Bless You!
A thought I had on my drive home from work/Starbucks tonight, as the first flakes of snow were falling.
I'm not alone in my belief that in SM, we are approaching something sacred and holy. It's transformative, we feel ourselves to be a part of something greater to ourselves, and we touch something beyond words.
With me so far?
Cool.
Now theologically, an action like this is referred to as a "sacrement." A sacred act. In some traditions, sacrements are specifically listed, and their forms are prescribed. Think Baptism, Marriage, Last Rites, the Lord's Supper.
Here's the insight: with the prescribed forms of any sacrement, there are a couple of common elements: one is that the person receiving the sacrement is charged with a mission. And the other is that it comes with a benediction, or blessing.
Huh.
I think that's pretty cool.
So if we really really wanted to get technical about it, the sacred scenes we do are--most of'em--incomplete. The charge and the blessing are either merely implied or missing altogether.
So what if we change that? What if, the next time you whip some lucky bottom, or bind him or her with your ropes, or nourish him or her with your piss, or send him or her to seventh heaven with needles piercing the skin, you prepare yourself, when all is said and done, when you're both sitting their sweated, stars in your eyes, grinning like fools at each other, to impart a blessing? Like, "From now on, you're heart will never break again," or "I will always be in your corner," or, "I will hold you in my heart forever," or, "No more will you be troubled by self-doubt."
And the mission. It might be good for the bottom to think up what the mission might be. What he or she will take into the world, and offer as a gift henceforth. C'mon, you've just received a great gift, and with every gift comes a task. Read your mythology! "When you (I) leave this Holy Place and go out into the world, I will try to ease the pain of the first suffering person whom God places in my path." "I will show kindness and compassion to the next person who treats me with malice and spite." "I will spend time with someone who is lonely."
And hey, who says the bottom can't turn around and offer a blessing to the sublime sadist who gave of himself (or herself)? And if the Top wants the scene to really mean something, think hard about what task you might take on.
As with sacrements as they are understood in the religious sense, that extends the scene well beyond the sconce- and eye-bolt festooned walls of the dungeon. And out into a cold, cold world. And deeply into your life.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Banned In New Jersey!
As in, me.
Yesterday, I was making a trip into NYC. An overnighter, so I dropped off Faithful Companion at doggie lock-up, then got on the road. The route that I usually take is head up River Road and cross the river into Frenchtown, New Jersey, head up Route 513, and twelve miles into New Jersey, I pick up I-78, and it's a straight shot to the Holland Tunnel.
So there I was, coming out of Frenchtown. As you come up the hill, it's a nice straight road. And a speed trap. As I found out. The cop pulled me over for doing 51 in a 40 mile an hour zone. I said, "Forty? Are you sure? I thought it was forty-five back there?"
"Well," he said, "that still puts you at six miles an hour over the speed limit."
Right.
So he takes my license, insurance card, and registration, and goes back to his car to write me up.
And then he comes back. "Are you aware," he asks, "that your driving privileges have been revoked in the State of New Jersey?"
Say what?
I was informed that because I had failed to pay a parking ticket in Jersey City, New Jersey, the State of New Jersey is empowered to forbid me to drive on their highways and byways.
I'm banned in New Jersey.
The police officer asked if there was someone I could call to pick me up, since he couldn't let me drive. Because I was in New Jersey.
Say what?
Of course there's nobody I could call. My dad doesn't drive at this point, and even if he did, the idea of directing him to Frenchtown, New Jersey... Heaven help us all.
At this point, I started to get verrrrry worried, picturing myself walking back to Pennsylvania. So I started to get all beggy and pleady. And, yeah, mentioned... umm... the fact that I'm taking care of my eighty-year-old-home-bound father. It just slipped out.
So Officer Hupka (that was really his name) was feeling generous. He told me that he would follow me to the bridge and I wasn't allowed back in New Jersey until I get those Jersey City parking tickets resolved. So that's what we did. I drove, slowly, with the squad car following behind me, down to the bridge. He sat there and watched me drive onto the bridge and out of New Jersey.
*sigh*
I'll miss New Jersey. It will now take me about seven hours to get to New York. No more Jersey Shore in the summer time. And I had such a blast at the Mr. New Jersey Leather contest in Asbury Park.
Okay. So I'll give money I don't have to resolve the parking ticket problem, and I'll be able to go to New Jersey again. Like, to my trial on the charges of speeding on December 20th.
But what is going on with me? This stuff never used to happen to me. What is going on with this string of bad luck? I mean, c'mon! Is there a message here? Something I'm doing wrong? It's gotta break though. Something's gotta give.
As in, me.
Yesterday, I was making a trip into NYC. An overnighter, so I dropped off Faithful Companion at doggie lock-up, then got on the road. The route that I usually take is head up River Road and cross the river into Frenchtown, New Jersey, head up Route 513, and twelve miles into New Jersey, I pick up I-78, and it's a straight shot to the Holland Tunnel.
So there I was, coming out of Frenchtown. As you come up the hill, it's a nice straight road. And a speed trap. As I found out. The cop pulled me over for doing 51 in a 40 mile an hour zone. I said, "Forty? Are you sure? I thought it was forty-five back there?"
"Well," he said, "that still puts you at six miles an hour over the speed limit."
Right.
So he takes my license, insurance card, and registration, and goes back to his car to write me up.
And then he comes back. "Are you aware," he asks, "that your driving privileges have been revoked in the State of New Jersey?"
Say what?
I was informed that because I had failed to pay a parking ticket in Jersey City, New Jersey, the State of New Jersey is empowered to forbid me to drive on their highways and byways.
I'm banned in New Jersey.
The police officer asked if there was someone I could call to pick me up, since he couldn't let me drive. Because I was in New Jersey.
Say what?
Of course there's nobody I could call. My dad doesn't drive at this point, and even if he did, the idea of directing him to Frenchtown, New Jersey... Heaven help us all.
At this point, I started to get verrrrry worried, picturing myself walking back to Pennsylvania. So I started to get all beggy and pleady. And, yeah, mentioned... umm... the fact that I'm taking care of my eighty-year-old-home-bound father. It just slipped out.
So Officer Hupka (that was really his name) was feeling generous. He told me that he would follow me to the bridge and I wasn't allowed back in New Jersey until I get those Jersey City parking tickets resolved. So that's what we did. I drove, slowly, with the squad car following behind me, down to the bridge. He sat there and watched me drive onto the bridge and out of New Jersey.
*sigh*
I'll miss New Jersey. It will now take me about seven hours to get to New York. No more Jersey Shore in the summer time. And I had such a blast at the Mr. New Jersey Leather contest in Asbury Park.
Okay. So I'll give money I don't have to resolve the parking ticket problem, and I'll be able to go to New Jersey again. Like, to my trial on the charges of speeding on December 20th.
But what is going on with me? This stuff never used to happen to me. What is going on with this string of bad luck? I mean, c'mon! Is there a message here? Something I'm doing wrong? It's gotta break though. Something's gotta give.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Special Day!
...And you missed it! Probably.
Y'see, Wednesday, November 30th, was the Feast of Saint Andrew.
And you're thinking, "Soooo... Like... I'm not scots."
Yeah yeah yeah. He's the patron saint of Scotland (his relics supposedly ended up there), and of Russia (he supposedly made a pilgrimage there). The New Testament tells us he was a fisherman (he's patron of anglers, too), and was the brother of fellow Apostle Simon Peter, and was a follower of John the Baptist before he was one of Jesus' disciples.
Okay. That's where it starts to get good. A follower of John the Baptist. When I was thinking of becoming a Benedictine Monk (long story), one of the things that alarmed and enthralled me was that I would be asked to take a new name in religious life. No longer would I be Drew, but I'd become... some saint's name. I toyed with the idea of the gender-bending Boniface (hid out in a convent disguising himself as a nun for decades), and I sort of liked Drogo, who was a Belgian shepherd, but thought that sounded a wee bit like some martian assasin that Ming the Merciless would send after Flash Gorden). And so I settled on John the Baptist. (I was a francophile then, so even though they were English Benedictines, I'd opt for Jean-Baptiste.)
Why John the Baptist?
Duh! How cool was John the Baptist? He was totally Out There! Running around in the desert (!) wearing goat skin (kinda like the biblical equivalent of chaps if you ask me), eating locusts and wild honey, and calling the elite of his day vipers. And doing that thing, dunking people in the Jordan River. Probably naked, right? Long time readers of Singletails will remember the poem I wrote for Special Guy way back when in the early months of this blog, a homoerotic meditation on John baptizing Christ. (Damn I wish I could meet a man who would inspire me to write poetry again.)
So anyway, Andrew was probably something of a wildman disciple. Maybe taking out the old goatskin and putting it on now and then.
But here's the kicker. Obviously. He was martyred by pagans who lashed him to a saltire, an X-shaped cross. He preached, from the cross, for a few days before he died.
See? The Saint Andrew's Cross!
What looks as good as a man lashed to a Saint Andrew's Cross? For how many of us did installing that cross mark a major transition in our lives? Remember the first time you stretched out your arms, your mouth dry, breathing hard, anticipating your first whipping or flogging or whatever?
So here's my recommendation. I think we should add a little something to the list of things that Andrew is patron of. Namely, SM. SM needs a patron saint! If he can watch out for those fishermen, he can look after all of this, too.
Oh, another bit of Andrew lore involves marriage. If a woman sleeps naked on Saint Andrew's day, she will dream of the man she'll marry (say some germans). And an unmarried woman should note where she hears a barking dog on St. Andrew's night, because her future husband will come from that direction (say some scots). And english children have some nutty thing they do with floating tea cups. Same deal though.
So Andrew is already all about looking for that big connection. He wants to see it happen. And Connection is what we're all about, right folks?
Here's our little Prayer To Saint Andrew...
Saint Andrew, fisherman who became a fisher of men,
guide us on the path we follow, as we seek intensity, intimacy,
excellence, and exhilaration; may your cross always mark for us
a transition to a new life; send us dreams always of the one who
will come and change our lives, giving us a future unimaginable.
Blessed Saint Andrew: Pray For Us.
...And you missed it! Probably.
Y'see, Wednesday, November 30th, was the Feast of Saint Andrew.
And you're thinking, "Soooo... Like... I'm not scots."
Yeah yeah yeah. He's the patron saint of Scotland (his relics supposedly ended up there), and of Russia (he supposedly made a pilgrimage there). The New Testament tells us he was a fisherman (he's patron of anglers, too), and was the brother of fellow Apostle Simon Peter, and was a follower of John the Baptist before he was one of Jesus' disciples.
Okay. That's where it starts to get good. A follower of John the Baptist. When I was thinking of becoming a Benedictine Monk (long story), one of the things that alarmed and enthralled me was that I would be asked to take a new name in religious life. No longer would I be Drew, but I'd become... some saint's name. I toyed with the idea of the gender-bending Boniface (hid out in a convent disguising himself as a nun for decades), and I sort of liked Drogo, who was a Belgian shepherd, but thought that sounded a wee bit like some martian assasin that Ming the Merciless would send after Flash Gorden). And so I settled on John the Baptist. (I was a francophile then, so even though they were English Benedictines, I'd opt for Jean-Baptiste.)
Why John the Baptist?
Duh! How cool was John the Baptist? He was totally Out There! Running around in the desert (!) wearing goat skin (kinda like the biblical equivalent of chaps if you ask me), eating locusts and wild honey, and calling the elite of his day vipers. And doing that thing, dunking people in the Jordan River. Probably naked, right? Long time readers of Singletails will remember the poem I wrote for Special Guy way back when in the early months of this blog, a homoerotic meditation on John baptizing Christ. (Damn I wish I could meet a man who would inspire me to write poetry again.)
So anyway, Andrew was probably something of a wildman disciple. Maybe taking out the old goatskin and putting it on now and then.
But here's the kicker. Obviously. He was martyred by pagans who lashed him to a saltire, an X-shaped cross. He preached, from the cross, for a few days before he died.
See? The Saint Andrew's Cross!
What looks as good as a man lashed to a Saint Andrew's Cross? For how many of us did installing that cross mark a major transition in our lives? Remember the first time you stretched out your arms, your mouth dry, breathing hard, anticipating your first whipping or flogging or whatever?
So here's my recommendation. I think we should add a little something to the list of things that Andrew is patron of. Namely, SM. SM needs a patron saint! If he can watch out for those fishermen, he can look after all of this, too.
Oh, another bit of Andrew lore involves marriage. If a woman sleeps naked on Saint Andrew's day, she will dream of the man she'll marry (say some germans). And an unmarried woman should note where she hears a barking dog on St. Andrew's night, because her future husband will come from that direction (say some scots). And english children have some nutty thing they do with floating tea cups. Same deal though.
So Andrew is already all about looking for that big connection. He wants to see it happen. And Connection is what we're all about, right folks?
Here's our little Prayer To Saint Andrew...
Saint Andrew, fisherman who became a fisher of men,
guide us on the path we follow, as we seek intensity, intimacy,
excellence, and exhilaration; may your cross always mark for us
a transition to a new life; send us dreams always of the one who
will come and change our lives, giving us a future unimaginable.
Blessed Saint Andrew: Pray For Us.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Ahhhh... Art!
So today, I wound down my fabulous five day weekend with something I've long wanted to do. With Eagle, I made a trip to the DIA Foundation's amazing site in Beacon, New York. DIA:Beacon is a former industrial space taken over by the DIA Foundation, supporters of some of the greatest artists working today. For maximal fans of minimalism like myself, it's pretty much the best there is. DIA:Beacon opened a year and a half ago, and I've wanted to go ever since. But I didn't really want to go alone.
Talking to Eagle a few days ago, he mentioned that he was hoping to go to the new MoMA in NYC. I suggested DIA instead, and he was up for it. We had planned to go on yesterday, but he was in a bad headspace. So today was the day.
And it's amazing. Put it on your list. A must see. An incredible site on the Hudson, a wee fifty miles north of NYC.
My favorites included Walter DeMaria, creator of the lightning field; Michael Heizer (Wow! WOW!!!); Fred Sandback (...it's just string! Brilliant!); Gerhard Richter (Ohhh. Ahhhhhh... I see); Robert Smithson (visionary man that he was, he of the spiral jetty). But of course, topping the list is the Man of Steel, Richard Serra. These incredible, monumental udulating steel forms. So sensuous. So strong. So masculine. My breathing got shallow. I'm sure my pupils dilated. It's an great experience.
And this art thing. It's all about noticing. About seeing.
I'll tell you what. Right now, I couldn't say which was more important to me, SM or minimalist art.
How about that?
So today, I wound down my fabulous five day weekend with something I've long wanted to do. With Eagle, I made a trip to the DIA Foundation's amazing site in Beacon, New York. DIA:Beacon is a former industrial space taken over by the DIA Foundation, supporters of some of the greatest artists working today. For maximal fans of minimalism like myself, it's pretty much the best there is. DIA:Beacon opened a year and a half ago, and I've wanted to go ever since. But I didn't really want to go alone.
Talking to Eagle a few days ago, he mentioned that he was hoping to go to the new MoMA in NYC. I suggested DIA instead, and he was up for it. We had planned to go on yesterday, but he was in a bad headspace. So today was the day.
And it's amazing. Put it on your list. A must see. An incredible site on the Hudson, a wee fifty miles north of NYC.
My favorites included Walter DeMaria, creator of the lightning field; Michael Heizer (Wow! WOW!!!); Fred Sandback (...it's just string! Brilliant!); Gerhard Richter (Ohhh. Ahhhhhh... I see); Robert Smithson (visionary man that he was, he of the spiral jetty). But of course, topping the list is the Man of Steel, Richard Serra. These incredible, monumental udulating steel forms. So sensuous. So strong. So masculine. My breathing got shallow. I'm sure my pupils dilated. It's an great experience.
And this art thing. It's all about noticing. About seeing.
I'll tell you what. Right now, I couldn't say which was more important to me, SM or minimalist art.
How about that?
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Santa Saturday Rocks!
This just in from the annual event hosted by the Bucks MC down in New Hope... me!
Okay. It was chilly. In years past, at the Cartwheel, it was pretty much contained by tents or downright indoors, so the only time the cold weather was a problem was waiting for the long, long, long line to get in to move you to the door. This year, at the Raven, it was more of an indoor/outdoor event.
My wardrobe inspiration was to wear the wetsuit singlet my Sir gave me. I had it on, and it looked great, but at the last minute I reconsidered. Instead, I opted for my neoprene uniform shirt and pants from Nasty Pig. Alas, neoprene does nothing in the way of heat retention, but I was slightly warmer than I would have been running around in a singlet. And I was cold most of the time. Even colder than I was at Dore Alley in SF. And that's cold!
But I kept a stiff upper lip, and solicited offers to 'keep me warm' from several of the hot men in attendance. Another thing to love about bears: they keep you warm!
And everybody was there. Great to see all those guys so much. At the risk of... ...whatever, I'm gonna go on record as saying that my exile here in the howling wilderness makes me realize that I love these men, my fellow travelers on this leather odyssey. Truly I do. I'm nourished and sustained by seeing them a few times a year, odd as that may be. Being greeted by a hot man decked out in leather by name, wearing a big welcoming smile on his face... it's the tonic I need to live.
But there was one tragic thing: no meatball sandwiches! Those amazing, amazing meatball sandwiches were not to be found this year. Just hotdogs and sausage sandwiches. I made do with hotdogs (of course the Bucks MC had saur kraut!), and when I asked, I was told that the meatball sandwiches were a bit too messy last year. I hearby offer to help with clean-up if it would mean their reappearance next year. But, hotdogs were only $2, so I had like five of them. With saur kraut and mustard, just the way I like'em.
All the action, though not much in the way of warmth, was in one big tent this year. By 'action,' I'm referring to the auction and drag show. I tend to tune this out. Having been reared in the midst of the East Village drag scene of the late '80s and early '90s, the whole glamorous show tunes thing doesn't move me much. Not demented and twisted enough for my tastes. And the auction items mostly seem to consist of granny afgans. There must be a crocheting fool in the ranks of the Bucks MC, who at this moment is working away at his granny afgan offerings for next year.
But at one point, I heard the MC announce that the next item up for auction was a set of irons, wrist and ankle, and the accompanying allen wrench. I think the last words I heard before I lost consciousness were, "and it looks like pretty good welding on these."
My sincere apologies to all the guys who were unfortunately In My Way as I made my way to the auction area. I hope your injuries weren't too severe, and that you received medical attention without too much of a delay.
The bidding started at $10. Ten dollars for a beautiful set of shackles and leg irons! I decided that my absolute limit would be $40. My bid of $45 almost held. But up it went. I walked away with them for $60. Now, that's $60 that I can't afford right now, but it seemed clear to me that A.) I was never again in my life going to have the opportunity to obtain a set of irons for $60, and B.) my father and I have plenty of leftover turkey so I won't be spending that much on groceries this week. So there!
And here's an interesting phenomenon: not sure what my horoscope read this week, but it seems to be the Time Of Men With Large Penises Taking A Strong Interest In Me. Last night, I got the jump on Santa Saturday (most out-of-towners arrive on Friday) and headed down to the Raven. And ended up having a great night in room 159 of the Best Western with a guy from Connecticutt who had one of the largest I've ever... uh... accommodated.
And then today, tit was brought to my attention (ahem) that two of the men who were "keeping me warm" at the event had just either unbelieveably substantial pieces on them, or they were doing the Spinal Tap thing with zucchini. And, one of the zucchini guys is local! So even if I don't run into him tonight during Round Two, I'll meet up with him again at some point. Hopefully.
I've never been much in the way of a size queen. All I have to offer is a standard issue six (same as John Dillinger, from what I've read). And since that hole of mine is tight as a snare drum, I've never paid much attention. To me, they're all big. But after last night's Olympic challenge, I'm sort of feeling as though I want to see just how far I can take this. Or, how deep I can take this might be a better way of putting it. No big deal. Not a convert to that particular cult. It's just a phase.
But here's the really great thing. The sex last night was just soooo pleasant. Not frought. Not anxiety producing. Just enjoyable. Just a sweet and sweaty time with another man. And it's been a really long time since I had that. Since I was able to just turn off all those clamoring voices of self-doubt and baseless fears in my head and enjoy it.
I think I probably have Horowitz to thank for some of that, after the scene he orchestrated for me at Inferno. Just let it all go and enjoy. I'll try to remember that.
And.. and... I totally fell in love with the guy. Not in a creepy Let's Be A Stalker way. Just letting my imagination envision a new future for myself. Cuz he is a great guy. In addition to being good in bed and verrrrry hot--and the zucchini situation--he was an absolute sweetheart. Lots of laughter punctuated our time together.
I decided thatif I spent one more minute in those damn drafty, cold tents that it was time to go, so I headed to my jeep. I stopped on the way home at the Giant supermarket in New Hope to pick up leeks, carrots, and pot pie noodles to make turkey-leek stew for my father for dinner tonight. Only one person in the supermarket gave me a look to indicate that there was anything irregular about somebody shopping for produce dressed like a stormtrooper if stormtroopers wore neoprene.
Anyway. Gotta get that soup on. My turkey stock is absolutely sensational! Yesterday morning, the Baron and I chatted while I reduced it and clarified it with the Ol' Egg White Trick. It's so thick you could probably walk on it, and this wonderful rich brown color. Wish me luck tonight, both with dinner and with finding a hot man on a cold November night.
This just in from the annual event hosted by the Bucks MC down in New Hope... me!
Okay. It was chilly. In years past, at the Cartwheel, it was pretty much contained by tents or downright indoors, so the only time the cold weather was a problem was waiting for the long, long, long line to get in to move you to the door. This year, at the Raven, it was more of an indoor/outdoor event.
My wardrobe inspiration was to wear the wetsuit singlet my Sir gave me. I had it on, and it looked great, but at the last minute I reconsidered. Instead, I opted for my neoprene uniform shirt and pants from Nasty Pig. Alas, neoprene does nothing in the way of heat retention, but I was slightly warmer than I would have been running around in a singlet. And I was cold most of the time. Even colder than I was at Dore Alley in SF. And that's cold!
But I kept a stiff upper lip, and solicited offers to 'keep me warm' from several of the hot men in attendance. Another thing to love about bears: they keep you warm!
And everybody was there. Great to see all those guys so much. At the risk of... ...whatever, I'm gonna go on record as saying that my exile here in the howling wilderness makes me realize that I love these men, my fellow travelers on this leather odyssey. Truly I do. I'm nourished and sustained by seeing them a few times a year, odd as that may be. Being greeted by a hot man decked out in leather by name, wearing a big welcoming smile on his face... it's the tonic I need to live.
But there was one tragic thing: no meatball sandwiches! Those amazing, amazing meatball sandwiches were not to be found this year. Just hotdogs and sausage sandwiches. I made do with hotdogs (of course the Bucks MC had saur kraut!), and when I asked, I was told that the meatball sandwiches were a bit too messy last year. I hearby offer to help with clean-up if it would mean their reappearance next year. But, hotdogs were only $2, so I had like five of them. With saur kraut and mustard, just the way I like'em.
All the action, though not much in the way of warmth, was in one big tent this year. By 'action,' I'm referring to the auction and drag show. I tend to tune this out. Having been reared in the midst of the East Village drag scene of the late '80s and early '90s, the whole glamorous show tunes thing doesn't move me much. Not demented and twisted enough for my tastes. And the auction items mostly seem to consist of granny afgans. There must be a crocheting fool in the ranks of the Bucks MC, who at this moment is working away at his granny afgan offerings for next year.
But at one point, I heard the MC announce that the next item up for auction was a set of irons, wrist and ankle, and the accompanying allen wrench. I think the last words I heard before I lost consciousness were, "and it looks like pretty good welding on these."
My sincere apologies to all the guys who were unfortunately In My Way as I made my way to the auction area. I hope your injuries weren't too severe, and that you received medical attention without too much of a delay.
The bidding started at $10. Ten dollars for a beautiful set of shackles and leg irons! I decided that my absolute limit would be $40. My bid of $45 almost held. But up it went. I walked away with them for $60. Now, that's $60 that I can't afford right now, but it seemed clear to me that A.) I was never again in my life going to have the opportunity to obtain a set of irons for $60, and B.) my father and I have plenty of leftover turkey so I won't be spending that much on groceries this week. So there!
And here's an interesting phenomenon: not sure what my horoscope read this week, but it seems to be the Time Of Men With Large Penises Taking A Strong Interest In Me. Last night, I got the jump on Santa Saturday (most out-of-towners arrive on Friday) and headed down to the Raven. And ended up having a great night in room 159 of the Best Western with a guy from Connecticutt who had one of the largest I've ever... uh... accommodated.
And then today, tit was brought to my attention (ahem) that two of the men who were "keeping me warm" at the event had just either unbelieveably substantial pieces on them, or they were doing the Spinal Tap thing with zucchini. And, one of the zucchini guys is local! So even if I don't run into him tonight during Round Two, I'll meet up with him again at some point. Hopefully.
I've never been much in the way of a size queen. All I have to offer is a standard issue six (same as John Dillinger, from what I've read). And since that hole of mine is tight as a snare drum, I've never paid much attention. To me, they're all big. But after last night's Olympic challenge, I'm sort of feeling as though I want to see just how far I can take this. Or, how deep I can take this might be a better way of putting it. No big deal. Not a convert to that particular cult. It's just a phase.
But here's the really great thing. The sex last night was just soooo pleasant. Not frought. Not anxiety producing. Just enjoyable. Just a sweet and sweaty time with another man. And it's been a really long time since I had that. Since I was able to just turn off all those clamoring voices of self-doubt and baseless fears in my head and enjoy it.
I think I probably have Horowitz to thank for some of that, after the scene he orchestrated for me at Inferno. Just let it all go and enjoy. I'll try to remember that.
And.. and... I totally fell in love with the guy. Not in a creepy Let's Be A Stalker way. Just letting my imagination envision a new future for myself. Cuz he is a great guy. In addition to being good in bed and verrrrry hot--and the zucchini situation--he was an absolute sweetheart. Lots of laughter punctuated our time together.
I decided that
Anyway. Gotta get that soup on. My turkey stock is absolutely sensational! Yesterday morning, the Baron and I chatted while I reduced it and clarified it with the Ol' Egg White Trick. It's so thick you could probably walk on it, and this wonderful rich brown color. Wish me luck tonight, both with dinner and with finding a hot man on a cold November night.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thankful
Thanksgiving went well. The Baron came up from Philadelphia. I made turkey, stuffing with pecans and cranberries, baked pineapple, sweet potatoes, some of the corn I put up back over the summer, and sauteed red cabbage. Everybody liked it.
This weekend is Santa Saturday, and you bettah believe I'm looking forward to that. Things like this are a lifeline for me. I should be good for another few months after this. Enough to hold me until MAL.
Tonight, the Baron wanted to see the inside of the Raven down in New Hope. and, of course, what the Baron wants... There was nothing going on there. Not even some early Santa Saturday arrivals. It was grim. We were out of there in about twenty minutes.
But then, on the way home, I had a thought.
The Baron was reminiscing about how it was when we were young. Heading to Kurts and dancing the night away, wearing our broaches and new wave haircuts. Flirting. Dancing. Dancing and flirting.
And I had this recollection. One night, years ago, early on in my time in NYC. I was at a bar--a great bar--called the Altar. And I remember seeing these two guys. Bearish guys. I watched as they met each other, talked, their eyes started shining, they were touching, then kissing each other deeply.
Right there, in front of me, while I watched, they fell in love. I remember at one point, they stood, arms around each other, looking out at the bar, at all of us, seemingly aware of their incredible good fortune. That they had been touched by something rare and beautiful.
So the thought that I had: young people know nothing about love. A kind of youth is wasted on the young thing. It takes a man who has road out many of life's storms, has learned how much pain can come with love, has been to hell. Only men of a certain age can really fall in love.
And I've got some years on me now.
Whaddya know about that?
Thanksgiving went well. The Baron came up from Philadelphia. I made turkey, stuffing with pecans and cranberries, baked pineapple, sweet potatoes, some of the corn I put up back over the summer, and sauteed red cabbage. Everybody liked it.
This weekend is Santa Saturday, and you bettah believe I'm looking forward to that. Things like this are a lifeline for me. I should be good for another few months after this. Enough to hold me until MAL.
Tonight, the Baron wanted to see the inside of the Raven down in New Hope. and, of course, what the Baron wants... There was nothing going on there. Not even some early Santa Saturday arrivals. It was grim. We were out of there in about twenty minutes.
But then, on the way home, I had a thought.
The Baron was reminiscing about how it was when we were young. Heading to Kurts and dancing the night away, wearing our broaches and new wave haircuts. Flirting. Dancing. Dancing and flirting.
And I had this recollection. One night, years ago, early on in my time in NYC. I was at a bar--a great bar--called the Altar. And I remember seeing these two guys. Bearish guys. I watched as they met each other, talked, their eyes started shining, they were touching, then kissing each other deeply.
Right there, in front of me, while I watched, they fell in love. I remember at one point, they stood, arms around each other, looking out at the bar, at all of us, seemingly aware of their incredible good fortune. That they had been touched by something rare and beautiful.
So the thought that I had: young people know nothing about love. A kind of youth is wasted on the young thing. It takes a man who has road out many of life's storms, has learned how much pain can come with love, has been to hell. Only men of a certain age can really fall in love.
And I've got some years on me now.
Whaddya know about that?
Monday, November 21, 2005
Uh Oh
Morale at the woodshop where I work is really bad. And with good cause. With all of the reconstruction going on in the Gulf States (Trent Lott's house!), the price of materials has gone up. A lot. And it seems McMansion dwellers don't have the discretionary income they had previously, because orders are not coming in. And, the zany antics of the Vice President have alienated several of the dealers who are sending their orders elsewhere. So there have been layoffs. A couple of guys have quit. Many have confided in me that they're looking. Hard. A guy who has been with the shop for about ten years (who has a new part time job) today offered the opinion that dear old Wuperior Soodcraft probably won't be around by the time next Christmas rolls around.
So that's crappy.
So once again, I'm hoping for a new job. And I think I might have to seriously consider a desk to shackle myself too.
If you hear of anything, lemme know.
Morale at the woodshop where I work is really bad. And with good cause. With all of the reconstruction going on in the Gulf States (Trent Lott's house!), the price of materials has gone up. A lot. And it seems McMansion dwellers don't have the discretionary income they had previously, because orders are not coming in. And, the zany antics of the Vice President have alienated several of the dealers who are sending their orders elsewhere. So there have been layoffs. A couple of guys have quit. Many have confided in me that they're looking. Hard. A guy who has been with the shop for about ten years (who has a new part time job) today offered the opinion that dear old Wuperior Soodcraft probably won't be around by the time next Christmas rolls around.
So that's crappy.
So once again, I'm hoping for a new job. And I think I might have to seriously consider a desk to shackle myself too.
If you hear of anything, lemme know.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Thirty-Five More Shopping Days
...and a leather-look spandex body suit is exactly what I want for Christmas! Wow! How cool is this? And at $169 a pop, that's certainly reasonable. I wonder if Super Powers come with it? Oh. Wait. I got those.
...and a leather-look spandex body suit is exactly what I want for Christmas! Wow! How cool is this? And at $169 a pop, that's certainly reasonable. I wonder if Super Powers come with it? Oh. Wait. I got those.
Out
So at the Bike Stop last night... Struck out? I didn't even get up to bat. There's this weird couple phenomenon that I'm up against. Every guy I make moves on proceeded to introduce me to his boyfriend. And I got that snotty 'And We're Monogamous' vibe.
But I've got my head together. I drove home without mishap, went to bed, and woke up early, feeling refreshed and happy. it didn't matter.
And another interesting thing I noticed. That flakey cigar smoking cub who stood me up yesterday? He's got me all Toppy Top. I just wanna plow some sweet faced boy right into next week. Give him stars in his eyes and make him forget his name.
So that's kind of interesting. Here's what I'm thinking...
That flakey cigar smoking cub? I got all crushed out on him. He rewired my circuits. He captured my imagination. He had me seeing new possibilities for myself. Had me thinking of new places I might go.
And that just hasn't happened for a while. I was wondering if I had worn out those faculties.
Huh.
And in a way, the fact that we never... uh... consumated our internet courtship, well, that's cool. For now, that's enough. I can drink in the experience, enjoy it, and be satisfied.
An'anotherthing. Last night at the Bike Stop, I ran into the Other Gay Guy at work. Finally it happened [g]. He's a designer, he doesn't work on the shop floor. It was kinda weird. When he came up to me, my brain registered as someone I knew and knew well--I see the guy every day just about--but, because of the context, I didn't place him. After all, we were at the Bike Stop, not Wuperior Soodcraft. So I sorta went into overcompensation mode, and gave him a big fat kiss hello. It surprised both of us. And then, of course, he introduced me to his significant other.
Because everybody's got one of those.
Except me.
But like I said. It's cool.
I can still get a crush.
So at the Bike Stop last night... Struck out? I didn't even get up to bat. There's this weird couple phenomenon that I'm up against. Every guy I make moves on proceeded to introduce me to his boyfriend. And I got that snotty 'And We're Monogamous' vibe.
But I've got my head together. I drove home without mishap, went to bed, and woke up early, feeling refreshed and happy. it didn't matter.
And another interesting thing I noticed. That flakey cigar smoking cub who stood me up yesterday? He's got me all Toppy Top. I just wanna plow some sweet faced boy right into next week. Give him stars in his eyes and make him forget his name.
So that's kind of interesting. Here's what I'm thinking...
That flakey cigar smoking cub? I got all crushed out on him. He rewired my circuits. He captured my imagination. He had me seeing new possibilities for myself. Had me thinking of new places I might go.
And that just hasn't happened for a while. I was wondering if I had worn out those faculties.
Huh.
And in a way, the fact that we never... uh... consumated our internet courtship, well, that's cool. For now, that's enough. I can drink in the experience, enjoy it, and be satisfied.
An'anotherthing. Last night at the Bike Stop, I ran into the Other Gay Guy at work. Finally it happened [g]. He's a designer, he doesn't work on the shop floor. It was kinda weird. When he came up to me, my brain registered as someone I knew and knew well--I see the guy every day just about--but, because of the context, I didn't place him. After all, we were at the Bike Stop, not Wuperior Soodcraft. So I sorta went into overcompensation mode, and gave him a big fat kiss hello. It surprised both of us. And then, of course, he introduced me to his significant other.
Because everybody's got one of those.
Except me.
But like I said. It's cool.
I can still get a crush.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Y'All Are All Gettin This For Christmas!
Cool! It looks like one of my favorite things on the World Wide Internet, Obscene Interiors, in which someone critiques the design decisions made by guys who post nude pictures of themselves in their internet personal ads has been made into a book! I'll be lookin' for it!
Cool! It looks like one of my favorite things on the World Wide Internet, Obscene Interiors, in which someone critiques the design decisions made by guys who post nude pictures of themselves in their internet personal ads has been made into a book! I'll be lookin' for it!
Aaaarrrrrrrggggghhh!!!!
Lucy. Charlie Brown. The football.
Here I go again! This time... this time...
So after last week's fateful visit to the Bike Stop. I was reeling.
And then, I fell into conversation with a really hot, built, cigar-smoking cub from Queens. Lots of mutual interest. I kept deferring. "Well, there's my dog..." Bring him along. "Let's meet up at Santa Saturday and see how it goes." Come spend Saturday night.
And I let myself get all excited.
I mean, in terms of men I tend to be attracted to, he's very close to 100%. And he's my age. Not a clueless young'un. Seems that leather is a big part of his life, too. Not something he tucks away at the back of a drawer (hate that!).
So at work this week, I was whistling and humming and singing to myself. More and more looking forward to Saturday, when, as planned, i would drive up to NYC, head to his house, chain him up, and torture him for a bit.
Maybe... maybe... maybe this could be more than a very satisfying scene...
On Friday, I realized I didn't have his address. (Duh!) I sent him a message to get it. Told him I was really looking forward to tomorrow night. No response.
Uh oh.
But still...
Then, this morning, the axe fell. I got a brief message from him: "I'm pretty tired today."
I messaged back: "Gotcha. Guess that means we're off for tonight. Lemme know when would be good."
What the hell?
Let's review. First off, that's just rude. When you commit yourself to something, unless you're hospitalized or, as Miss Manners points out, compelled to attend a State Dinner at the White House (it's considered to be both a social engagement, and service to your country, so it's okay to bow out of an previous engagment), you've gotta go through with it. So he's an asshole. A total unreliable flakey spacey worthless piece of shit. Shades of basanos... I never got over that fiasco. And, apparently, haven't learned much from it either. boys lie. It's what they do. It's characterological.
But what happened? I mean, was it enough for him to get from me some of my ideas of what I had planned for him so he could beat off? (And the fact that we agreed on a time and place to carry those out was a detail that sailed right by him.) Or did I do something or say something...? Not that there's anything I could do or say that would warrant that treatment, but still...
But still. I can't help feeling that I'm doing something wrong. And I can't fuckin figure out what.
It would be so nice if I could look forward to meeting up with a guy on the weekends, a guy to go have adventures with, smoke cigars with, cuddle up in bed with at night, cook great dinners for.
And okay, I admit I'm picky. But get this: I invite men who would date me to be picky, too. Get it? I work really hard to keep myself together, to stand out, to excel, to be desireable. So it's not asking to much for someone else to pay attention to those things, too. If'n he wants to date me.
Okay okay okay. Lawyers don't get dates ever. And that's maybe a little unfair. But they're just so insufferable. Incapable of having a conversation. Someday, it will be revealed that in the basement of every law school in the country, there's a special brain surgery room, where certain key parts of the cerebral cortex are removed from every second year law student.
So I cleaned up my room this morning. Spent the afternoon chopping firewood. And tonight I'm heading down to the Bike Stop.
Headspace. It's all about headspace, right?
That big, bearded guy in the big, black Mazda pickup got me all bent out of shape last week. There are no signs! The Universe does not, in fact, care whether or not I get laid, and does not broadcast the news by putting big, bearded, cigar smoking men in big, black Mazda pickup trucks in my path to alert me to upcoming events.
It's just a night at the Bike Stop. I'll put on my leather, drive down there, stop at Starbucks, maybe grab something to eat before I head over, maybe stop at Borders Books and Music. Maybe there will be some of the guys that I know there. Maybe not. Maybe I'll meet some new man to talk to, maybe not. Maybe I'll give a lecture on Harm Reduction to those guys from the Crystal Meth Task Force who pass out condoms (can you say, "Beside The Point"?), maybe not.
Maybe I'll meet a really great guy. A big hairy cigar smoking guy. We'll talk. We'll hit it off. As he talks, I just get more and more turned on. So does he. Turns out he's a great kisser. Pretty soon, we're pushing the limits of what's okay behavior in a public place in Philadelphia. We'll go to his place. It'll be great. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up, call my dad, and before I rush home to walk my dog, he'll say, "Wait, when can we see each other again? Can we do something like have dinner together? Get to know each other some? I really like you, Drew. You're a great guy."
And maybe not.
You promise this time, right, Lucy?
Look Charlie Brown, here's a signed statement that clearly says I will not pull the football away.
Okay.
This time... this time....
Here I go!
Lucy. Charlie Brown. The football.
Here I go again! This time... this time...
So after last week's fateful visit to the Bike Stop. I was reeling.
And then, I fell into conversation with a really hot, built, cigar-smoking cub from Queens. Lots of mutual interest. I kept deferring. "Well, there's my dog..." Bring him along. "Let's meet up at Santa Saturday and see how it goes." Come spend Saturday night.
And I let myself get all excited.
I mean, in terms of men I tend to be attracted to, he's very close to 100%. And he's my age. Not a clueless young'un. Seems that leather is a big part of his life, too. Not something he tucks away at the back of a drawer (hate that!).
So at work this week, I was whistling and humming and singing to myself. More and more looking forward to Saturday, when, as planned, i would drive up to NYC, head to his house, chain him up, and torture him for a bit.
Maybe... maybe... maybe this could be more than a very satisfying scene...
On Friday, I realized I didn't have his address. (Duh!) I sent him a message to get it. Told him I was really looking forward to tomorrow night. No response.
Uh oh.
But still...
Then, this morning, the axe fell. I got a brief message from him: "I'm pretty tired today."
I messaged back: "Gotcha. Guess that means we're off for tonight. Lemme know when would be good."
What the hell?
Let's review. First off, that's just rude. When you commit yourself to something, unless you're hospitalized or, as Miss Manners points out, compelled to attend a State Dinner at the White House (it's considered to be both a social engagement, and service to your country, so it's okay to bow out of an previous engagment), you've gotta go through with it. So he's an asshole. A total unreliable flakey spacey worthless piece of shit. Shades of basanos... I never got over that fiasco. And, apparently, haven't learned much from it either. boys lie. It's what they do. It's characterological.
But what happened? I mean, was it enough for him to get from me some of my ideas of what I had planned for him so he could beat off? (And the fact that we agreed on a time and place to carry those out was a detail that sailed right by him.) Or did I do something or say something...? Not that there's anything I could do or say that would warrant that treatment, but still...
But still. I can't help feeling that I'm doing something wrong. And I can't fuckin figure out what.
It would be so nice if I could look forward to meeting up with a guy on the weekends, a guy to go have adventures with, smoke cigars with, cuddle up in bed with at night, cook great dinners for.
And okay, I admit I'm picky. But get this: I invite men who would date me to be picky, too. Get it? I work really hard to keep myself together, to stand out, to excel, to be desireable. So it's not asking to much for someone else to pay attention to those things, too. If'n he wants to date me.
Okay okay okay. Lawyers don't get dates ever. And that's maybe a little unfair. But they're just so insufferable. Incapable of having a conversation. Someday, it will be revealed that in the basement of every law school in the country, there's a special brain surgery room, where certain key parts of the cerebral cortex are removed from every second year law student.
So I cleaned up my room this morning. Spent the afternoon chopping firewood. And tonight I'm heading down to the Bike Stop.
Headspace. It's all about headspace, right?
That big, bearded guy in the big, black Mazda pickup got me all bent out of shape last week. There are no signs! The Universe does not, in fact, care whether or not I get laid, and does not broadcast the news by putting big, bearded, cigar smoking men in big, black Mazda pickup trucks in my path to alert me to upcoming events.
It's just a night at the Bike Stop. I'll put on my leather, drive down there, stop at Starbucks, maybe grab something to eat before I head over, maybe stop at Borders Books and Music. Maybe there will be some of the guys that I know there. Maybe not. Maybe I'll meet some new man to talk to, maybe not. Maybe I'll give a lecture on Harm Reduction to those guys from the Crystal Meth Task Force who pass out condoms (can you say, "Beside The Point"?), maybe not.
Maybe I'll meet a really great guy. A big hairy cigar smoking guy. We'll talk. We'll hit it off. As he talks, I just get more and more turned on. So does he. Turns out he's a great kisser. Pretty soon, we're pushing the limits of what's okay behavior in a public place in Philadelphia. We'll go to his place. It'll be great. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up, call my dad, and before I rush home to walk my dog, he'll say, "Wait, when can we see each other again? Can we do something like have dinner together? Get to know each other some? I really like you, Drew. You're a great guy."
And maybe not.
You promise this time, right, Lucy?
Look Charlie Brown, here's a signed statement that clearly says I will not pull the football away.
Okay.
This time... this time....
Here I go!
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Curses! My Nefarious Plans Are Foiled!
The Bike Stop. I decided to go to the Bike Stop last night. My father's parting words to me were, "Do you have to?"
On the way down, I stopped at a 7-11 to pick up some Rosie's. (For the uninitiated, "Rosie's" refers to iced tea made by Rosenberger's Dairies, a local operation. Not too sweet, but with a nice bite, blue collar work in these parts is fueled by Rosie's.) I got two half gallons, got back in my jeep, and then noticed that the vehicle next to me was parked awfully close. The driver was going to have a hard time getting out. And then I saw who was driving.
This... this... man. Big man. Bush beard. Like, reeeally bushy. And big, beautiful brown eyes. And then I realized he wasn't getting out. He had pulled off the road and into the 7-11 parking lot so he could light a big cigar.
I mean, Wow! Thanks God!
I sat there, transfixed, for as long as I could before it got awkward. But I was so rattled by the experience that I drove a good mile and a half with my lights off.
Surely, I thought, this is a Sign. Surely it's going to be a good night for me at the Bike Stop.
I got into Phila. without too much trouble. Parked in my regular lot on Walnut Street. At this point I was starving, so I headed to More Than Just Ice Cream for a chicken quesadilla. Over dinner, I thought some about the big man in the big Mazda with the big cigar. Now, obviously he was straight. But I mean, he's the total embodiment of the archetype that I and so many gay men I know seek and seek to emulate. Is he aware of that? Could he have any inkling that there are legions of men out there who would pay a lot of money to watch him sit naked except for his boots and smoke a cigar. If he ever decided to sell his underwear on eBay, he could retire early.
Further, how did he come to look that way? I mean, it didn't just happen. He's homo sapiens. Res cogitans. He has self-consciousness like the rest of us. Who was he modeling? Does he see himself as a biker guy, and so that's what a biker guy looks like? I mean, gay men do it because they're following the principle of Look Like Whom Thou Wouldst Fuck. But what's his motivation? Is he doing it to get laid, too?
So then I headed to the Bike Stop. And whaddya know, there were lots and lots of very hot men there. Perhaps Mazda Guy was a good omen.
Ran into several guys I know, including a Los Angelino who works in Phila. from time to time. There were so many hot men there last night, I had a hard time figuring out which ones to go for. But not too hard a time.
And I struck out five times.
Five!
In most cases, the men I was after all seemed to be there with their boyfriends or husbands. (There ought to be a law against that. Or if you're off the market, you should have to wear a purdah when you go into a leatherbar.) But in some cases it was just, "Great meeting you. See you again sometime. 'Bye." And this one guy gave me a great bear hug, lifiting me up off the ground.
Okay. Desparation was setting in. I wanted a connection dammit! Not going home together (chances are that would be way unworkable). But just swapping phone numbers. Or even spit. Something!
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I headed to my car. At this point, I was boiling. I decided to indulge myself, and as I drove up North Broad Street, I was screaming "Fuck you guy wearing the leather harness! Fuck you red headed bear in the baseball cap! Fuck you skinhead boy! Fuck you Philadelphia!"
With all that adrenaline pumping, I was wide awake for the ride home.
And then, I saw flashing reds and blues in my rear view. I got a ticket for running a redlight. It was yellow when I went into the intersection, I swear! The cop--who wasn't hot, dammit--was nice enough about it. And told me that if I went to a hearing (another hearing), then we could work something out so I wouldn't get points on my license. (It was yellow!)
Dammit dammit dammit.
And then, within ten miles of home, I started hearing this noise coming from the engine.
Unbelievable! Car trouble? I just got new fluids belts and filters three months ago!
Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Except when I accelerated. Then it was KerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNK.
I took it slow and managed to get home. I discovered that my engine belt had partially worn away. There was still about 3/8th of an inch of it left. But apparently the part that had split off had been whipping around under the hood. And had severed an air hose going to my carburator.
Why, that would be more money I don't have!
Oh man.
Not to mention, I'll be driving the White Ford Taurus till it gets repaired. (I swear, if I have to drive a white Ford Taurus to Santa Saturday, I'll kill myself. I just will. I'm serious. I'm making a plan and all! It'll be dramatic. Caffeine overdose, right in the middle of Starbucks.)
So what's up with that?
They say "bad luck comes in threes," but usually those situations involve a chain of events. This trio... there was no relationship. They were all completely independent of each other.
I've been getting on so good with the Universe lately. Why now do get kicked when I'm down?
Anyway, I'm keeping at bay abject self-pity and self-criticism the likes of which hasn't been seen since Mao's Cultural Revolution. But it ain't easy.
Anyway, time to head to Starbucks. Starbucks never lets me down.
The Bike Stop. I decided to go to the Bike Stop last night. My father's parting words to me were, "Do you have to?"
On the way down, I stopped at a 7-11 to pick up some Rosie's. (For the uninitiated, "Rosie's" refers to iced tea made by Rosenberger's Dairies, a local operation. Not too sweet, but with a nice bite, blue collar work in these parts is fueled by Rosie's.) I got two half gallons, got back in my jeep, and then noticed that the vehicle next to me was parked awfully close. The driver was going to have a hard time getting out. And then I saw who was driving.
This... this... man. Big man. Bush beard. Like, reeeally bushy. And big, beautiful brown eyes. And then I realized he wasn't getting out. He had pulled off the road and into the 7-11 parking lot so he could light a big cigar.
I mean, Wow! Thanks God!
I sat there, transfixed, for as long as I could before it got awkward. But I was so rattled by the experience that I drove a good mile and a half with my lights off.
Surely, I thought, this is a Sign. Surely it's going to be a good night for me at the Bike Stop.
I got into Phila. without too much trouble. Parked in my regular lot on Walnut Street. At this point I was starving, so I headed to More Than Just Ice Cream for a chicken quesadilla. Over dinner, I thought some about the big man in the big Mazda with the big cigar. Now, obviously he was straight. But I mean, he's the total embodiment of the archetype that I and so many gay men I know seek and seek to emulate. Is he aware of that? Could he have any inkling that there are legions of men out there who would pay a lot of money to watch him sit naked except for his boots and smoke a cigar. If he ever decided to sell his underwear on eBay, he could retire early.
Further, how did he come to look that way? I mean, it didn't just happen. He's homo sapiens. Res cogitans. He has self-consciousness like the rest of us. Who was he modeling? Does he see himself as a biker guy, and so that's what a biker guy looks like? I mean, gay men do it because they're following the principle of Look Like Whom Thou Wouldst Fuck. But what's his motivation? Is he doing it to get laid, too?
So then I headed to the Bike Stop. And whaddya know, there were lots and lots of very hot men there. Perhaps Mazda Guy was a good omen.
Ran into several guys I know, including a Los Angelino who works in Phila. from time to time. There were so many hot men there last night, I had a hard time figuring out which ones to go for. But not too hard a time.
And I struck out five times.
Five!
In most cases, the men I was after all seemed to be there with their boyfriends or husbands. (There ought to be a law against that. Or if you're off the market, you should have to wear a purdah when you go into a leatherbar.) But in some cases it was just, "Great meeting you. See you again sometime. 'Bye." And this one guy gave me a great bear hug, lifiting me up off the ground.
Okay. Desparation was setting in. I wanted a connection dammit! Not going home together (chances are that would be way unworkable). But just swapping phone numbers. Or even spit. Something!
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I headed to my car. At this point, I was boiling. I decided to indulge myself, and as I drove up North Broad Street, I was screaming "Fuck you guy wearing the leather harness! Fuck you red headed bear in the baseball cap! Fuck you skinhead boy! Fuck you Philadelphia!"
With all that adrenaline pumping, I was wide awake for the ride home.
And then, I saw flashing reds and blues in my rear view. I got a ticket for running a redlight. It was yellow when I went into the intersection, I swear! The cop--who wasn't hot, dammit--was nice enough about it. And told me that if I went to a hearing (another hearing), then we could work something out so I wouldn't get points on my license. (It was yellow!)
Dammit dammit dammit.
And then, within ten miles of home, I started hearing this noise coming from the engine.
Unbelievable! Car trouble? I just got new fluids belts and filters three months ago!
Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Except when I accelerated. Then it was KerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNK.
I took it slow and managed to get home. I discovered that my engine belt had partially worn away. There was still about 3/8th of an inch of it left. But apparently the part that had split off had been whipping around under the hood. And had severed an air hose going to my carburator.
Why, that would be more money I don't have!
Oh man.
Not to mention, I'll be driving the White Ford Taurus till it gets repaired. (I swear, if I have to drive a white Ford Taurus to Santa Saturday, I'll kill myself. I just will. I'm serious. I'm making a plan and all! It'll be dramatic. Caffeine overdose, right in the middle of Starbucks.)
So what's up with that?
They say "bad luck comes in threes," but usually those situations involve a chain of events. This trio... there was no relationship. They were all completely independent of each other.
I've been getting on so good with the Universe lately. Why now do get kicked when I'm down?
Anyway, I'm keeping at bay abject self-pity and self-criticism the likes of which hasn't been seen since Mao's Cultural Revolution. But it ain't easy.
Anyway, time to head to Starbucks. Starbucks never lets me down.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
You Go Back, Jack, Do It Again
Yesterday, I thought, was GMSMA's Leatherfest, featuring the erotic art show at the Center in NYC.
Uh... No. It's next weekend.
But that's just as well, because I didn't manage to get my act together to head up to NYC to take part in the Leatherfestivities until 3:00 pm yesterday, getting me into the city at quarter of five. The hour that, one week later, will bring Leatherfest to a close.
So why did I bother?
Because I get to NYC often enough, especially during softball. But I'm always heading up for something. So I'm in a hurry, and all stressed out because I'm inevitably delayed by traffic at the Holland Tunnel, and then I go and do whatever, and afterwards, I've got just enough time to grab a latte before it's time to head home.
But what I don't get is unencumbered time. Just time to wander around without a thought in my head. Sit in some coffee place somewhere, reading, writing in my journal.
Having posted recently about the "numinous cloud of romantic possibility" that I've come to miss about NYC, I decided I need some of that. So that's what I did.
I found parking on Hudson Street, and headed for the Factory Cafe. I got a latte, found a seat in the window, and read my Buddhism book, watching the parade of men and (increasingly since I left) straight couples with baby carriages or yung'uns in tow. Sweet.
My softball coach spotted me and stopped in to chat on his way to work at Ty's. Great catching up with him. Big changes are in the offing apparently. One of our number, has been proposed to. His partner had hip replacement surgery. And he and his partner were interviewed for a segment on In The Life on same sex couples who have been together like forever. (Or as he put it, "far far far far too long." With a smile, he said that.)
Afterwards, I stopped in to visit him at Ty's, and found the early evening crowd to be enticingly toothsome. I started to feel hungry, so I headed to Go Sushi on Village Square (that's 6th Ave and Chrisopher for you outtatowners), and then decided to head to the Spiegel.
In part, I wanted to confirm a theory that the Baron and I cooked up last weekend.
Okay. Here's my theory. Those Chelsea guys! They have all these fabulous gay bars in Chelsea with amazing interiors and great drinks, and they wear their hottest clothes and head there and meet up with their friends, and talk all kinds of smack, and catch up on the latest, and laugh and comiserate, and such. But here's what they can't do at G and XL or wherever: they can't make a play for that hottie across the room. Because when you swim in the creme de la creme of NYC gay life, you never know who he might be, and you don't want to do something like make a pass and get shot down by someone who might be the client who walks into your ad agency on monday morning. So what these guys can't do is get laid. But lo and behold, this bar with all these dark corners opened up, and it's not the kind of place that Chelsea guys would go to, so of course, they all flock there. Because that's where the rules are lifted, and they might just be able to get laid.
And indeed, the Spiegel was mobbed with Chelsea guys, wearing Hollister instead of Abercrombie & Fitch right now.
But there was some leather in the place. More, in fact, than I'm used to seeing there. And, it was an unseasonably balmy night. So I headed to the roofdeck to have a cigar. I met a few guys, including one who works for none other than Roman Cool. I shared with him my nickname for his boss, and it's origins, and he concurred that it was apt.
And I ran into the delicious Booie! With whom I did the scene that almost got shut down last year at Delta. He was resplendent in rubber.
Okay. Then I noticed that on the second floor, around the pool table, it was incredibly dimly lit. I mean, if someone standing a yard away from you did the "how many fingers am I holding up" thing, you'd have a hard time with that.
Uh huh.
But, oddly, no one seemed to be taking advantage of that.
I worked my way through the crowd. The crowd of guys just standing there in the darkness. And saw this totally hot muscle guy. Inexplicably, he was wearing a wifebeater over a harness. No idea what he was thinking there, but he was so hot that he could have been wearing a Hello Kitty! tshirt and pulled it off. I positioned myself directly across from him, and for a good ten minutes, we just stood there, looking at each other.
SooOOooOOOOoooo hot.
Finally, when I crossed the four feet of space that separated us, it was instant lip lock. And touching and holding and pinching nipples and exploring down the seats of pants. He was a great kisser. He had a great touch. And his body just felt so good. So good.
I love that. In fact, just kissing and touching and holding some stranger in a dark bar is one of my favorite things about being gay.
Eventually, he called it quits. Not sure if I was being fired or whether he was just moving on or whatever, but it was cool. He said something about having to take a piss and recharge. Cool.
But, we apparently were the catalyst for all kinds of gettin' busy. Instead of standing there in the darkness, there was now this writhing, sucking, kissing throng around me. I really got off on the hot muscle daddy to my right, who was working the balls of a hot Dominican boy. The boy would say, "No, that's too much!" and the daddy would ease up some, talk him through it, and continue putting him through his paces. Great interaction! At one point, the boy was going down on him, sucking cock like a pro, and I caught the daddy's eye. He smile, and I gave him a hammy, exagerated thumbs up.
And, eventually, someone in the employ of the Spiegel figured out what was going on, and pushed his way through the throng, shining his flashlight into the darkest corners. Alas. We all kind of hung out after that, but the action never really got going again.
I definitley didn't intend to, but I ended up closing the place down, leaving at 4 am. This meant that I got home at 5:30. This meant that I was going to bed at the time when I would have to get up for work in 24 hours. And I am not a young and vigourous pup anymore!
So, as you can well imagine, today was a slow day.
Yesterday, I thought, was GMSMA's Leatherfest, featuring the erotic art show at the Center in NYC.
Uh... No. It's next weekend.
But that's just as well, because I didn't manage to get my act together to head up to NYC to take part in the Leatherfestivities until 3:00 pm yesterday, getting me into the city at quarter of five. The hour that, one week later, will bring Leatherfest to a close.
So why did I bother?
Because I get to NYC often enough, especially during softball. But I'm always heading up for something. So I'm in a hurry, and all stressed out because I'm inevitably delayed by traffic at the Holland Tunnel, and then I go and do whatever, and afterwards, I've got just enough time to grab a latte before it's time to head home.
But what I don't get is unencumbered time. Just time to wander around without a thought in my head. Sit in some coffee place somewhere, reading, writing in my journal.
Having posted recently about the "numinous cloud of romantic possibility" that I've come to miss about NYC, I decided I need some of that. So that's what I did.
I found parking on Hudson Street, and headed for the Factory Cafe. I got a latte, found a seat in the window, and read my Buddhism book, watching the parade of men and (increasingly since I left) straight couples with baby carriages or yung'uns in tow. Sweet.
My softball coach spotted me and stopped in to chat on his way to work at Ty's. Great catching up with him. Big changes are in the offing apparently. One of our number, has been proposed to. His partner had hip replacement surgery. And he and his partner were interviewed for a segment on In The Life on same sex couples who have been together like forever. (Or as he put it, "far far far far too long." With a smile, he said that.)
Afterwards, I stopped in to visit him at Ty's, and found the early evening crowd to be enticingly toothsome. I started to feel hungry, so I headed to Go Sushi on Village Square (that's 6th Ave and Chrisopher for you outtatowners), and then decided to head to the Spiegel.
In part, I wanted to confirm a theory that the Baron and I cooked up last weekend.
Okay. Here's my theory. Those Chelsea guys! They have all these fabulous gay bars in Chelsea with amazing interiors and great drinks, and they wear their hottest clothes and head there and meet up with their friends, and talk all kinds of smack, and catch up on the latest, and laugh and comiserate, and such. But here's what they can't do at G and XL or wherever: they can't make a play for that hottie across the room. Because when you swim in the creme de la creme of NYC gay life, you never know who he might be, and you don't want to do something like make a pass and get shot down by someone who might be the client who walks into your ad agency on monday morning. So what these guys can't do is get laid. But lo and behold, this bar with all these dark corners opened up, and it's not the kind of place that Chelsea guys would go to, so of course, they all flock there. Because that's where the rules are lifted, and they might just be able to get laid.
And indeed, the Spiegel was mobbed with Chelsea guys, wearing Hollister instead of Abercrombie & Fitch right now.
But there was some leather in the place. More, in fact, than I'm used to seeing there. And, it was an unseasonably balmy night. So I headed to the roofdeck to have a cigar. I met a few guys, including one who works for none other than Roman Cool. I shared with him my nickname for his boss, and it's origins, and he concurred that it was apt.
And I ran into the delicious Booie! With whom I did the scene that almost got shut down last year at Delta. He was resplendent in rubber.
Okay. Then I noticed that on the second floor, around the pool table, it was incredibly dimly lit. I mean, if someone standing a yard away from you did the "how many fingers am I holding up" thing, you'd have a hard time with that.
Uh huh.
But, oddly, no one seemed to be taking advantage of that.
I worked my way through the crowd. The crowd of guys just standing there in the darkness. And saw this totally hot muscle guy. Inexplicably, he was wearing a wifebeater over a harness. No idea what he was thinking there, but he was so hot that he could have been wearing a Hello Kitty! tshirt and pulled it off. I positioned myself directly across from him, and for a good ten minutes, we just stood there, looking at each other.
SooOOooOOOOoooo hot.
Finally, when I crossed the four feet of space that separated us, it was instant lip lock. And touching and holding and pinching nipples and exploring down the seats of pants. He was a great kisser. He had a great touch. And his body just felt so good. So good.
I love that. In fact, just kissing and touching and holding some stranger in a dark bar is one of my favorite things about being gay.
Eventually, he called it quits. Not sure if I was being fired or whether he was just moving on or whatever, but it was cool. He said something about having to take a piss and recharge. Cool.
But, we apparently were the catalyst for all kinds of gettin' busy. Instead of standing there in the darkness, there was now this writhing, sucking, kissing throng around me. I really got off on the hot muscle daddy to my right, who was working the balls of a hot Dominican boy. The boy would say, "No, that's too much!" and the daddy would ease up some, talk him through it, and continue putting him through his paces. Great interaction! At one point, the boy was going down on him, sucking cock like a pro, and I caught the daddy's eye. He smile, and I gave him a hammy, exagerated thumbs up.
And, eventually, someone in the employ of the Spiegel figured out what was going on, and pushed his way through the throng, shining his flashlight into the darkest corners. Alas. We all kind of hung out after that, but the action never really got going again.
I definitley didn't intend to, but I ended up closing the place down, leaving at 4 am. This meant that I got home at 5:30. This meant that I was going to bed at the time when I would have to get up for work in 24 hours. And I am not a young and vigourous pup anymore!
So, as you can well imagine, today was a slow day.
Frolic of Leathermen
Y’know that Collective Noun thing? All those nutty names for groups of animals? A husk of jackrabbits, a kindle of kittens, a gaze of racoons, a leap of leopards, a fling of sandpipers, a parliament of owls?
Now, perusing websites like this one leads me to believe that someone, or some group of someones, sat down one sunday morning and drank way too much tea and pissed their pants giggling coming up with them.
But we love Collective Nouns, right?
And so, we here at SingleTails are proposing the following serve as Collective Nouns for certain segments of the BDSM world... Lemme know what you think, and feel free to add your own.
A brace of skinheads
A quelling of dungeon masters
A honey of cubs
A bristle of bootblacks
A cracking of whipsmen
A penetration of fisters
A service of boys
A shackling of slaves
A dominion of Masters
An endurance of masochists
An infliction of sadists
A transgression of barebackers
A patrol of uniform fetishists
A pitch of rubbermen
A hank of bondage Tops
A glug of pisspigs
... or maybe a quench of pisspigs?
A cantanker of Old Guard Leathermen
A fulmination of New Jack Leathermen
A welter of painpigs
... or maybe a blister of painpigs?
A coddle of infantilists
A darkling of Edge players
A grope of bears
A taut of bondage bottoms
A lapping of leatherpups
Madonna Rules Everything Around Me
Last night, after First Friday in Doylestown, I headed to the Raven down in New Hope. Pretty typical night at the Raven, as in, blisteringly disappointing. So I watched television. There was a reasonably hot boy standing next to me. At one point, Madonna’s new video, Hung Up came on.
I am, of course, perfectly placed in the demographic to be a slavish admirer of her. Gay, spent my dancing days in the Eighties and early Nineties.
And I am.
But I’ve gotta tell you, this video...
Lemme put it this way. I remember years ago watching a Marilyn Monroe movie. Forget what the title was, but they were on a boat. I’ve also seen Seven Year Itch, Some Like It Hot, and, of course, The Misfits, which also has the added bonus of Monty Cliff.
But anyway, watching a Marilyn movie with a buddy of mine, we both simultaneously had the same realization: we would totally go straight for Marilyn Monroe. I mean, she is just so sexy! I pant after her.
Well, as with Marilyn, so with Madonna.
I swear! She looks amazing in that video. And she’s a mother of two!
So hot boy and I just went off on this Madonna-focused love fest. “It’s cause she does yoga and pilades!” “Look at her move! So hot!” “And she has this mixed message thing going on, unapproachable but she wants you.” “Look at her legs!” “She just takes sex and turns it into art!”
And then, I bid hot boy goodnight, and headed home to listen to thhe song I’d just seen the video for. And it’s really good.
Thank You, God!
The Almighty did it again!
Right there in Doylestown. At Starbucks. (Of course.)
Yesterday after work, I’m tooling over there, and standing out front was this... this... this boy. Unbelievable.
I swear, he was an unbelievablly close approximation of Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. So close, I debated with myself if in fact it was Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. But quickly realized that Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is just not on Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel’s map.
But there he was, in all his august glory, smoking a Marlboro, talking on a cell phone, while this posse of girls, their eyes shining, sat literally at his feet, just so totally smitten.
(I, on the other hand, leaned up against the railing watching him, my eyes shining, totally smitten.)
I decided to run inside, grab a latte, and that it wasn’t, in fact, too cold to enjoy a cigar out there on the porch. I imagined the boy--you should have seen the guns on him!--asking me about cigars, and me turning him on to them, taking him around the corner and buying him his first one, and then sitting there enjoying my cigar while he gave a try to his first cigar, and of course he’d like it, and we’d sit for hours on the porch of Starbucks, talking, smoking cigars, and it gets dark early this time of year, and when I decide it’s dark enough and nobody’s around, I’d handcuff him, throw him in my jeep, take him home, lead him into the garage, chain him up, plow him till his eyes cross, chain him up out there, and keep him as my personal cigar boy cumdump.
But when I emerged from Starbucks with my triple shot latte and my cigar in hand, he was gone.
Which is probably just as well, right?
Y’know that Collective Noun thing? All those nutty names for groups of animals? A husk of jackrabbits, a kindle of kittens, a gaze of racoons, a leap of leopards, a fling of sandpipers, a parliament of owls?
Now, perusing websites like this one leads me to believe that someone, or some group of someones, sat down one sunday morning and drank way too much tea and pissed their pants giggling coming up with them.
But we love Collective Nouns, right?
And so, we here at SingleTails are proposing the following serve as Collective Nouns for certain segments of the BDSM world... Lemme know what you think, and feel free to add your own.
A brace of skinheads
A quelling of dungeon masters
A honey of cubs
A bristle of bootblacks
A cracking of whipsmen
A penetration of fisters
A service of boys
A shackling of slaves
A dominion of Masters
An endurance of masochists
An infliction of sadists
A transgression of barebackers
A patrol of uniform fetishists
A pitch of rubbermen
A hank of bondage Tops
A glug of pisspigs
... or maybe a quench of pisspigs?
A cantanker of Old Guard Leathermen
A fulmination of New Jack Leathermen
A welter of painpigs
... or maybe a blister of painpigs?
A coddle of infantilists
A darkling of Edge players
A grope of bears
A taut of bondage bottoms
A lapping of leatherpups
Madonna Rules Everything Around Me
Last night, after First Friday in Doylestown, I headed to the Raven down in New Hope. Pretty typical night at the Raven, as in, blisteringly disappointing. So I watched television. There was a reasonably hot boy standing next to me. At one point, Madonna’s new video, Hung Up came on.
I am, of course, perfectly placed in the demographic to be a slavish admirer of her. Gay, spent my dancing days in the Eighties and early Nineties.
And I am.
But I’ve gotta tell you, this video...
Lemme put it this way. I remember years ago watching a Marilyn Monroe movie. Forget what the title was, but they were on a boat. I’ve also seen Seven Year Itch, Some Like It Hot, and, of course, The Misfits, which also has the added bonus of Monty Cliff.
But anyway, watching a Marilyn movie with a buddy of mine, we both simultaneously had the same realization: we would totally go straight for Marilyn Monroe. I mean, she is just so sexy! I pant after her.
Well, as with Marilyn, so with Madonna.
I swear! She looks amazing in that video. And she’s a mother of two!
So hot boy and I just went off on this Madonna-focused love fest. “It’s cause she does yoga and pilades!” “Look at her move! So hot!” “And she has this mixed message thing going on, unapproachable but she wants you.” “Look at her legs!” “She just takes sex and turns it into art!”
And then, I bid hot boy goodnight, and headed home to listen to thhe song I’d just seen the video for. And it’s really good.
Thank You, God!
The Almighty did it again!
Right there in Doylestown. At Starbucks. (Of course.)
Yesterday after work, I’m tooling over there, and standing out front was this... this... this boy. Unbelievable.
I swear, he was an unbelievablly close approximation of Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. So close, I debated with myself if in fact it was Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. But quickly realized that Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is just not on Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel’s map.
But there he was, in all his august glory, smoking a Marlboro, talking on a cell phone, while this posse of girls, their eyes shining, sat literally at his feet, just so totally smitten.
(I, on the other hand, leaned up against the railing watching him, my eyes shining, totally smitten.)
I decided to run inside, grab a latte, and that it wasn’t, in fact, too cold to enjoy a cigar out there on the porch. I imagined the boy--you should have seen the guns on him!--asking me about cigars, and me turning him on to them, taking him around the corner and buying him his first one, and then sitting there enjoying my cigar while he gave a try to his first cigar, and of course he’d like it, and we’d sit for hours on the porch of Starbucks, talking, smoking cigars, and it gets dark early this time of year, and when I decide it’s dark enough and nobody’s around, I’d handcuff him, throw him in my jeep, take him home, lead him into the garage, chain him up, plow him till his eyes cross, chain him up out there, and keep him as my personal cigar boy cumdump.
But when I emerged from Starbucks with my triple shot latte and my cigar in hand, he was gone.
Which is probably just as well, right?
Thursday, November 03, 2005
At The Gym
Change, huh? I wanted change.
So I went to the gym tonight. First time in a week. Didn't get an opportunity with the Baron visiting, and I ushered in my 42nd year on earth with spasms in my lower back. But I seem to be on this great trend. I'm finally gaining weight again, and I'm lifting more weight than I ever have in my life. And feeling good!
So anyway, I was heading into the locker room and this guy I see there all the time was heading out. I heard him mention TIG. ("TIG" refers to "Tungstun Inert Gas welding.") I know. I learned how to do it two years ago.
"Are you a welder?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm an iron worker. Been an iron worker my whole life."
And he said that with that note of pride in his voice. Distinction. I am an iron worker. That's my place in the world. That's the way I stand up and take my place in the world.
And then, for once in my life, I said something resembling the right thing at the right time. Instead of thinking of it the next morning in the shower.
"Wow! That's my dream job."
And so we talked. Yeah, he is hiring, well... always looking for good people.
I think that if I want this, I could get it.
Dang. I could be a welder. An iron worker.
But here's the downside. it would mean saying goodbye to Wuperior Soodcraft. A place that's become so much more than a job to me over the past two years. And, I was told not so long ago that I've sort of transformed the entire place.
Like... Gosh! Right?
So who is this ironworker guy? Well, he's probably in his fifties. Always ready with a hello and a smile. Got lots of ink. More along the lines of waking up after a drunken binge and finding out why you have that burning sensation on your arm. (He's in recovery. He mentioned it, asking if he knew me from a meeting.) And he has a bumper sticker on his truck that says, "Nobody ever drowned in sweat," and wears a tshirt that says "Pain is weakness leaving the body."
So, y'know... I like him.
Decisions decisions decisions.
I'm gonna drop a sample of my stick welding skills into my gym bag.
Change, huh? I wanted change.
So I went to the gym tonight. First time in a week. Didn't get an opportunity with the Baron visiting, and I ushered in my 42nd year on earth with spasms in my lower back. But I seem to be on this great trend. I'm finally gaining weight again, and I'm lifting more weight than I ever have in my life. And feeling good!
So anyway, I was heading into the locker room and this guy I see there all the time was heading out. I heard him mention TIG. ("TIG" refers to "Tungstun Inert Gas welding.") I know. I learned how to do it two years ago.
"Are you a welder?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm an iron worker. Been an iron worker my whole life."
And he said that with that note of pride in his voice. Distinction. I am an iron worker. That's my place in the world. That's the way I stand up and take my place in the world.
And then, for once in my life, I said something resembling the right thing at the right time. Instead of thinking of it the next morning in the shower.
"Wow! That's my dream job."
And so we talked. Yeah, he is hiring, well... always looking for good people.
I think that if I want this, I could get it.
Dang. I could be a welder. An iron worker.
But here's the downside. it would mean saying goodbye to Wuperior Soodcraft. A place that's become so much more than a job to me over the past two years. And, I was told not so long ago that I've sort of transformed the entire place.
Like... Gosh! Right?
So who is this ironworker guy? Well, he's probably in his fifties. Always ready with a hello and a smile. Got lots of ink. More along the lines of waking up after a drunken binge and finding out why you have that burning sensation on your arm. (He's in recovery. He mentioned it, asking if he knew me from a meeting.) And he has a bumper sticker on his truck that says, "Nobody ever drowned in sweat," and wears a tshirt that says "Pain is weakness leaving the body."
So, y'know... I like him.
Decisions decisions decisions.
I'm gonna drop a sample of my stick welding skills into my gym bag.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
41
No trick-or-treaters on Hallowe'en! Not a one! So luckily my father gets all of it.
Tonight, at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown, it was the Feast of All Souls. A requiem mass was said. I'd never heard one before. Usually, a resurrection mass, celebratory rather than solemn, is said at funerals in my church. It was beautiful. The music was sublime.
After church, I was approached by a parishioner who invited me to join up.
I didn't launch into it with him, but of course, St. Paul's has to "come out" as a Welcoming church (as in, 'welcoming of gay men and lesbians') before I'd have my letter transferred from St. Luke's in NYC.
Work goes well. Of course. And I'm looking forward to GMSMA's leatherfest and the erotic art fair up in NYC this Saturday.
And, finally my chain saw is back from getting repairs. So I'll be able to plunge into chopping firewood in earnest on Sunday.
Huh.
Only this. The thought that keeps passing through my head: I want a change.
I want a change.
I'm ready for something new.
Something transformative.
No trick-or-treaters on Hallowe'en! Not a one! So luckily my father gets all of it.
Tonight, at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown, it was the Feast of All Souls. A requiem mass was said. I'd never heard one before. Usually, a resurrection mass, celebratory rather than solemn, is said at funerals in my church. It was beautiful. The music was sublime.
After church, I was approached by a parishioner who invited me to join up.
I didn't launch into it with him, but of course, St. Paul's has to "come out" as a Welcoming church (as in, 'welcoming of gay men and lesbians') before I'd have my letter transferred from St. Luke's in NYC.
Work goes well. Of course. And I'm looking forward to GMSMA's leatherfest and the erotic art fair up in NYC this Saturday.
And, finally my chain saw is back from getting repairs. So I'll be able to plunge into chopping firewood in earnest on Sunday.
Huh.
Only this. The thought that keeps passing through my head: I want a change.
I want a change.
I'm ready for something new.
Something transformative.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Men!
What is it with men?
Lately, I've been keenly aware of an odd phenomenon. When I lived in NYC, all the hot men--or just the men likely to catch my eye, get my attention, not necessarily make me forget what I was saying mid-sentence or something--were gay men. When I would run across "seeking straight-acting, straight-appearing" in personal ads, it didn't make sense to me. You're really looking for somebody with a bad haircut who wears sweat pants and a tshirt that says "I'm with stupid" or something? Straight men in NYC were pretty much filler. Seriously, my heart goes out to heterosexual women.
But here in Bucks County... Well, on my last few trips to the Raven, I leave after about twenty minutes or so. Surveying most of the crowd, I just think, "What the hell were you thinking when you decided that lemon yellow pleated (!) shorts, a circa 1999 print long-sleeved shirt tucked in, and tassled penny loafers would spell hook-up success? And damn! Did you fill up your lap pool with that awful cologne you're wearing? And did you not understand the directions on the bottle of Miss Clairol, or didn't you bother to read them at all?
But, then I head to the Clemons Market in Plumsteadville. And it's filled with these hot men. Men with awesome beards, filling out their Carharrts, military brushcuts... The other night, there was this guy there who made my shopping list go right out of my head. I swear, if you were to drop him in the middle of the Dugout on a Sunday afternoon, it would be like a zombie movie. He'd just be devoured. Nothing left within seconds.
So, in NYC, the gay men are hot, and the straight men are schlumpy. But in Bucks County, the straight men are hot, but the gay men are schlumpy.
What's that about?
The Baron von Philadelphia and I were puzzling over this. And we might have come up with the answer.
Y'see, Bucks County is pretty much a resort community. Gay men here, for the most part, aren't from here. They get country places, or decide to retire here. And whereas in a big city like NYC, we are all of us always aware of the Darwinian struggle for survival. You gotta represent, right? But these guys, the guys who show up at the Raven, have a diifferent mindset. It goes something like this: "I have a fabulous 1752 farmhouse that I've painstakingly renovated, my landscapers have done an amazing job, I drive a convertible BMW, my stock portfolio is doing great: I can have any guy I want." They're looking for an accessory.
So that's the state of things. So I'll deal with it.
But I sure miss NYC. And that... that... numinous cloud of romantic possibility. I mean, it's not about hooking up all the time. It's just, you'd be sitting there at Starbucks, and you'd just have to look around, and gosh, there's a hot guy! And he looks at you, and you look at him, and he smiles, and you smile, and he heads off to the grocery store, and you go to your meeting. It's not like you have to take care of business there and then. But maybe you'll both be standing in line waiting for the ATM sometime, and you'll introduce yourselves, and exchange numbers, and get together for dinner, and find out there's a lot in common, and you like the same things, and there's lots of mutual sexual attraction, and you go home together and find out that you're super compatible in bed, and you continue to spend time together, and you take a trip together and have a blast the whole time, and then, there you are fifty years from now in the gay retirement community reminiscing about your wonderful life together. Or whatever. It doesn't have to happen, it's just nice to have the possibility.
It's like when you're driving across country, and when there's always gas stations available, you don't need to think about it. But, when you're heading through the Sonoran dessert, you're really really really aware that you've only got a quarter of a tank, and it's been a long time since you've passed a gas station, and you're just wondering if you're gonna find a gas station again.
Y'know?
So Bucks County is sort of my Sonoran dessert.
Funny thing is, understanding what's going on makes it all totally tolerable.
What is it with men?
Lately, I've been keenly aware of an odd phenomenon. When I lived in NYC, all the hot men--or just the men likely to catch my eye, get my attention, not necessarily make me forget what I was saying mid-sentence or something--were gay men. When I would run across "seeking straight-acting, straight-appearing" in personal ads, it didn't make sense to me. You're really looking for somebody with a bad haircut who wears sweat pants and a tshirt that says "I'm with stupid" or something? Straight men in NYC were pretty much filler. Seriously, my heart goes out to heterosexual women.
But here in Bucks County... Well, on my last few trips to the Raven, I leave after about twenty minutes or so. Surveying most of the crowd, I just think, "What the hell were you thinking when you decided that lemon yellow pleated (!) shorts, a circa 1999 print long-sleeved shirt tucked in, and tassled penny loafers would spell hook-up success? And damn! Did you fill up your lap pool with that awful cologne you're wearing? And did you not understand the directions on the bottle of Miss Clairol, or didn't you bother to read them at all?
But, then I head to the Clemons Market in Plumsteadville. And it's filled with these hot men. Men with awesome beards, filling out their Carharrts, military brushcuts... The other night, there was this guy there who made my shopping list go right out of my head. I swear, if you were to drop him in the middle of the Dugout on a Sunday afternoon, it would be like a zombie movie. He'd just be devoured. Nothing left within seconds.
So, in NYC, the gay men are hot, and the straight men are schlumpy. But in Bucks County, the straight men are hot, but the gay men are schlumpy.
What's that about?
The Baron von Philadelphia and I were puzzling over this. And we might have come up with the answer.
Y'see, Bucks County is pretty much a resort community. Gay men here, for the most part, aren't from here. They get country places, or decide to retire here. And whereas in a big city like NYC, we are all of us always aware of the Darwinian struggle for survival. You gotta represent, right? But these guys, the guys who show up at the Raven, have a diifferent mindset. It goes something like this: "I have a fabulous 1752 farmhouse that I've painstakingly renovated, my landscapers have done an amazing job, I drive a convertible BMW, my stock portfolio is doing great: I can have any guy I want." They're looking for an accessory.
So that's the state of things. So I'll deal with it.
But I sure miss NYC. And that... that... numinous cloud of romantic possibility. I mean, it's not about hooking up all the time. It's just, you'd be sitting there at Starbucks, and you'd just have to look around, and gosh, there's a hot guy! And he looks at you, and you look at him, and he smiles, and you smile, and he heads off to the grocery store, and you go to your meeting. It's not like you have to take care of business there and then. But maybe you'll both be standing in line waiting for the ATM sometime, and you'll introduce yourselves, and exchange numbers, and get together for dinner, and find out there's a lot in common, and you like the same things, and there's lots of mutual sexual attraction, and you go home together and find out that you're super compatible in bed, and you continue to spend time together, and you take a trip together and have a blast the whole time, and then, there you are fifty years from now in the gay retirement community reminiscing about your wonderful life together. Or whatever. It doesn't have to happen, it's just nice to have the possibility.
It's like when you're driving across country, and when there's always gas stations available, you don't need to think about it. But, when you're heading through the Sonoran dessert, you're really really really aware that you've only got a quarter of a tank, and it's been a long time since you've passed a gas station, and you're just wondering if you're gonna find a gas station again.
Y'know?
So Bucks County is sort of my Sonoran dessert.
Funny thing is, understanding what's going on makes it all totally tolerable.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
And Counting
Saturday is the big day! The first anniversary of my 40th birthday.
• Tonight at the gym, I did flies with sixty-five pound dumbells. That's a lifetime record. Pretty good for a man my age, huh?
• Loving the World Series! (Go White Sox!)
• I am loving Wednesday night services at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown. I swear, I can't figure it out. It's like watching the same opera every week. Like reading the same poem over and over again even though you know it by heart.
• Had a great weekend. On Sunday, I joined the Baron von Philadelphia for some Culchah. There was this program on the music and life of one Frederick Delius down in the City of Brotherly Love. Okay. I'll fess up. I was hoping it would be obsessional and Pythonesque. I mean, I never heard of the guy. But, alas, there were no freaks. Just a bunch of polite middle of the road folks. Alas. But the victuals were tasty. And it was great spending time with the Baron.
• Two thousand and one Americans have died in Iraq. With the revelations about the futility of their deaths. It's just got me so dispirited. The only ray of hope is that Bush will continue to trend downward, and he'll be vying with Warren Harding as the worst American President since the First World War.
And how do I plan to spend the Birthday Weekend? Welllll.... The Baron is coming to visit. Friday night, we'll probably hang at Starbucks forever. Then on Saturday, I'll make a nice dinner for the Baron and my father. And then, that night, the Baron has agreed to join me for... a Haunted Hayride! I was planning on going to the one at Trauger's that I enjoyed a few years ago. But the guys at the gym said that the Haunted Hayride at Delaware Valley College was the most spectacular Haunted Hayride ever conceived.
Then, on Sunday, I head up to NYC for my SM and Spirituality group. Dinner and birthday cake are promised! Soooo looking forward to that.
Sorry to be posting so infrequently lately. I'll see about doing better on that. Maybe I'm slowing down in my old age.
Yesssss!
Saturday is the big day! The first anniversary of my 40th birthday.
• Tonight at the gym, I did flies with sixty-five pound dumbells. That's a lifetime record. Pretty good for a man my age, huh?
• Loving the World Series! (Go White Sox!)
• I am loving Wednesday night services at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown. I swear, I can't figure it out. It's like watching the same opera every week. Like reading the same poem over and over again even though you know it by heart.
• Had a great weekend. On Sunday, I joined the Baron von Philadelphia for some Culchah. There was this program on the music and life of one Frederick Delius down in the City of Brotherly Love. Okay. I'll fess up. I was hoping it would be obsessional and Pythonesque. I mean, I never heard of the guy. But, alas, there were no freaks. Just a bunch of polite middle of the road folks. Alas. But the victuals were tasty. And it was great spending time with the Baron.
• Two thousand and one Americans have died in Iraq. With the revelations about the futility of their deaths. It's just got me so dispirited. The only ray of hope is that Bush will continue to trend downward, and he'll be vying with Warren Harding as the worst American President since the First World War.
And how do I plan to spend the Birthday Weekend? Welllll.... The Baron is coming to visit. Friday night, we'll probably hang at Starbucks forever. Then on Saturday, I'll make a nice dinner for the Baron and my father. And then, that night, the Baron has agreed to join me for... a Haunted Hayride! I was planning on going to the one at Trauger's that I enjoyed a few years ago. But the guys at the gym said that the Haunted Hayride at Delaware Valley College was the most spectacular Haunted Hayride ever conceived.
Then, on Sunday, I head up to NYC for my SM and Spirituality group. Dinner and birthday cake are promised! Soooo looking forward to that.
Sorry to be posting so infrequently lately. I'll see about doing better on that. Maybe I'm slowing down in my old age.
Yesssss!
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Full Day
A job is going out at 5:30 am tomorrow morning. And disaster struck. Some weird reaction with the finish wrecked three of the cabinets, so that they all had to be resanded and refinished. And the finishing process here involves staining, sealing, scuffing, glazing, and top-coating. At 1 pm, when we were to start putting on the hardware, they had just been sanded.
What to do?
The powers that be had an idea. My partner and I would punch out and leave, and come back at 7:30 that night when the cabinets were dry to finish them up. I was definitely cool with that.
So I got off work at 1:30. And proceeded to get all my needs met!
Serious!
First stop was Starbucks. It was a beautiful day today. So I got an iced-quad-venti-one pump vanila-light ice-latte, and sat on the porch, enjoying a cigar and reading a really great book. This time of year, you never know when the sit-on-the-porch-enjoying-a-cigar day might be the last one until June. So I make the most of them. Of course, sitting on the porch meant sitting on the porch. Since Starbucks has spirited away the porch furniture for the year. But no matter.
Than I hit the gym. Stretching. Doing chest work. Shower. Steam room. Touch-up shaving. Felt maginficent. Every moment of it. Breathing deeply, finding strength I didn't know I had. And tipping the scales at 184.9 lbs., the most I've weighed since June 23rd.
Then, off to church. Wednesday evening services at St. Paul's Episcopal Church. We were a small group this evening. As many of us in the congregation as there were up on the altar. And that would be four altogether. They do Rite I, all the "we do heartily thank Thee that Thou has vouchsafed's" and "the rememberance of them is grievous unto us's" and let's not forget the "quick and the dead's".
Almost time to show up back at work. Better grab something to eat. So I ducked into Doylestown's only thai restaurant for a nice bowl of Pad Thai. Tragically, as there isn't a multitude of thai places as there is in NYC, I paid double what I usually pay for a Pad Thai. But I have to admit it was among the best.
And... And... While I was sitting there in the window eating my Pad Thai, this verrrrry hot boy walked by, one I hadn't seen before. I immediately went into eye hockey overdrive, cruising him like crazy. He noticed. And I got a hit! He smiled my way. Very cool.
So let's add it up: I fed my senses (Starbucks porch, cigar, latte, beautiful day), my intellect (the book), nourished my body (the gym), tended to my spirit (church), and my stomach (Pad Thai), and my dick (hot boy).
I think that covers all the bases, right?
I am definitely doing something right.
A job is going out at 5:30 am tomorrow morning. And disaster struck. Some weird reaction with the finish wrecked three of the cabinets, so that they all had to be resanded and refinished. And the finishing process here involves staining, sealing, scuffing, glazing, and top-coating. At 1 pm, when we were to start putting on the hardware, they had just been sanded.
What to do?
The powers that be had an idea. My partner and I would punch out and leave, and come back at 7:30 that night when the cabinets were dry to finish them up. I was definitely cool with that.
So I got off work at 1:30. And proceeded to get all my needs met!
Serious!
First stop was Starbucks. It was a beautiful day today. So I got an iced-quad-venti-one pump vanila-light ice-latte, and sat on the porch, enjoying a cigar and reading a really great book. This time of year, you never know when the sit-on-the-porch-enjoying-a-cigar day might be the last one until June. So I make the most of them. Of course, sitting on the porch meant sitting on the porch. Since Starbucks has spirited away the porch furniture for the year. But no matter.
Than I hit the gym. Stretching. Doing chest work. Shower. Steam room. Touch-up shaving. Felt maginficent. Every moment of it. Breathing deeply, finding strength I didn't know I had. And tipping the scales at 184.9 lbs., the most I've weighed since June 23rd.
Then, off to church. Wednesday evening services at St. Paul's Episcopal Church. We were a small group this evening. As many of us in the congregation as there were up on the altar. And that would be four altogether. They do Rite I, all the "we do heartily thank Thee that Thou has vouchsafed's" and "the rememberance of them is grievous unto us's" and let's not forget the "quick and the dead's".
Almost time to show up back at work. Better grab something to eat. So I ducked into Doylestown's only thai restaurant for a nice bowl of Pad Thai. Tragically, as there isn't a multitude of thai places as there is in NYC, I paid double what I usually pay for a Pad Thai. But I have to admit it was among the best.
And... And... While I was sitting there in the window eating my Pad Thai, this verrrrry hot boy walked by, one I hadn't seen before. I immediately went into eye hockey overdrive, cruising him like crazy. He noticed. And I got a hit! He smiled my way. Very cool.
So let's add it up: I fed my senses (Starbucks porch, cigar, latte, beautiful day), my intellect (the book), nourished my body (the gym), tended to my spirit (church), and my stomach (Pad Thai), and my dick (hot boy).
I think that covers all the bases, right?
I am definitely doing something right.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Blast!
I got a parking ticket in the mail.
Bad luck, huh? Well, it goes beyond that.
My car was ticketed for parking at 201 East Lincoln Highway at 4:50 p.m. on Thursday, August 11th. However, I was nowhere near 201 East Lincoln Highway on August 11th. In fact, as far as I can determine, I've never been to 201 East Lincoln Highway in my life. And, my silver Jeep Liberty is described as a white Chevy.
You see my plight.
Apparently, one Police Officer Carboni wrote down the wrong license number.
My juices got flowing.
Back in my NYC days, not a parking ticket went by without yours truly making an appearance in traffic court. My record was about fifty-fifty. Courts tend to rely on the fact that most people will do one of two things: pay the ticket to get rid of it, or not pay the ticket and let the fees and penalties build up, and eventually, the City will get the money. Few and far between are the folks like me who show up to point out that the complaining officer didn't write down his badge number, and therefore the ticket is invalid. Which works, by the way. I've even gotten off because of illegible handwriting, as in, that could be a two, but it could also be a five.
And this seemed like an easy one.
So I called up the courthouse in Coatesville, Pennsylvania, and asked about what was involved in taking care of it. And the nice lady informed me that I had to post $50 in collateral. Then, a hearing would be scheduled for me. And hearings are held at 9:00 am on friday mornings.
Say what?
I pointed out to her that 9 a.m. was a really inconvenient time for people with jobs. The nice lady informed me that people could take vacation time to attend the hearing.
"People" don't work at my place of employment where you get five days vacation per year.
Okay. Now I could pay the $55 to just get rid of it, grin and bear it. And enrich the coffers of Coatesville, Pennsylvania. Because with a 9 am appearance date on a Friday, that would mean that I probably wouldn't be getting to the shop that day until noon. So, I'll lose $50 at $10-an-hour.
So here's my plan. I show up, plead not guilty, win, and then.... And then I take Officer Carboni, the town of Coatesville, and the office of the magistrate to small claims court for my lost wages.
Now, I very well might not have a leg to stand on here.
I am aware that the government, in many cases, is protected from lawsuits for tortious actions incurred in the course of, well, being government. And it might be covered by that.
But, the way small claims court works, if the other party doesn't show up, then you win. And a judgment is entered against the defendant. And I'm wondering if I can file right in good old Doylestown. That's quite a hike from Coatesville.
And, my cause of action is not wrongful... uh... summonsing. That's beside the point. My cause of action is based on the magistrate in Coatesville not holding hearings for one evening a week.
I'll keep you all posted.
I got a parking ticket in the mail.
Bad luck, huh? Well, it goes beyond that.
My car was ticketed for parking at 201 East Lincoln Highway at 4:50 p.m. on Thursday, August 11th. However, I was nowhere near 201 East Lincoln Highway on August 11th. In fact, as far as I can determine, I've never been to 201 East Lincoln Highway in my life. And, my silver Jeep Liberty is described as a white Chevy.
You see my plight.
Apparently, one Police Officer Carboni wrote down the wrong license number.
My juices got flowing.
Back in my NYC days, not a parking ticket went by without yours truly making an appearance in traffic court. My record was about fifty-fifty. Courts tend to rely on the fact that most people will do one of two things: pay the ticket to get rid of it, or not pay the ticket and let the fees and penalties build up, and eventually, the City will get the money. Few and far between are the folks like me who show up to point out that the complaining officer didn't write down his badge number, and therefore the ticket is invalid. Which works, by the way. I've even gotten off because of illegible handwriting, as in, that could be a two, but it could also be a five.
And this seemed like an easy one.
So I called up the courthouse in Coatesville, Pennsylvania, and asked about what was involved in taking care of it. And the nice lady informed me that I had to post $50 in collateral. Then, a hearing would be scheduled for me. And hearings are held at 9:00 am on friday mornings.
Say what?
I pointed out to her that 9 a.m. was a really inconvenient time for people with jobs. The nice lady informed me that people could take vacation time to attend the hearing.
"People" don't work at my place of employment where you get five days vacation per year.
Okay. Now I could pay the $55 to just get rid of it, grin and bear it. And enrich the coffers of Coatesville, Pennsylvania. Because with a 9 am appearance date on a Friday, that would mean that I probably wouldn't be getting to the shop that day until noon. So, I'll lose $50 at $10-an-hour.
So here's my plan. I show up, plead not guilty, win, and then.... And then I take Officer Carboni, the town of Coatesville, and the office of the magistrate to small claims court for my lost wages.
Now, I very well might not have a leg to stand on here.
I am aware that the government, in many cases, is protected from lawsuits for tortious actions incurred in the course of, well, being government. And it might be covered by that.
But, the way small claims court works, if the other party doesn't show up, then you win. And a judgment is entered against the defendant. And I'm wondering if I can file right in good old Doylestown. That's quite a hike from Coatesville.
And, my cause of action is not wrongful... uh... summonsing. That's beside the point. My cause of action is based on the magistrate in Coatesville not holding hearings for one evening a week.
I'll keep you all posted.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Everything That Rises Must Converge
Whoa! What a great night!
Because Mr. Pittsburgh Leather, whom I met at Inferno, and I have been chatting on worldleathermen, and he invited me to come out to Asbury Park last night for the Mr. and Ms. New Jersey Leather contest. Now, contests don't... uh... move me, really. And Asbury Park isn't exactly down the road a piece. And I was thinking that it would be a good night to head down to Philadelphia and hit the Bike Stop.
But...
Because there's this hot bear guy I've been chatting with on AOL who lives in Asbury Park, I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.
And...
Because it was a full, or a nearly full moon last night.
...I found myself driving east on Interstate 195, headed to Asbury Park.
Specifically, to a nightclub called Cruisin', where the event was held. I managed to find the place without too much problem, even though some streets were closed due to the recent flooding.
It wasn't jam packed, but the crowd was pretty kickin'. Saw just about everybody I knew from the NJ leather community. (And I guess that as a former resident of Beautiful Downtown Jersey City, I can count myself as part of the NJ leather community. At least, I always loved wearing my "New Jersey!" tshirt that I bought at a rest stop on the turnpike to MAL and Inferno and such. There is something fun and pugnacious about being from New Jersey. The implied, "You wanna make something of it?" when you tell folks where you hail from.)
And with the formation of several groups (Andromeda, the Argonauts, Garden State Bears), there really does seem to be something of a sense of community in bloom in the Garden State of late.
Ran into Mr. Pittsburgh Leather when I was just inside the door. The contest was in full swing, with the fantasy segment tearing up the stage. (Literally. A table upon which a certain baker of amazing cakes had been thrown collapsed.) Trayla Trash--none other!--was excellent as the MC. Note to producers of such: it is terrifically unlikely that you will ever be able to do better. Get Trayla or call it off. And there were plenty of hot men in the house to keep me interested. Not too long after the Q&A segment (oh, and the questions were pretty lamentable, not to heap scorn or anything, but they were), my bear guy showed up.
He pretty much takes the cake for AOL meet-ups. Totally great guy! Pretty much a big, happy man. With a great touch. Verrrrry tactile. Woof!
During the seemingly interminable tallying of the votes, Trayla--oh, assisted ably by a Ms. New Jersey Leather from years past, Storm--kept things interesting, conducting a chinese auction to raffle off a St. Andrew's Cross, and the opportunity to beat the ass of a Mr. NYC Eagle who dropped trou' and braced himself against the thing in anticipation. Mucho bucks were made for people living with HIV/AIDS affected by hurricane Katrina, and none other than one Miss Cox of NYC won the auction. Miss Cox's preference, however, was not to beat but to bite the ass in question, which she did, leaving a nice mark on each cheek, and garnering a whelp of pain from Mr. NYC Eagle.
Oh! And note to Lolita: when it was announced from the stage that you would be teaching something or other at some event in Baltimore (I wasn't paying attention because it was a women's event), a roar of recognition went up from the audience. New Jersey loves Lolita! And well they should!
Finally finally finally the winnners were announced. Congrats to Tom Savage and Peanut. Yay! Woo-HOOO!
Then, they started clearing the dancefloor of the chairs and judges tables. And I thought to myself, omigosh, I'm gonna get the chance to step out.
Happily, Happy Bear loves to dance, too. And is a frequent visitor to Cruisin'.
And so, friends, I was happy to show the leather community of New Jersey how it's done on the dancefloor.
Oh Man!
I haven't danced like that in years! I think the last time I got to dance was when I was with Donee and Diabolique at the Montreal Eagle during the softball tournement there the first year I attended Inferno. Oh. Wait. No. There was a Black Party in there, too.
But it just took me back, way back. To Kurt's, which we used to call Skirts, in Philadelphia, and Chip Duckett's Mars, Save The Robots, Fuck with the delectable Aldo Hernandez spinning, and the Clit Club (yes, the Clit Club!) during my early years in NYC.
Children, I can cut a rug. I can punish the parquet.
From what I saw in the thoughtfully provided mirrors, and the longing glances I spied from many admirers, I looked great out there on the dancefloor, too. Shirtless, wearing the chaps my Sir got me over a pair of leather shorts. And Happy Bear was great to dance with, only taking one brief break.
So take heed, Asbury Parkians (that can't be what they call themselves, but whatever): the dance floor at Cruisin' has not seen the last of me.
Anyway, today is a beautiful day. I'm off to try and track down a copy of the NY Times, get some brunch, then come back here to the Ol' Homestead and chop some firewood.
Oh! And here's a great thing! I don't feel stiff and sore at all after last night's exertions.
How cool is that?
Dang! That was fun!
Whoa! What a great night!
Because Mr. Pittsburgh Leather, whom I met at Inferno, and I have been chatting on worldleathermen, and he invited me to come out to Asbury Park last night for the Mr. and Ms. New Jersey Leather contest. Now, contests don't... uh... move me, really. And Asbury Park isn't exactly down the road a piece. And I was thinking that it would be a good night to head down to Philadelphia and hit the Bike Stop.
But...
Because there's this hot bear guy I've been chatting with on AOL who lives in Asbury Park, I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.
And...
Because it was a full, or a nearly full moon last night.
...I found myself driving east on Interstate 195, headed to Asbury Park.
Specifically, to a nightclub called Cruisin', where the event was held. I managed to find the place without too much problem, even though some streets were closed due to the recent flooding.
It wasn't jam packed, but the crowd was pretty kickin'. Saw just about everybody I knew from the NJ leather community. (And I guess that as a former resident of Beautiful Downtown Jersey City, I can count myself as part of the NJ leather community. At least, I always loved wearing my "New Jersey!" tshirt that I bought at a rest stop on the turnpike to MAL and Inferno and such. There is something fun and pugnacious about being from New Jersey. The implied, "You wanna make something of it?" when you tell folks where you hail from.)
And with the formation of several groups (Andromeda, the Argonauts, Garden State Bears), there really does seem to be something of a sense of community in bloom in the Garden State of late.
Ran into Mr. Pittsburgh Leather when I was just inside the door. The contest was in full swing, with the fantasy segment tearing up the stage. (Literally. A table upon which a certain baker of amazing cakes had been thrown collapsed.) Trayla Trash--none other!--was excellent as the MC. Note to producers of such: it is terrifically unlikely that you will ever be able to do better. Get Trayla or call it off. And there were plenty of hot men in the house to keep me interested. Not too long after the Q&A segment (oh, and the questions were pretty lamentable, not to heap scorn or anything, but they were), my bear guy showed up.
He pretty much takes the cake for AOL meet-ups. Totally great guy! Pretty much a big, happy man. With a great touch. Verrrrry tactile. Woof!
During the seemingly interminable tallying of the votes, Trayla--oh, assisted ably by a Ms. New Jersey Leather from years past, Storm--kept things interesting, conducting a chinese auction to raffle off a St. Andrew's Cross, and the opportunity to beat the ass of a Mr. NYC Eagle who dropped trou' and braced himself against the thing in anticipation. Mucho bucks were made for people living with HIV/AIDS affected by hurricane Katrina, and none other than one Miss Cox of NYC won the auction. Miss Cox's preference, however, was not to beat but to bite the ass in question, which she did, leaving a nice mark on each cheek, and garnering a whelp of pain from Mr. NYC Eagle.
Oh! And note to Lolita: when it was announced from the stage that you would be teaching something or other at some event in Baltimore (I wasn't paying attention because it was a women's event), a roar of recognition went up from the audience. New Jersey loves Lolita! And well they should!
Finally finally finally the winnners were announced. Congrats to Tom Savage and Peanut. Yay! Woo-HOOO!
Then, they started clearing the dancefloor of the chairs and judges tables. And I thought to myself, omigosh, I'm gonna get the chance to step out.
Happily, Happy Bear loves to dance, too. And is a frequent visitor to Cruisin'.
And so, friends, I was happy to show the leather community of New Jersey how it's done on the dancefloor.
Oh Man!
I haven't danced like that in years! I think the last time I got to dance was when I was with Donee and Diabolique at the Montreal Eagle during the softball tournement there the first year I attended Inferno. Oh. Wait. No. There was a Black Party in there, too.
But it just took me back, way back. To Kurt's, which we used to call Skirts, in Philadelphia, and Chip Duckett's Mars, Save The Robots, Fuck with the delectable Aldo Hernandez spinning, and the Clit Club (yes, the Clit Club!) during my early years in NYC.
Children, I can cut a rug. I can punish the parquet.
From what I saw in the thoughtfully provided mirrors, and the longing glances I spied from many admirers, I looked great out there on the dancefloor, too. Shirtless, wearing the chaps my Sir got me over a pair of leather shorts. And Happy Bear was great to dance with, only taking one brief break.
So take heed, Asbury Parkians (that can't be what they call themselves, but whatever): the dance floor at Cruisin' has not seen the last of me.
Anyway, today is a beautiful day. I'm off to try and track down a copy of the NY Times, get some brunch, then come back here to the Ol' Homestead and chop some firewood.
Oh! And here's a great thing! I don't feel stiff and sore at all after last night's exertions.
How cool is that?
Dang! That was fun!
Saturday, October 15, 2005
The Question
What am I going to do with my life?
It persists.
And it's a tough one.
A million years ago, I attended this all day seminar for "student leaders" when I was in student government in college. And... Well heck. Let's try it.
Right now, stop reading this. Sit back, close your eyes, let your mind roam free, and then, do your best to come up with a list of some things you want to do in life.
Just, whatever. No right or wrong answer.
See Ankor Wat? Climb a Mayan pyramid? See the summit of Anapurna? Write the Great American Novel? Get psychoanalyzed in Vienna? Work your way through Julia Childs' The French Chef? Take two fists? Collar a slave? Make a million dollars? Skydive?
Great things to think about. But hold off. Before you start thinking about how you might go about realizing some of these goals, or worse, thinking about how far you have to go to meet your goals.
Just stop.
Clear your mind.
Think of lemons.
Think of pickles.
Think of pickled lemons.
(Mad phat props to anyone out there who can track down the pop-cultural reference in the last three sentences to their source. I'm relatively certain that no one will ever get it. Here's a hint: think of a line drawn Brenda Vaccaro.)
Okay. Now sit back. Relax. New area of inquiry.
Imagine that the phone rings. It's your doctor. Your tests have come back. The news is really bad. It's Dark Victory time. You've got about four or five days left until the end comes.
So. Today is Saturday. You've got until Tuesday or Wednesday.
So how are you going to spend the next few days? Who do you want to spend them with? Where do you want to spend them? What do you want to do?
Now here's the kicker.
You have just been asked the same question twice.
Only one difference: timeframe.
So, how close were your answers? And what does that say to you?
Here's another thing I've been thinking of.
What would I do if I knew that failure was inevitable? So it didn't matter.
Fear of failure is crippling to me. In ways great or small, from going to grad school to talking to some guy in a bar. What if I fail?
So reverse that. Failure is inevitable. Right down in flames. Down the toilet.
There's just no end to what i would do.
I'd open up this little cafe dind of place. Called Input. I'd serve coffee, espresso bar set up. But, more importantly, tea by the pot. And little baked things. And protein smoothies and stuff. But also, a nice One Pot Meal. Vietnamese fish stew. Beef stew. White bean chicken chile with cilantro and green chilis. Wifi situation going on. Lots of comfy places to sit. And there would be a small selection of books, magazines, and CDs.
Get it? Input.
Or open up a spa. In the European style. A blazing sauna. An ice cold pool. A small commisarie. Massage available. A lounge. And the point of all of it is just to relax.
And welding. To start with anyway. Collars, shackles, restraints... I have a great idea for a frame to restrain a man for whipping. Need a gibbet for your lucky slave? I know there's lots of that stuff around, but what would set my stuff apart would be amazing design. And then, branch out. To custom designed dungeons. Well, dungeon implies sconces and straw on the floor and all. And that's a wee bit... récherché. "Erotic envioronment" might be a better term. The erotic environment of your dreams and desires, designed and built for you by a man who loves his work.
And the book, of course. All the books. Book after book after book. Writing and writing. And... y'know... readings and maybe NPR interviews. Not that I have so much to say, but more so many conversations I'd like to start.
Nothing but possibilities. And since I'm doomed to failure from the get go, there's nothing to lose. And it would sure be fun.
What am I going to do with my life?
It persists.
And it's a tough one.
A million years ago, I attended this all day seminar for "student leaders" when I was in student government in college. And... Well heck. Let's try it.
Right now, stop reading this. Sit back, close your eyes, let your mind roam free, and then, do your best to come up with a list of some things you want to do in life.
Just, whatever. No right or wrong answer.
See Ankor Wat? Climb a Mayan pyramid? See the summit of Anapurna? Write the Great American Novel? Get psychoanalyzed in Vienna? Work your way through Julia Childs' The French Chef? Take two fists? Collar a slave? Make a million dollars? Skydive?
Great things to think about. But hold off. Before you start thinking about how you might go about realizing some of these goals, or worse, thinking about how far you have to go to meet your goals.
Just stop.
Clear your mind.
Think of lemons.
Think of pickles.
Think of pickled lemons.
(Mad phat props to anyone out there who can track down the pop-cultural reference in the last three sentences to their source. I'm relatively certain that no one will ever get it. Here's a hint: think of a line drawn Brenda Vaccaro.)
Okay. Now sit back. Relax. New area of inquiry.
Imagine that the phone rings. It's your doctor. Your tests have come back. The news is really bad. It's Dark Victory time. You've got about four or five days left until the end comes.
So. Today is Saturday. You've got until Tuesday or Wednesday.
So how are you going to spend the next few days? Who do you want to spend them with? Where do you want to spend them? What do you want to do?
Now here's the kicker.
You have just been asked the same question twice.
Only one difference: timeframe.
So, how close were your answers? And what does that say to you?
Here's another thing I've been thinking of.
What would I do if I knew that failure was inevitable? So it didn't matter.
Fear of failure is crippling to me. In ways great or small, from going to grad school to talking to some guy in a bar. What if I fail?
So reverse that. Failure is inevitable. Right down in flames. Down the toilet.
There's just no end to what i would do.
I'd open up this little cafe dind of place. Called Input. I'd serve coffee, espresso bar set up. But, more importantly, tea by the pot. And little baked things. And protein smoothies and stuff. But also, a nice One Pot Meal. Vietnamese fish stew. Beef stew. White bean chicken chile with cilantro and green chilis. Wifi situation going on. Lots of comfy places to sit. And there would be a small selection of books, magazines, and CDs.
Get it? Input.
Or open up a spa. In the European style. A blazing sauna. An ice cold pool. A small commisarie. Massage available. A lounge. And the point of all of it is just to relax.
And welding. To start with anyway. Collars, shackles, restraints... I have a great idea for a frame to restrain a man for whipping. Need a gibbet for your lucky slave? I know there's lots of that stuff around, but what would set my stuff apart would be amazing design. And then, branch out. To custom designed dungeons. Well, dungeon implies sconces and straw on the floor and all. And that's a wee bit... récherché. "Erotic envioronment" might be a better term. The erotic environment of your dreams and desires, designed and built for you by a man who loves his work.
And the book, of course. All the books. Book after book after book. Writing and writing. And... y'know... readings and maybe NPR interviews. Not that I have so much to say, but more so many conversations I'd like to start.
Nothing but possibilities. And since I'm doomed to failure from the get go, there's nothing to lose. And it would sure be fun.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Not Jimmy Breslin, But...
All the time I lived in New York, I never quite felt myself to be a New Yorker. New Yorkers all have this sixth sense of what it's all about. A savoir faire about them that I never managed to attain. When confronted with someone who really really had that in spades, I would retreat to a sort of Aw Shucks Country Boy In The City persona, peppering my speech with timeless sayings like, "I can't dance and it's too wet to plough" and "Lord willing and the creeks don't rise." Until Bill Clinton made that just way too obvious and grating.
But here I am, a country boy in the country.
And now, I'm aware of thhe extent to which I am a New Yorker.
Nothing major. No fuhgeddaboutits or anything. Just, y'know, some little things that crop up.
• I drive like a New Yorker. When the light turns green, my foot is already pushing down the gas pedal. And if the person in front of me isn't already moving at a good clip, I'm calling him or her every name in the book.
• And speaking of driving, I have a strong opinion about how to get from one place to another. Although it used to be "what you wanna do is take the Jackie Robinson, you know, the Interboro? And that puts your almost right there at the Whitestone Bridge and you can get right over there to the Bronx"; now it's more about "If you make a left onto Harvey Avenue and then turn right onto Union, it brings you out below that interminable light at Main and Court and the Courthouse crossing." Although now, the people whom I gift with my wisdom give me baffled looks instead of responding with their own take on the "Best" way to go.
• Even though I'm a tourist, I never look like a tourist, and within an hour of being in a foreign city, I am immediately acclimated. So much so that I can give fairly accurate directions to any tourist who asks. It's true! However, the downside is that when I am driving on highways and parkways and such in between said cities, I get really really lost.
• Even though I'm not looking for a new place to live, I'm always looking for a new place to live. When the subject of real estate comes up, I ask, "How much are you paying?" without even blinking. (I've been told that outside of NYC, this is considered rude. Like asking, "How much money do you make?" or "When was the last time you had sex?" But I do it anyway.) And if I get a reply, I immediately do the algorithm Monthly Cost ÷ Square Footage + View x Location, and know immediately if it's a good deal or if he or she has been had.
• Happy Holidays! I just know when Jewish holidays are being celebrated, even though I'm not Jewish. I know when Ramadan is being celebrated, even though I'm not Muslim. Same goes for Chinese New Year. The Hindu holidays I'm shakey on. (Alternate Side Of The Street Parking does that to you.)
• When asparagus is in season, and I go to the supermarket and don't find tender, fresh-picked, locally grown asparagus, I'm dumbfounded and outraged. I know my produce. I want my produce. I demand my produce.
• It's Sunday. It's 2 pm. It's time for brunch. Brunch is the best meal of the week. Whether your preference is eggs benedict or mahí mahí seviche or a cubano sandwich, life without brunch is a mistake.
• I've never worn the same uh... outfit... or ensemble... or whatever in public twice. Even to work. Especially to work.
• I have no problem striking up conversations with perfect strangers. I'm the guy that turns to the person behind me in the check out line and says, "Jennifer Aniston should just move on, right?" or "How can those Iraqis vote on a constitution that they've never read?"
It's been two years siince I've lived there. I still read the Times whenever I can. I'm looking forward to Mike Bloomberg's second term as Mayor, if only because New York has never had a mayor who made design one of his top priorities. But I am no longer constantly haunted by the suspicion that I've got somewhere to be in fifteen minutes (because there's nowhere I have to be). I'm moving to different rhythms, my expectations are lower, and I'm more susceptible to delight and surprise.
Huh.
I guess I'm a hybrid.
All the time I lived in New York, I never quite felt myself to be a New Yorker. New Yorkers all have this sixth sense of what it's all about. A savoir faire about them that I never managed to attain. When confronted with someone who really really had that in spades, I would retreat to a sort of Aw Shucks Country Boy In The City persona, peppering my speech with timeless sayings like, "I can't dance and it's too wet to plough" and "Lord willing and the creeks don't rise." Until Bill Clinton made that just way too obvious and grating.
But here I am, a country boy in the country.
And now, I'm aware of thhe extent to which I am a New Yorker.
Nothing major. No fuhgeddaboutits or anything. Just, y'know, some little things that crop up.
• I drive like a New Yorker. When the light turns green, my foot is already pushing down the gas pedal. And if the person in front of me isn't already moving at a good clip, I'm calling him or her every name in the book.
• And speaking of driving, I have a strong opinion about how to get from one place to another. Although it used to be "what you wanna do is take the Jackie Robinson, you know, the Interboro? And that puts your almost right there at the Whitestone Bridge and you can get right over there to the Bronx"; now it's more about "If you make a left onto Harvey Avenue and then turn right onto Union, it brings you out below that interminable light at Main and Court and the Courthouse crossing." Although now, the people whom I gift with my wisdom give me baffled looks instead of responding with their own take on the "Best" way to go.
• Even though I'm a tourist, I never look like a tourist, and within an hour of being in a foreign city, I am immediately acclimated. So much so that I can give fairly accurate directions to any tourist who asks. It's true! However, the downside is that when I am driving on highways and parkways and such in between said cities, I get really really lost.
• Even though I'm not looking for a new place to live, I'm always looking for a new place to live. When the subject of real estate comes up, I ask, "How much are you paying?" without even blinking. (I've been told that outside of NYC, this is considered rude. Like asking, "How much money do you make?" or "When was the last time you had sex?" But I do it anyway.) And if I get a reply, I immediately do the algorithm Monthly Cost ÷ Square Footage + View x Location, and know immediately if it's a good deal or if he or she has been had.
• Happy Holidays! I just know when Jewish holidays are being celebrated, even though I'm not Jewish. I know when Ramadan is being celebrated, even though I'm not Muslim. Same goes for Chinese New Year. The Hindu holidays I'm shakey on. (Alternate Side Of The Street Parking does that to you.)
• When asparagus is in season, and I go to the supermarket and don't find tender, fresh-picked, locally grown asparagus, I'm dumbfounded and outraged. I know my produce. I want my produce. I demand my produce.
• It's Sunday. It's 2 pm. It's time for brunch. Brunch is the best meal of the week. Whether your preference is eggs benedict or mahí mahí seviche or a cubano sandwich, life without brunch is a mistake.
• I've never worn the same uh... outfit... or ensemble... or whatever in public twice. Even to work. Especially to work.
• I have no problem striking up conversations with perfect strangers. I'm the guy that turns to the person behind me in the check out line and says, "Jennifer Aniston should just move on, right?" or "How can those Iraqis vote on a constitution that they've never read?"
It's been two years siince I've lived there. I still read the Times whenever I can. I'm looking forward to Mike Bloomberg's second term as Mayor, if only because New York has never had a mayor who made design one of his top priorities. But I am no longer constantly haunted by the suspicion that I've got somewhere to be in fifteen minutes (because there's nowhere I have to be). I'm moving to different rhythms, my expectations are lower, and I'm more susceptible to delight and surprise.
Huh.
I guess I'm a hybrid.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Fevered
Still have a headache. But managed to make it to Starbucks, where I was able to forget that fact for a while.
And got to some good ol' fashioned writing in my journal.
I addressed to myself a question that's been hounding me over the past couple of days: "What are you going to do with your life?"
Just that. There I'll be, all content like, and out of the blue, I'll wonder, what are you going to do with your life?
I mean, of course, afterwards. After I'm no longer here in Bucks County, looking after my dad. Which in all liklihood, won't be any time soon.
The first problem that arises is, what will you do for work? I mean, I'm pretty sure that the location of the next chapter of my life will be somewhere in Southern California, a climate and population to which I feel much better suited.
And I'll work doing what?
Because, I am increasingly aware of the fact that as I get older, it's harder and harder to find a job. Nobody, of course, wants to hire a 50 year old. And 55 is, of course, the Magic Number. You'd better be in the job you want to do for the rest of your working life when you're 55, because after that, you ain't going nowhere.
That's not fair! That's unjust! That's entirely reasonable! Let's face it, I just can't compete with a 22-year-old college graduate. They have fresh ideas, boundless enthusiasm, and they're willing to do things like work for eighty hours a week. And I'm just not. I want a comfy sinecure. But the world is not willing to provide those.
So that'll be a tough one.
And, add that to the fact that it's a changing world. It's all plugged-in and decentralized and non-hierarchical and connected. Will there even be things called jobs by the time I'm needing to get one? A fair question.
Okay. So that's something of a tricky issue, huh?
And this other thing I've been thinking about.
Note what it says up in the corner of this weblog. All the blah-blah-blah. "My commitment to bachelorhood." Y'see that?
Back after I emerged from my benighted sojourn in the seven-and-a-half-year relationship, I was moved to reflect. One of the things that seemed verrrry obvious to me is that I have never been able to make the relationship thing work. Maybe I just hadn't met the right guy, but maybe I wasn't cut out to be in a relationship. Maybe I was made to be a bachelor.
I though about a wonderful book I had read, Paradise Piece By Piece by Mary Peacock, the poet. In it, she discusses how she has managed to make for herself a complete, fulfilling, satisfying, and joyful life, even though she made the decision to not have children. And for most women, the short cut to a complete, fulfilling, satisfying, and joyful life is by dissolving into Motherhood.
I decided that I would stop causing all this grief by making vows and such to men I would inevitably disappoint, and build for myself a complete, fulfilling, satisfying, and joyful life as a single man. I would not be half of a couple ever again. I'd make sure all the elements were there, and I would go it alone. In some ways, it would be tough, but I'd think through how I could make the tough things less so, and keep in mind that coupledom had many aspects that weren't a bed of roses, too.
And that was going pretty great! I was engaged, busy, having a blast, meeting new people and making friends, and making it work.
And then I met Special Guy.
I wrestled at the outset about the whole single guy thing. But I decided to scrap it. He was worth it. And he sure was worth it. Because here was a guy with whom, for all intents and purposes, I was compatible. We clicked. Being beside him was where I wanted to be.
But when that ended, I made what we used to call in my high school debating club, a "fallacious assumption."
Because I couldn't be with this guy who was perfect for me, I'll just go out and find another one.
And to a greater or lesser degree, I've been looking ever since.
Riding that same carousel, going from horse to horse. No, not this horse, that's the horse for me. All that switching horses, not realizing that I'm just going around in a circle.
Right.
I am a single man. I will have a rich, full, complete, satisfying, joyful life as a single man.
When I thought--deeply--about these things back then, a phrase resonated with me: I will be a secular monk.
Monastacism has always appealed to me. Life in community strikes me as a perfect mode of being. Alone, together. A walled garden. Preserving what's best, but inviting considered change. Learning from and caring for my elders, mentoring and learning from my... uh... youngers. Having a home.
Right.
Right.
The whole intentional community thing. A community of leathermen. With numerous guest rooms, so that we can always welcome visitors. Tops, bottoms, Masters, slaves, switches, pigs, older, younger. The only thing we share in common is a desire to live more deeply, and a conviction that SM is a way to do that.
That's what I'm going to do afterwards.
And so I can rest.
Still have a headache. But managed to make it to Starbucks, where I was able to forget that fact for a while.
And got to some good ol' fashioned writing in my journal.
I addressed to myself a question that's been hounding me over the past couple of days: "What are you going to do with your life?"
Just that. There I'll be, all content like, and out of the blue, I'll wonder, what are you going to do with your life?
I mean, of course, afterwards. After I'm no longer here in Bucks County, looking after my dad. Which in all liklihood, won't be any time soon.
The first problem that arises is, what will you do for work? I mean, I'm pretty sure that the location of the next chapter of my life will be somewhere in Southern California, a climate and population to which I feel much better suited.
And I'll work doing what?
Because, I am increasingly aware of the fact that as I get older, it's harder and harder to find a job. Nobody, of course, wants to hire a 50 year old. And 55 is, of course, the Magic Number. You'd better be in the job you want to do for the rest of your working life when you're 55, because after that, you ain't going nowhere.
That's not fair! That's unjust! That's entirely reasonable! Let's face it, I just can't compete with a 22-year-old college graduate. They have fresh ideas, boundless enthusiasm, and they're willing to do things like work for eighty hours a week. And I'm just not. I want a comfy sinecure. But the world is not willing to provide those.
So that'll be a tough one.
And, add that to the fact that it's a changing world. It's all plugged-in and decentralized and non-hierarchical and connected. Will there even be things called jobs by the time I'm needing to get one? A fair question.
Okay. So that's something of a tricky issue, huh?
And this other thing I've been thinking about.
Note what it says up in the corner of this weblog. All the blah-blah-blah. "My commitment to bachelorhood." Y'see that?
Back after I emerged from my benighted sojourn in the seven-and-a-half-year relationship, I was moved to reflect. One of the things that seemed verrrry obvious to me is that I have never been able to make the relationship thing work. Maybe I just hadn't met the right guy, but maybe I wasn't cut out to be in a relationship. Maybe I was made to be a bachelor.
I though about a wonderful book I had read, Paradise Piece By Piece by Mary Peacock, the poet. In it, she discusses how she has managed to make for herself a complete, fulfilling, satisfying, and joyful life, even though she made the decision to not have children. And for most women, the short cut to a complete, fulfilling, satisfying, and joyful life is by dissolving into Motherhood.
I decided that I would stop causing all this grief by making vows and such to men I would inevitably disappoint, and build for myself a complete, fulfilling, satisfying, and joyful life as a single man. I would not be half of a couple ever again. I'd make sure all the elements were there, and I would go it alone. In some ways, it would be tough, but I'd think through how I could make the tough things less so, and keep in mind that coupledom had many aspects that weren't a bed of roses, too.
And that was going pretty great! I was engaged, busy, having a blast, meeting new people and making friends, and making it work.
And then I met Special Guy.
I wrestled at the outset about the whole single guy thing. But I decided to scrap it. He was worth it. And he sure was worth it. Because here was a guy with whom, for all intents and purposes, I was compatible. We clicked. Being beside him was where I wanted to be.
But when that ended, I made what we used to call in my high school debating club, a "fallacious assumption."
Because I couldn't be with this guy who was perfect for me, I'll just go out and find another one.
And to a greater or lesser degree, I've been looking ever since.
Riding that same carousel, going from horse to horse. No, not this horse, that's the horse for me. All that switching horses, not realizing that I'm just going around in a circle.
Right.
I am a single man. I will have a rich, full, complete, satisfying, joyful life as a single man.
When I thought--deeply--about these things back then, a phrase resonated with me: I will be a secular monk.
Monastacism has always appealed to me. Life in community strikes me as a perfect mode of being. Alone, together. A walled garden. Preserving what's best, but inviting considered change. Learning from and caring for my elders, mentoring and learning from my... uh... youngers. Having a home.
Right.
Right.
The whole intentional community thing. A community of leathermen. With numerous guest rooms, so that we can always welcome visitors. Tops, bottoms, Masters, slaves, switches, pigs, older, younger. The only thing we share in common is a desire to live more deeply, and a conviction that SM is a way to do that.
That's what I'm going to do afterwards.
And so I can rest.
Pity Me
I'm home sick from work. Since Sunday, I've had a headache. Assumed it was just one of those 'weekend headaches' I get, which I attribute to disrupted sleep schedule and an irregular diet after the strict regimen I keep monday through friday. Tylenol was no help. Got to bed early on Sunday night, and was surprised when, after a a good night's sleep, I woke up with a headache on monday morning.
But, y'know, just a headache, right? So I headed off to work.
Oh man.
I worked the sanding table. Between the screaming of the orbitals, the exertion of lifting up the cabinets onto the benches, and the constant bending over... I thought I was going to end up curled in the corner sucking my thumb.
Got plenty of sleep last night, but lo and behold, once again, I woke up with a splitting headache.
And so I called out.
Now, the only thing I hate more than being sick is being home sick. It's a wasted day. And I'm only going to get about 27,375 of them.
And the tricky thing is, it's a headache. With a cold, you can sort of track the life cycle. But there's no life cycle for a headache. It's just a headache. It's either there or it's not there. Will it be there ten minutes from now? Maybe. Will it be there three days from now? Maybe.
Anyway.
I think I'll take a headachey shower and make the headachey drive into Doylestown and have a headachey latte at Starbucks.
There's a meeting tonight of a group called CAPS, short for Caregivers for Aging Parents. I'm not feeling the need as keenly as I was back over the summer. But it might not be a bad thing to check out. I wonder for how long the chit chat would endure before it would turn into all of us shrieking about how if "he/she does that ONE MORE TIME I swear I'm sending him/her to the most low rent badly run unlicensed nursing home I can find!"
Vito, you're blocking!
So yeah. Gotta get my headachey self out of the house. Not that I'm not enjoying watching back to back episodes of The West Wing, because truly I am! But I think I need some human-to-human interaction.
And look at that! The chicken soup I had for lunch hasn't even made me very nauseous.
I'm home sick from work. Since Sunday, I've had a headache. Assumed it was just one of those 'weekend headaches' I get, which I attribute to disrupted sleep schedule and an irregular diet after the strict regimen I keep monday through friday. Tylenol was no help. Got to bed early on Sunday night, and was surprised when, after a a good night's sleep, I woke up with a headache on monday morning.
But, y'know, just a headache, right? So I headed off to work.
Oh man.
I worked the sanding table. Between the screaming of the orbitals, the exertion of lifting up the cabinets onto the benches, and the constant bending over... I thought I was going to end up curled in the corner sucking my thumb.
Got plenty of sleep last night, but lo and behold, once again, I woke up with a splitting headache.
And so I called out.
Now, the only thing I hate more than being sick is being home sick. It's a wasted day. And I'm only going to get about 27,375 of them.
And the tricky thing is, it's a headache. With a cold, you can sort of track the life cycle. But there's no life cycle for a headache. It's just a headache. It's either there or it's not there. Will it be there ten minutes from now? Maybe. Will it be there three days from now? Maybe.
Anyway.
I think I'll take a headachey shower and make the headachey drive into Doylestown and have a headachey latte at Starbucks.
There's a meeting tonight of a group called CAPS, short for Caregivers for Aging Parents. I'm not feeling the need as keenly as I was back over the summer. But it might not be a bad thing to check out. I wonder for how long the chit chat would endure before it would turn into all of us shrieking about how if "he/she does that ONE MORE TIME I swear I'm sending him/her to the most low rent badly run unlicensed nursing home I can find!"
Vito, you're blocking!
So yeah. Gotta get my headachey self out of the house. Not that I'm not enjoying watching back to back episodes of The West Wing, because truly I am! But I think I need some human-to-human interaction.
And look at that! The chicken soup I had for lunch hasn't even made me very nauseous.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Nancy, Barrymore, Pinsky, Bledsoe, A University In New Jersey, And Me
Cool. I got this off Lolita's page. It's a fun game You can play! You type your name into Google, followed by the word 'needs.' Then record the Top Ten. I went for the Top Eleven.
And here they are...
1. Drew Needs Your Help Now!
2. Drew needs to get his head out of his,
3. Extensive discussion on what Drew needs in its next president
4. Drew needs to be fixed because over one million lives depend on it
5. Drew needs to join Veronica Mars!
6. Drew needs lots of love and affection
7. Drew needs to be reformed, but to abandon this much needed facility is unacceptable
8. Drew needs a positive, loving family that can be patient with him
9. Drew needs ample healthy and positive outlets for feelings
10. Drew needs to spend more time in intensive care to get rid of some of the fluid
11. Drew needs to keep up with the trend
Cool. I got this off Lolita's page. It's a fun game You can play! You type your name into Google, followed by the word 'needs.' Then record the Top Ten. I went for the Top Eleven.
And here they are...
1. Drew Needs Your Help Now!
2. Drew needs to get his head out of his,
3. Extensive discussion on what Drew needs in its next president
4. Drew needs to be fixed because over one million lives depend on it
5. Drew needs to join Veronica Mars!
6. Drew needs lots of love and affection
7. Drew needs to be reformed, but to abandon this much needed facility is unacceptable
8. Drew needs a positive, loving family that can be patient with him
9. Drew needs ample healthy and positive outlets for feelings
10. Drew needs to spend more time in intensive care to get rid of some of the fluid
11. Drew needs to keep up with the trend
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
All The Usual Unreliable Sources: A Retraction
It looks like I jumped the gun. There are, apparently, several... uh... endeavors out there bearing the name of Exodus. One tries to assist the formerly homosexual among us, but another, and most likely the one mentioned by the Former Governor of Texas as having benefitted from the work of Harriet Miers--I even spelled her name wrong--helps the formerly incarcerated adjust to life on the outside.
And that's laudable!
whipping boy points out that there's a third Exodus group, that seeks to relocate Christian Fundamentalists to some state in the South and so that when their numbers are significant enough, they can leave the Union and set up some sort of theocracy. (I don't get that. They already control the country. They really see a need for that? But on the other hand, how can I make a donation?)
Sorry about that.
It looks like I jumped the gun. There are, apparently, several... uh... endeavors out there bearing the name of Exodus. One tries to assist the formerly homosexual among us, but another, and most likely the one mentioned by the Former Governor of Texas as having benefitted from the work of Harriet Miers--I even spelled her name wrong--helps the formerly incarcerated adjust to life on the outside.
And that's laudable!
whipping boy points out that there's a third Exodus group, that seeks to relocate Christian Fundamentalists to some state in the South and so that when their numbers are significant enough, they can leave the Union and set up some sort of theocracy. (I don't get that. They already control the country. They really see a need for that? But on the other hand, how can I make a donation?)
Sorry about that.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Uh Oh
In introducing his nominee for the Supreme Court today, the former governor of Texas listed the many charitable organizations to which Ms Meyers has given so generously of her time and talents.
Among them, Exodus Ministries.
Now that has a familiar ring to it. I googled. And I was right.
Exodus Ministries is the wacky wacky group that reaches out to homosexuals (that's me!) to offer pastoral counseling and prayer so that they can leave behind that sinful lifestyle choice they made.
Doubtless, T.F.G.T. was signaling to his right-wing religious supporters that they were being taken care of.
So that's bad.
In introducing his nominee for the Supreme Court today, the former governor of Texas listed the many charitable organizations to which Ms Meyers has given so generously of her time and talents.
Among them, Exodus Ministries.
Now that has a familiar ring to it. I googled. And I was right.
Exodus Ministries is the wacky wacky group that reaches out to homosexuals (that's me!) to offer pastoral counseling and prayer so that they can leave behind that sinful lifestyle choice they made.
Doubtless, T.F.G.T. was signaling to his right-wing religious supporters that they were being taken care of.
So that's bad.
Crazy Little Thing
Oh I get it.
This... this... mood I've been in since I got back from Inferno.
Feeling so happy, so content. And free (mostly) of my preoccupation with hot dudes. I guess it's kind of obvious.
I'm in love.
In love with Roadkill and Alphan.
Not, y'know, an obsessive, all-bent-out-of-shape kind of love.
Just that sense of it all being Right. That your heart is safely entrusted. That you're in a Good Place.
Oh man.
I am blessed.
Oh I get it.
This... this... mood I've been in since I got back from Inferno.
Feeling so happy, so content. And free (mostly) of my preoccupation with hot dudes. I guess it's kind of obvious.
I'm in love.
In love with Roadkill and Alphan.
Not, y'know, an obsessive, all-bent-out-of-shape kind of love.
Just that sense of it all being Right. That your heart is safely entrusted. That you're in a Good Place.
Oh man.
I am blessed.
Kolchak Is Risen
When I was eleven years old, my absolute favorite show on television was Kolchak: The Night Stalker. The premise was simple. Each week, a wise-cracking reporter named Carl Kolchak would stumble upon some homicidal supernatural phenomenon. Vampire, werewolf, Hindu demon, alien, vengeful suit of armor, Cajun swamp monster, witch, demonic Senate candidate... His editor, the police, the powers that be, whoever, were unable to believe him, so Carl alone confronted and defeated the terror.
*sigh*
And what I remember most vividly was that Kolchak was shown on trash night. So after having the bejeezus scared out of me, my father would inevitably make the announcement: "Drew, it's time for you to take out the trash."
That meant that I had to lug a huge heavy trashcan out to the end of our driveway in the dark. Did I mention it was dark?
I've probably never run so fast as I would on the trip back, certain that a headless, sword wielding guy on a motorcycle was right behind me.
Last week, I caught the season premier or the new Night Stalker. It holds promise, but in that au courrant kind of way, they left things all ambiguous like instead of wrapping it all up in an hour. And, of course, it was gorier than the original, where the gore was largely implied.
All in all, not must see tv, but if I think of it, I'll catch it.
And luckily, it's not on Tuesday night. That's trash night.
When I was eleven years old, my absolute favorite show on television was Kolchak: The Night Stalker. The premise was simple. Each week, a wise-cracking reporter named Carl Kolchak would stumble upon some homicidal supernatural phenomenon. Vampire, werewolf, Hindu demon, alien, vengeful suit of armor, Cajun swamp monster, witch, demonic Senate candidate... His editor, the police, the powers that be, whoever, were unable to believe him, so Carl alone confronted and defeated the terror.
*sigh*
And what I remember most vividly was that Kolchak was shown on trash night. So after having the bejeezus scared out of me, my father would inevitably make the announcement: "Drew, it's time for you to take out the trash."
That meant that I had to lug a huge heavy trashcan out to the end of our driveway in the dark. Did I mention it was dark?
I've probably never run so fast as I would on the trip back, certain that a headless, sword wielding guy on a motorcycle was right behind me.
Last week, I caught the season premier or the new Night Stalker. It holds promise, but in that au courrant kind of way, they left things all ambiguous like instead of wrapping it all up in an hour. And, of course, it was gorier than the original, where the gore was largely implied.
All in all, not must see tv, but if I think of it, I'll catch it.
And luckily, it's not on Tuesday night. That's trash night.
Szczliwy *Polaski* Dzien
Or for you English speakers, “Happy Pulaski Day!”
I’m having a rip watching the Pulaski Day Parade on the Parkway in Philadelphia. It could eeeeasily be a Christopher Guest film. A passel of thick-legged youngsters in their Catholic School Uniforms were described by the hosts as “awe-inspiring” as they went by the mostly vacant VIP reviewing stands.
Our Governor, Ed Rendel, who would show up at the opening of a can of peas, is there, of course. But it looks like that many folks with difficult to pronounce names in the Greater Delaware Valley have found other things to do today.
Alas.
And I’ve got other things to do today, too. Like chop up a cord of firewood. It’s eighty degrees out there, but my father is still itchin’ to start a fire. “Dad! I’m only human! I’m not a machine!”
Oh. My. God. One of the hosts, a local newscaster, just “came out” as not being Polish, but Latvian. Getting a chilly response to that.
Ahh, but let’s listen to the Marcella kochansska-semberich Chorus (all eight of them, median age 68) as they sing the Polish Partisans’ Hymn! ¡Con mucho gusto!
Anyway.
Had a great time at Datt and Male’s housewarming party last night. There place looks great. Male is a clown. Professionally, I mean. And before Datt moved here from Seattle to get the partners in domesticity thing going with him, the ground floor of his house was filled with stilts and rubber noses and rubber chickens and enormous shoes and such. (Going for comedic effect here. Male’s clowing is, I believe, way more sophisticated than that.) It was great! I last saw Datt and Male at Inferno, so it was like a booster shot.
Also ran into GI Joe and his muskelbear husband. Muskelbear husband and I excitedly and passionately recalled our activism against U.S. intervention in Central America during the 1980s. Muskelbear got to spend some time there, working in Nicaragua. I was way too much of a wuss for that. And I regret that. I did, however, get to meet President Daniel Ortega when he spoke at Riverside Church, and organized a pretty feisty demonstration outside the Nicaraguan Embassy when his successor, President Violetta Chamoro eliminated the HIV prevention education campaign the Sandinista government had set up.
*sigh*
Good times.
Then I went to the Bike Stop.
And for the first time in a long time, had a truly Off Night. What was up with that? Way kooky. There were four hot guys there last night. Men who held possibilities. Men I wanted to meet. And I got exactly nowhere with three of them. Nada. No hits. Not so much as a smile or glance in my direction.
On the verge of screaming out the lyrics of that great B-52s song, “Why won’t you dance with me? I ain’t no limburger!”, just when all hope was lost, Number Four sideled up next to me, smoking his cigar, and his arm hair brushed my arm hair.
We talked. He lives in Warrington, south of me. Didn’t get his number. But did let him know that the best place in the world to smoke cigars is on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown between the hours of 4 pm and 5:30 pm when I’m sure to be there. And, Doylestown’s own Classic Cigar Parlor just around the corner has a great selection, and they’re good people to do business with.
So maybe he’ll take the bait.
But of course, so much striking out made for a mopey drive home. Mostly along the lines of, “Dang! Why can’t I meet a man?”
And, of course, there are ample reasons for that. For one thing, I’m ridiculously picky.
Trimmed fingernails? Check.
Not a lawyer? Check.
Kinky? Check.
Ink? Check.
Facial hair? Check.
Chill ride? Check.
Nice muscular back? Check.
Good with conversation? Check.
Over 35? Check.
Cigar smoker? Check.
Outdoorsey? Check.
...ooooh, but what’s this? Likes science fiction. Well thanks very much for playing. And we have a lovely parting gift for you.
And of coourse, as I get older, I think I’m just getting more and more set in my ways.
Ah well.
Not sure where this renewed interest is coming from. Just when I had completely given up and settled into a comfy bachelorhood. There ought to be aspirin for that.
Or for you English speakers, “Happy Pulaski Day!”
I’m having a rip watching the Pulaski Day Parade on the Parkway in Philadelphia. It could eeeeasily be a Christopher Guest film. A passel of thick-legged youngsters in their Catholic School Uniforms were described by the hosts as “awe-inspiring” as they went by the mostly vacant VIP reviewing stands.
Our Governor, Ed Rendel, who would show up at the opening of a can of peas, is there, of course. But it looks like that many folks with difficult to pronounce names in the Greater Delaware Valley have found other things to do today.
Alas.
And I’ve got other things to do today, too. Like chop up a cord of firewood. It’s eighty degrees out there, but my father is still itchin’ to start a fire. “Dad! I’m only human! I’m not a machine!”
Oh. My. God. One of the hosts, a local newscaster, just “came out” as not being Polish, but Latvian. Getting a chilly response to that.
Ahh, but let’s listen to the Marcella kochansska-semberich Chorus (all eight of them, median age 68) as they sing the Polish Partisans’ Hymn! ¡Con mucho gusto!
Anyway.
Had a great time at Datt and Male’s housewarming party last night. There place looks great. Male is a clown. Professionally, I mean. And before Datt moved here from Seattle to get the partners in domesticity thing going with him, the ground floor of his house was filled with stilts and rubber noses and rubber chickens and enormous shoes and such. (Going for comedic effect here. Male’s clowing is, I believe, way more sophisticated than that.) It was great! I last saw Datt and Male at Inferno, so it was like a booster shot.
Also ran into GI Joe and his muskelbear husband. Muskelbear husband and I excitedly and passionately recalled our activism against U.S. intervention in Central America during the 1980s. Muskelbear got to spend some time there, working in Nicaragua. I was way too much of a wuss for that. And I regret that. I did, however, get to meet President Daniel Ortega when he spoke at Riverside Church, and organized a pretty feisty demonstration outside the Nicaraguan Embassy when his successor, President Violetta Chamoro eliminated the HIV prevention education campaign the Sandinista government had set up.
*sigh*
Good times.
Then I went to the Bike Stop.
And for the first time in a long time, had a truly Off Night. What was up with that? Way kooky. There were four hot guys there last night. Men who held possibilities. Men I wanted to meet. And I got exactly nowhere with three of them. Nada. No hits. Not so much as a smile or glance in my direction.
On the verge of screaming out the lyrics of that great B-52s song, “Why won’t you dance with me? I ain’t no limburger!”, just when all hope was lost, Number Four sideled up next to me, smoking his cigar, and his arm hair brushed my arm hair.
We talked. He lives in Warrington, south of me. Didn’t get his number. But did let him know that the best place in the world to smoke cigars is on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown between the hours of 4 pm and 5:30 pm when I’m sure to be there. And, Doylestown’s own Classic Cigar Parlor just around the corner has a great selection, and they’re good people to do business with.
So maybe he’ll take the bait.
But of course, so much striking out made for a mopey drive home. Mostly along the lines of, “Dang! Why can’t I meet a man?”
And, of course, there are ample reasons for that. For one thing, I’m ridiculously picky.
Trimmed fingernails? Check.
Not a lawyer? Check.
Kinky? Check.
Ink? Check.
Facial hair? Check.
Chill ride? Check.
Nice muscular back? Check.
Good with conversation? Check.
Over 35? Check.
Cigar smoker? Check.
Outdoorsey? Check.
...ooooh, but what’s this? Likes science fiction. Well thanks very much for playing. And we have a lovely parting gift for you.
And of coourse, as I get older, I think I’m just getting more and more set in my ways.
Ah well.
Not sure where this renewed interest is coming from. Just when I had completely given up and settled into a comfy bachelorhood. There ought to be aspirin for that.
Don’t Ask Me How I’m Doing
I’m crappy!.
The Yankees beat the Redsox 8 to 4. There I am recovering from that terrible blow.
So I head to Starbucks to drown my sorrows in caffeinated beverages with steamed milk. And I find that a terrible, horrible thing has happened...
Starbucks has taken away their porch furniture.
And it’s supposed to be 80 this week. Perfect latté and cigar weather.
So it’s all hopeless. I’d off myself, but next Memorial Day, it’ll be back. I think I can hang on till then.
Oh.
And I didn’t meet Him at the Raven this afternoon.
When He does show up, man is he gonna get it for making me wait.
I’m crappy!.
The Yankees beat the Redsox 8 to 4. There I am recovering from that terrible blow.
So I head to Starbucks to drown my sorrows in caffeinated beverages with steamed milk. And I find that a terrible, horrible thing has happened...
Starbucks has taken away their porch furniture.
And it’s supposed to be 80 this week. Perfect latté and cigar weather.
So it’s all hopeless. I’d off myself, but next Memorial Day, it’ll be back. I think I can hang on till then.
Oh.
And I didn’t meet Him at the Raven this afternoon.
When He does show up, man is he gonna get it for making me wait.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
The Autumn Leaves
Some scattered thoughts...
• Okay. Even I have to admit the weather has been gorgeous here lately. Even though it's not hazy, hot, and humid. And even though several times I've been cold. Beautiful, clear crisp autumn days. Perfect for... --what else?-- sitting out on the porch of Starbucks enjoying a latté and a cigar.
•I didn't think it would ever happen, but it's happened. I figured out a place to wear my Utilikilt. Careful readers may remember that when I reluctantly plopped down my plastic to purchase "the kilt that made Seattle famous," I was filled with buyer's remorse even before the charge was approved. "Where in the name of all that's good and holy am I going to wear this?" I wondered. And so, lo these many years, my Utilikilt has hung in my closet.
But next friday, Doylestown will be celebrating their second First Friday. Bunches of businesses, restaurants, bars, the Classic Cigar Parlor, and Starbucks (my mainstays) stay open late, put merch out on the sidewalk, and the streets are filled with folks. Lots of live music all around town. A great time. Actually, a really great time. A joyful carnival atmosphere pervaded everywhere. And one of my favorite Starbucks kids spent the night in a chicken outfit. (How cool is that??? Very!) So to join in on the fun, I'm going to wear something fun and special. Like my Utilikilt. I think the kids will like it. And I think it strikes the right note.
•Several times over the past couple of weeks, I've had this vague, wistful feeling steel upon me: I wish my sister was still alive. Especially now, autumn, Hallowe'en and all, she really loved this time of year. And she'd be so much fun to hang out with. But, of course, she's not.
•I am still feeling all bliss-y and float-y from Inferno! Still! Here's the best I can do to describe it: I feel as though I've been emptied out, as though someone (that would be Roadkill) pulled the plug and let a bunch of stagnant water out of the bathtub that is me. But, at the same time, I feel full. Complete. Sated. Content. Wanting nothing. Hungry Ghosts at bay.
•Tonight, I'm heading down to Philadelphia to attend a party given by my buddies, Datt and Male. Really looking forward to it. I'm making my stepmother's Baked Pineapple. The wheelbarrow full of butter and the five pounds of sugar are all ready to get mixed up and baked into a nice, sweet, starchy pineapple goodness. I swear, it makes grown men cry. It sure got raves at the GMSMA holiday social a few years ago.
And, at the back of my mind, I'm wondering if there will be a nice eligible bachelor there. Someone with that winning Outlaw Biker look. Someone omnivorous. Someone happy. Someone who smokes cigars. Someone with an unspoilt wilderness of hair on his face. Such men are rare as unspoilt wildernesses in these parts, but still, maybe...
•I'm not drinking. I mean, I'm not Not Drinking. I'm just not drinking. I noticed that when I have even a beer, I just feel crappy the next day. And this from the guy who awed the upperclassmen as a freshman at college with my ability to put it away. They all were like, "Yeah, I wanna go shot for shot with him." Ahh, sing Ho for misspent youth!
•I thought up this ad campaign for the local Chamber of Commerce: "What's So Great About Bucks County?" Of course, I'm not going to approach the local Chamber of Commerce with this idea, because I'd be gleeful if they instituted a policy of shooting tourists on sight and did everything in their power to disuade folks from moving in and building McMansions. But, one answer to that rhetorical question would absolutely be "Hallowe'en!" Hallowe'en is HUGE here. I mean, already several lawns are littered with spooooky paraphrenalia of the season. And that's just going to build and build. The low-hanging-fruit of conversation starters at Starbucks is, "So, what are you going to be this year?" I, of course, have no answer to that, but I like the answers I get. So far, "A Family" is the best answer I heard, in which the other family members will be made from foam rubber soft sculpture.
Anyway. Time for me to get the Baked Pineapple in the oven.
Some scattered thoughts...
• Okay. Even I have to admit the weather has been gorgeous here lately. Even though it's not hazy, hot, and humid. And even though several times I've been cold. Beautiful, clear crisp autumn days. Perfect for... --what else?-- sitting out on the porch of Starbucks enjoying a latté and a cigar.
•I didn't think it would ever happen, but it's happened. I figured out a place to wear my Utilikilt. Careful readers may remember that when I reluctantly plopped down my plastic to purchase "the kilt that made Seattle famous," I was filled with buyer's remorse even before the charge was approved. "Where in the name of all that's good and holy am I going to wear this?" I wondered. And so, lo these many years, my Utilikilt has hung in my closet.
But next friday, Doylestown will be celebrating their second First Friday. Bunches of businesses, restaurants, bars, the Classic Cigar Parlor, and Starbucks (my mainstays) stay open late, put merch out on the sidewalk, and the streets are filled with folks. Lots of live music all around town. A great time. Actually, a really great time. A joyful carnival atmosphere pervaded everywhere. And one of my favorite Starbucks kids spent the night in a chicken outfit. (How cool is that??? Very!) So to join in on the fun, I'm going to wear something fun and special. Like my Utilikilt. I think the kids will like it. And I think it strikes the right note.
•Several times over the past couple of weeks, I've had this vague, wistful feeling steel upon me: I wish my sister was still alive. Especially now, autumn, Hallowe'en and all, she really loved this time of year. And she'd be so much fun to hang out with. But, of course, she's not.
•I am still feeling all bliss-y and float-y from Inferno! Still! Here's the best I can do to describe it: I feel as though I've been emptied out, as though someone (that would be Roadkill) pulled the plug and let a bunch of stagnant water out of the bathtub that is me. But, at the same time, I feel full. Complete. Sated. Content. Wanting nothing. Hungry Ghosts at bay.
•Tonight, I'm heading down to Philadelphia to attend a party given by my buddies, Datt and Male. Really looking forward to it. I'm making my stepmother's Baked Pineapple. The wheelbarrow full of butter and the five pounds of sugar are all ready to get mixed up and baked into a nice, sweet, starchy pineapple goodness. I swear, it makes grown men cry. It sure got raves at the GMSMA holiday social a few years ago.
And, at the back of my mind, I'm wondering if there will be a nice eligible bachelor there. Someone with that winning Outlaw Biker look. Someone omnivorous. Someone happy. Someone who smokes cigars. Someone with an unspoilt wilderness of hair on his face. Such men are rare as unspoilt wildernesses in these parts, but still, maybe...
•I'm not drinking. I mean, I'm not Not Drinking. I'm just not drinking. I noticed that when I have even a beer, I just feel crappy the next day. And this from the guy who awed the upperclassmen as a freshman at college with my ability to put it away. They all were like, "Yeah, I wanna go shot for shot with him." Ahh, sing Ho for misspent youth!
•I thought up this ad campaign for the local Chamber of Commerce: "What's So Great About Bucks County?" Of course, I'm not going to approach the local Chamber of Commerce with this idea, because I'd be gleeful if they instituted a policy of shooting tourists on sight and did everything in their power to disuade folks from moving in and building McMansions. But, one answer to that rhetorical question would absolutely be "Hallowe'en!" Hallowe'en is HUGE here. I mean, already several lawns are littered with spooooky paraphrenalia of the season. And that's just going to build and build. The low-hanging-fruit of conversation starters at Starbucks is, "So, what are you going to be this year?" I, of course, have no answer to that, but I like the answers I get. So far, "A Family" is the best answer I heard, in which the other family members will be made from foam rubber soft sculpture.
Anyway. Time for me to get the Baked Pineapple in the oven.
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