it's out to Seattle for the conference. And in January, down to DC for Mid-Atlantic Leather. And I hope I can get away for some trips down to Fort Lauderdale during that time. Gotta keep up my tan.

Took a personal day today so I could deal with getting an on-the-street parking permit from the Jersey City Parking Authority. I like not-working. I'd like to do it more often.

Oh Happy Day! When you google 'singletails' up comes my humble blog!

I... I'm somebody!