Der Schwartzfreitag

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

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

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

Seriously?

Ho(t)me(n) Depot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is fortune perhaps smiling on me once again?

Here's an interesting development.

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

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

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

Oh. And he's hot as hell.

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

Mastery.

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

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

*sigh*

Backrubs on demand... Without reciprocation.

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

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

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

But there's joy in the hunt, too.

My Favorite Holiday

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

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

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

Hope you and yours have a good one.

City Of The Damned Insufferable

Oh interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happened.

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

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

And I got it.

I totally got it.

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

How cool is that?

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

But wait.

What about Insufferables? Where will they go?

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

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

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

Could it be?

Could my life really be that charmed?

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

That could work well.

My Ways

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

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

Isn't that great?

It's from Ecclesiastes, I believe.

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

A gift.

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

Huh.

But anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

I could never do all that now.

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

Or would it?

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

Ummmm... Yeah?

So is it true?

Am I too set in My Ways?

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

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

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

Ah well.

Hope still springs eternal.

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

It might happen!

The Cold That Kills

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

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

Let me explain.

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

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

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

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

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

And I had a fever the day before.

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

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

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

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

I Went And Did It Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In The Spirit

'Tis the Season! So Ho Ho Ho!

Shiny Thumb Incident

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So. Going To MAL?

I'd like to go, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks!

Faithful Companion Under The Knife?

My father is prone to obsessions.

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

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

(I go check and find the window closed.)

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

Get the picture?

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

My father has a new obsession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just what was he proposing?

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

I think the blood drained from my face.

"Cut it off?"

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

Okay.

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

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

On. My. Dog.

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

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

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

What am I in for?

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

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

Oh man.

Why My Coming To Wear The Orange Apron Was Not A Matter Of Chance But Of Destiny, Part CCXLII

So the other day at work, I noticed that the background music that they play... well... there is significant overlap between those cuts and the Most Frequently Played tracks on my iPod.

Seriously!

Not in every case. Ho(t)me(n) Depot doesn't seem to favor the Seventies the way I do, and that insipid song "Closing Time" makes me nuts, but other than that, it's down right spooky.

I don't quite know what to make of that.

Although, as if in confirmation of that, today I received Part One of my 90-Day Review. I rated a V. At Ho(t)me(n) Depot, V stands for "Achiever." On the rating system, there's N, M, V, and O. Probably that originally stood for Needs Improvement, Meets Expectations, Very Good, and Outstanding, but the Powers That Be seem to have felt that Performer, Achiever, and Leader in Excellence better captured the flavor of what they wanted. I forget what the new term for Needs Improvement is. Maybe something like "Stinko" or something.

But at any rate, I'm an Achiever. Eighty percent of Ho(t)me(n) Depot employees get a Performer. Some get Stinko. Apparently you have to drag our CEO out of a burning building to get a Leader in Excellence, and a chosen few get a to be Achievers. And I'm one of them.

My Department Head told me that he was grooming me as his replacement when he moves on to bigger and better things. And that in his estimation, if you want to make Assistant Store Manager (at which point the Ho(t)me(n) Depot world is your oyster), your best to head up one of the Special Services departments, such as my own Kitchens And Baths.

And this was only a Get By job. A part time gig until I found something more appropriate.

I'm almost ashamed about how much I like working at Ho(t)me(n) Depot. And it's not just that half of our customers are right out of a Hot Desert Knights video. The work suits me. I like the people I work with. Every day brings some new challenge that I tackle with pluck and aplomb, so as I'm walking out (always through Building Materials, where the hottest men are usually to be found), I've got a smile on my face.

And... like... they have three Ho(t)me(n) Depots in the Coachella Valley in Southern California.

Okay. So it's not being a Master of the Universe. Or as someone I know said, I "could do better." But what's wrong with having a job I like that pays a salary I can live on?

Hey! What's that song they're playing? I love that song!

Night Of Chains

The mike was out. So there would be no announcement.

I was kind of happy about that. Rick had asked me, "So how do you want to be introduced?" and I was stumped for an answer.

And so Rick cleared the dancefloor, and when there was sufficient space, I went to work. I'd reach into my big ol' plastic bucket, and haul out a length of heavy guage chain. I had brought my weight bench, a cheapo affair, but serviceable. Male, of Datt and Male fame, was my bottom, and right on cue he appeared, wearing only a leather jock and boots. I put wrist restraints on him and positioned him on the weight bench, then I got to work.

The night before, I saw the position I wanted Male to assume in a dream. (Good dreams lately!). I wanted him on his back on the weight bench, with his butt hanging over the end, his legs in the air with chain wrapping his wrists and ankles together.

Verrrrry vulnerable.

And so I went to work, laying on the chain. All of it. Secured by padlocks.

I was totally in the zone, heedless of the crowd and music. But I did take note of the fact that Male looked really really really hot. He was just swaddled in gleaming steel. Male, who is very good at this, seemed to be deep in bottom space, just drinking in the experience, letting it was over him, a beatific smile on his handsome face.

When all the chains were in place, with something of a flourish, I drew my Bowie knife from my tool belt, hoping that the steel blade would catch the light. I played the knife over Male's helpless body, letting him feel the cool steel blade, laying the flat of the knife against his ass, his pecs, and his throat. And pressing the point into the meaty parts of Male. And there are plenty of meaty parts of Male.

Finally, I unlocked and collected all the padlocks, leaving the chain in place. Then I signaled that the time had come for my favorite part: Male struggling mightily against the chains. And struggle he did. When he finally freed himself, there was a round of applause as I held him and kissed him.

And it was done!

When we came off the dancefloor, Rick the impressario greeted us, full of praise. Coming out of the dreamlike state of Topspace, I got some objectivity on what I had just brought to be. And damn, it must have been pretty hot.

When I got home from work, I decided some serious napping was in order. I had gotten up at 4:30 a.m. that morning, and having just turned 43, I thought that my days of being up for twenty-four hours straight were behind me. I awoke refreshed a few hours later and made a nice beef stew for my father and I to have for dinner. While the stew was simmering, I managed to get the jeep loaded with the chain and the weight bench and take a nice long hot shower.

Then I leathered up.

When was the last time I had an excuse to do that?

It felt novel.

The drive down to Pistoldelphia went pretty easily with not much traffic. I unloaded my gear at the club then headed off to find a parking space. And I ended up finding a space on South Street, a block away from my apartment there many many years ago, about the time of the Great Vowel Shift. Things were getting going later than usual at Club XO, due in part to the Great Autumnal Setting Back Of The Clocks, which meant that the bars would be open for one hour longer tonight. So the crowd at the club was light early on. Datt and Male were waiting for me, so we relaxed for a bit.

And then we started dancing. When we hit the floor, it was this rappy new stuff I've never heard. But then--what the hell!--I knew this song! It was from the Eighties!

In fact, I had probably danced to this song back in the Eighties when I lived in Pistoldelphia. Y'know, I probably didn't get much involved in leather when I lived in Pistoldelphia way back then because I loved to dance. Loved loved loved to dance. And back then, you either went to the Bike Stop (leatherbar, no dancing), or to Kurt's (dancing, no leather). I went to both, but if'n I had to make a choice, I'd be dancing. So it was damn hot to be out there dancing in my leathers in Pistoldelphia.

And the DJ kept the oldies coming. And I started to suspect what was going down. Y'see, Datt and Male and I were about a generation older than everybody else in the place. So they were kinda doing it for us. That was a sweet gesture! But then I remembered how when I was the age of the kids at Club XO, I'd occasionally see one or two of these queens from the Seventies out there with a tambourine going crazy when they played Diana Ross and how I'd just wince and think "oh my god, I hope that when I get to be... And then they played Madonna's Get Into The Grove and I just went apeshit! I love Madonna! And there I was, transported. Not back in time, but out of time. Only me and the music and the lights and dancing.

After I did the chain bondage demo, I allowed myself a celebratory beer and then Rick the impressario helped me get my gear back to my jeep, then I headed over to the Bike Stop. And let's just say I was in and out of there in about fifteen minutes.

I walked back to my car through the still city. I remember that about Pistoldelphia. So often, I would just have the feeling of having the entire place to myself. You can walk a good distance, late at night anyway, without running into anyone. You can't get that in NYC. Once you find some quiet out-of-the-way place in Prospect Park or Central Park, you've got about ten minutes tops to yourself.

And then I walked right by the iron burglar bars of my old apartment at 1533 South Street, pausing to look up at the second floor windows. Who lives there now? Is the teetering deck still off the back, outside of the sliding glass doors? Can you still see the towers of Liberty Place, or has new construction changed the skyline? Are the same shit brown wall-to-wall carpets covering the place? And I passed Ron's apartment, across the street.

Ron was a bartender at the Westbury. I thought Ron was unbelievably hot. And such a nice guy, with his furry chest and the blue-black hair in his beard and his ready smile. I totally had the hots for Ron, but thought that no way would a hot man like that go for a skinny kid like me. He would decline my proferring of money for my beer, he drove me home a couple of times and we'd sit in his car parked on South Street talking. And he moved into an apartment across the street from me.

Years later, after I had moved to NYC, I learned that Ron thought I was such a great guy, and he would bore his friends with his pining after me. But he assumed that a strapping young buck like me would hardly be interested in a fat old guy like him.

What fools these mortals be, huh?

So much went down in those two years I lived in that city, all those years ago, from July 1st of 1988 to June 30, 1990. And leaving, I sort of hoped that one day I'd come back and be a star.

And last night, when everything just came together so well, when I left the crowd at Club XO awed and amazed, and I have to admit I was pretty awed and amazed myself (I honestly didn't know I had that in me), in a way I did.

Ask Mr. Plumber!

Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, this smokin' hot boy came in with his mother. She needed a new toilet, and he was going to install it for her. She agonized over her choice of a new toilet, checking out everything we had in stock, looking through the catalog at all the different Kohler styles, debating whether to go with plain white or if Kohler's Sandstone color (which is one of my favorites) would work better with her tile.

I spent lots of time with her, because I couldn't take my eyes off her son. When I was explaining stuff to him out of the catalog, I got in real close, so close I could feel his body heat.

He was beautiful. Shaved head, ballcap, goatee, black tshirt from Daytona Bike Week over a white thermal, big blue eyes, bee stung lips.

Finally, I couldn't hold back any longer.

It turned out he was going to be installing the new toilet, although he had never done this before. I was talking him through the process, which is pretty simple. You put the wax ring around the falange at the mouth of the sewer pipe, set the new toilet on top, get it so it's steady, and bolt it down. He had removed the old toilet, which cracked, and he referred to the sewer pipe as "the hole." As in, "So I just put the the wax ring over the hole?"

Now, there's an old plumbers' trick if you have water leaking into the bowl from the tank: you take some vaseline and put it around the flapper to make for a good tight seal.

So I couldn't resist...

"Now, for a really good seal, before you put the wax ring on, take a big glob of vaseline and smear it around the hole. You'll want to grease up your hole really good. Then put the wax ring in place and set the new toilet and bolt it in."

"Grease up your hole really good."

I just wanted to say those words to that hot boy.

And Ho(t)me(n) Depot gave me an opportunity.

I love my job.

A New Way Of Thinking About SM

This post could well be the point of SingleTails. SingleTails in a nutshell. As this weblog has evolved since its inception, it became in many ways an extended meditation on what SM means. I now think I have an answer.

It came to me in a dream.

Really!

I woke up just now at 11:50 p.m. at night. Really inconveniently. I have to be at work at 6 a.m. tomorrow, so my alarm will go off at 4:40 a.m. I should be getting a good nights' sleep, because I have a BIG day tomorrow, even after I work a full day at Ho(t)me(n) Depot.

But whatever.

The Muse paid a visit.

(Thanks, Muse. Appreciate that. Great timing. Really.)

As usual, when I have problems sleeping, I start saying the Rosary to myself. The Rosary, an ancient, ancient form of meditative, repetitive prayers, can be a great way to get to sleep, and you don't have those problems with getting up in the middle of the night, driving out to Wawa, and waking up after your car collided with a police cruiser.

The Rosary starts off with reciting the Creed. "I believein one God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth.."

And that's what I did, running through it until I got to the part that goes, "And I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life, who proceedeth from the Father and the Son..." And that's when I stopped cold, knocked off my horse like St. Paul with an Understanding: SM is the Holy Ghost.

Now, the Doctrine of the Trinity is a lot to swallow. Even for some lifelong committed christians. The vast majority of the world just doesn't get it. Jews and moslems think that we're all covert polytheists, worshipping three gods rather than one God.

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

What's that all about?

St. Thomas Aquinas was probably the only human being who ever lived who could answer that question, but I'll take a stab at it.

Okay. You've got God the Father. The Creator. He who hung the stars, whose eye is on the sparrow. Who calls all things into existence. Omnipotent, all-powerful, all knowing. The Almighty. Yahweh. The Great I Am.

And then you have God the Son. Jesus called The Christ.

Now, most of us christians fall into the trap of thinking about Jesus as a really really really really Good Guy. And he was! He was the best! Without sin! No sin! Who had a handle on so many things! Ain't nobody can argue really with much of what he said, as recorded in the gospels. Love him!

But the thing is, Jesus is also God. "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us." This is the doctrine of the incarnation, that God, the Creator, the Almight, who hung the stars and watches the sparrow and who keeps all reality from descending into chaos or the void or whatever, became a man. A living, breathing, sweating, crying, laughing, shitting, sleeping, waking, tired, hungry, loving, hating, fearing, despairing, rejoicing, man.

Let that sink in.

Uh huh... uh huh...

Gettin' it?

How cool is that?

It's the incarnation that gives all the juice to christianity.

God, that God, suffered and died on the cross at Calvary for love of us. For you and me.

(Note: I am pointedly not trying to win you all over to being christians here. It's just that this is all stuff I've been hearing and learning and trying to understand and sometimes even finding myself able to believe since I was a little kid. It's a big part of how I understand myself, the world, and my place in the world. And this is all about SM, I swear. It's all a big analogy, and I have to explain what I'm analogizing to. If'n I were buddhist or jewish or sikh and I came to a new understanding of SM through those paths, I'd be explaining some of the basics of those beliefs to you hear.

Anyway.

Just wanted to be clear.)

Okay. So you've got God the Father, God the Son, and that brings us to God the Holy Ghost.

Tricky, tricky, tricky.

When I was little, every time there was mention of the "Holy Ghost," I would picture the sort of white, shroudy figure with the dark grey splotches for eyes and mouth from the Scooby-Doo episode. The Holy Ghost is not easy to get.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, he's referred to as "the Spirit of God." He makes an appearance twice in the New Testament, as the dove that descends from Heaven when John baptizes Jesus, and as a roaring wind when the Twelve Apostles gather in the upper room after Jesus' crucifixion and death.

I know, right? Like, say what? What goes on here?

So Thomas Aquinas thought the dove thing was the Big Clue, the key to unlocking the mystery.

Y'see, in becoming a man, Jesus--and remember he's God--does the ultimate in submission to God the Father. He lowers himself--aka submits--and becomes a man so he can die on the cross. And he does this because of his love for God, and because of God's love for all of us. And God, beholding Jesus' pure and perfect act of submission and sacrifice, is moved to greater love and adoration of Jesus. So there's this whole cyclical thing that gets started: Jesus loves the Father and feels the Father's love, so submits to him; God, really impressed by this act of submission, loves Jesus more (love you back!), and this More Love deepens Jesus' love and therefore makes his submission more perfect and complete; and this makes the Father love Jesus even more, and...

Well, you understand? Maybe just a little?

(And maybe with that talk about submission, you catch a glimpse of where this is going, huh?)

Okay.

As christians, we are called on to be Christ-like. And in part this means to be really really really Good, but it also means that we should submit ourselves to the Father, even as Jesus did. So we come to participate in that whole Love you!--Love you back!--That makes me love you more!--Well that makes me love you more! thing that Jesus and the Father have going on.

And that participation, which we feel inside us--and it's really really cool when you're really feeling it--is what the Holy Ghost is. It's that being awed by Jesus' loving act of submission, and it's loving him more because of it, and it's being able to submit yourself to God the Father because you love God That Much.

The title given to the Holy Ghost is "the paraclete," which is an aramaic greek word meaning, "the one called upon for help." And the way that works is that when you're in pain, or lonely, or in need, or despairing, or just Pissed Off At The Whole Damned World (the way you sometimes get), it's the Holy Ghost that comes to help you out by bringing to you some small measure of awareness of your participating in the whole Love you!--Love you back! thing that the Father and the Son have going on.

Okay.

With me so far?

Maybe just a little big?

Because here's the point of this whole thing: the Father is the Top, the Son is the bottom, and SM is the Holy Ghost.

The Top is the Power. The Top is the one who Makes It Happen. The Top is Creator and Destroyer. The bottom, out of love for the Top, submits himself to the Top. The Top, in response, adores the bottom. And is filled with greater love for the bottom. And the bottom feels this greater love, and is thereby moved to greater submission. Which makes the Top love the bottom more. And so it grows and grows and grows.

Joseph Bean and Guy Baldwin and Dossie Eastman and so many greater SM minds than I have talked about this cyclical building within the scene, and I think this is the best way for me to understand that.

Now here's the really cool part.

Imagine that off in the platonic Realm of the Ideal [what the hell? I thought we were in christian theology here? Now we're going all platonic?] that the Great Top and the Great bottom are off doing the Great Scene. Always. They're always doing it. And it's getting better and better and better all the time because of that Love You!--Love You Back!--Then I Love You More!--Then I Love You More! thing. And when you or I do a scene, we make all that power and submission and love manifest in our own lives.

And that's SM! SM is the Holy Ghost!

Because the really cool thing is that we don't need to be doing a scene all the time to feel that SM wonderfulness!!! We can call on that SM energy when we need it, when you just don't get what's going on with your life, when you feel yourself losing your sense of who you are, when you're lost and afraid, when you're lonely and wondering why the hell it is that you can't meet anybody who's right, when you feel incapable, when you're just not feeling it... You can close your eyes, still your mind, and feel somehow that Great Scene In The Sky between the Great Top and the Great bottom.

That's SM. With us always. Not just in the dungeon.

Okay.

Back to bed.

And please, God, let me get some sleep and wake up feeling refreshed and envigorated in THREE HOURS AND TWENTY MINUTES when I have to go to work. Please?

You all say a prayer for me on that, 'kay?

Just Briefly...

('Cause I gotta be at work at 6 am tomorrow morning.)

So the other day at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I was helping my co-worker Debbie move a dryer next door in Appliances.

We got the dryer onto a dolly and then used these wide black nylon straps to secure the dryer to the dolly. I was tightening the straps and I commented off-handedly (or as off-handedly as I could), I have a set of these in my bedroom. It never occurred to me that they could be used for moving a dryer, but I guess they work pretty well for this, too."

Debbie totally got my meaning.

Blow Out The Candles

So my birthday. Monday, October 29th, 2007.

I had been taking a just-another-day-on-the-calendar approach, which I think is fitting to anyone my side of 21. And it was a work day. I was at Ho(t)me(n) Depot from two to eleven p.m.

Round about 7:45, who should turn up in the faucet aisle but the Baron! It was very much a When Worlds Collide moment. In a big way. I was flying solo in Kitchens & Baths, and I had tons of customers, so at best I could squeeze the Baron in between helping people pick out faucets and toilets and such.

It had been the Baron's belief that I was getting off work at eight, and then we would head to the Ol' Homestead to celebrate. Although the Baron doesn't deal well with having his plans thwarted, he did in this case, and said that he would grab something to eat, go stop in a visit with my father, take Faithful Companion for a walk, and be waiting for me at the Ol' Homestead when I got off at eleven.

So cool.

When I arrived home, the back porch light was on.

That was so great.

I hate coming home to a dark house. I'm all about leaving a light on. But inside, all was darkness. Except for the pinpoints of light on the candles atop a birthday cake.

Sure enough, the Baron had brought with him a birthday cake and a bottle of wine. (Port, to be exact. Not my preference--but clearly the Baron's--but deeply appreciated nonetheless.)

Just about overwhelmed, the Baron invited me to blow out the candles.

And that would mean making a wish.

Okay.

A wish.

That's a tough one for someone who has devoted a lot of effort not to wish, trying to stay in the present moment, or at least in the neighborhood of This Week.

To give me time to think, I got a kiss (yes on the lips) from Faithful Companion.

I wished for Freedom From Financial Insecurity.

I decided to be unspecific because I didn't want to wish for $8,000 or something. Just the "Freedom From..."

I got all the candles in one shot.

The Baron applauded, gave me a kiss and a hug, and together we sat down to enjoy birthday cake and a couple of glasses of wine.

About 12:30, I was fading fast, and I had to be up for work tomorrow. I got the Baron on the road after thanking him for his kindness and his friendship, gave Faithful Companion his last walk of the night, brushed my teeth, and headed off to bed.

It was just after One when I got into bed, and this made me nervous, since it meant that I'd be getting less than the seven hours I'd need before I had to be up for work. I said a silent prayer that I wouldn't oversleep and got in bed and--after jerking off as is my habit--went to sleep.

I awoke refreshed, invigorated, about an hour before my alarm was going to go off, and my mind almost racing with insight and clarity.

I was thinking about Conviction.

When I was a younger man, I considered conviction to be the prime virtue. Life was to be lived with Conviction.

Now at the time, I think my understanding of this was, "I resolve to live my life as a Leatherman and a Shaman-ish Top, and then I'll be happy all the time." And I signed on to the laundry list of what you might call "leather values": honesty, loyalty, the quest for excellence in ourselves and others, openness, brotherhood.

Nowadays, I have come to feel that I've ridden that horse about as far as she will take me, and I'm feeling at sea.

The lesson: Conviction, yes. But be thoughtful about your convictions. They don't come pre-arranged. You have to work them out on your own.

It's an absurd universe, you see. And ultimately, nothing makes a damn bit of difference. Your (my) convictions are random, and, ultimately, pretty meaningless.

So what are my convictions?

I can say this: kindness, integrity, and hard work.

Be kind. To everyone I meet. Even to people who are unkind to me. Especially to people who are unkind to me. And Integrity. Acknowledge and accept all the diverse aspects of myself. Don't shut off parts of my life and myself. In structural engineering, strength is all about integrity, about how all the parts work together. And Hard Work.

Yeah.

At Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I'm something of a star. And at every Hard Labor Ready gig I've been on, I get rave reviews. Because I bust my ass. Always. I'm diligent, I apply myself, I think through things, when I screw up I take responsibility and work to make things better. It matters a lot to me that I do a good job.

As a result, I love working, and I get so much out of it. At the end of the day, when I punch out at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I almost don't want to leave. I'm totally juiced from the day. Looking forward to going back tomorrow.

And then, lying in bed, thinking about all this, my birthday wish was granted.

Suddenly, I felt like an adult.

Y'see, when I moved to NYC all those many years ago, I got a job that paid $25,000 a year. My next job paid me $35,000. The job after that paid $45,000. Then $55,000, then, finally, $65,000. And I believed that trend would continue. I'd keep climbing on up the ladder.

And so, if I wanted it, I got it. Boots, trips, a great custom leather flight suit made for me by David Samuel Menkes. I decided I liked Fort Lauderdale so I was down there one weekend a month. On one trip, I decided to look at condos. I found one I liked, and by the time I flew home, I had gotten a mortgage and bought it. After all, why not? The money would keep coming in, more and more and more of it.

Well no.

Over the past four years, I've still been operating under this ill-conceived world view. Okay, so for now I'm working in a woodshop making ten bucks an hour. That's just temporary. C'mon... Don't you know who I am? Let me show you my 2002 tax returns!

Happily, my values have changed.

My needs are few, and my wants are under control. Henceforth, I pay cash. After all, under brutal American capitalism that we've all become accustomed to, nothing is really certain beyond your next paycheck, is it?

I work hard, and every two weeks they pay me, and I pay my bills.

It's gonna take some time for me to clear the decks of the vestiges of living the high life, but I'll get it done.

Because I'm a good worker, I'll always have a job, so really, there's nothing to worry about.

And so, in a record seven hours, my birthday wish was granted.

43rd

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Retail Tribalism

I hate Lowe's.

I mean, I really really really hate Lowe's.

When one of my customers says something like, "Well maybe I'll try over at Lowe's..." my blood just boils.

Now, a scant two months ago, I had barely considered Lowe's. I had never been in a Lowe's (and that's never going to happen now). But until I started working at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, Lowe's wasn't even on my radar.

Although I tend to be all about brand loyalty, I don't know that I particularly considered myself to be a Ho(t)me(n) Depot shopper. True, the path between the two places I lived in Brooklyn and the Ho(t)me(n) Depot on 3rd Avenue by the on-ramp to 278 was well worn, and one of the first places I discovered upon moving to Jersey City was where the Ho(t)me(n) Depot was located, this was more a matter of knowing what Ho(t)me(n) Depot was and what they sold there than any sense of loyalty.

If there had been a Lowe's that was closer or had easier parking, I probably would have gone there.

Well those days are gone.

Maybe it was inculcated while watching those memorable indoctrination orientation videos. (If you'll remember, at one point I was moved to tears.) One method of testing that they did was based on having CGI customers come up and ask you questions about buying air filters or sump pumps or such. If you made a correct recommendation, you were rewarded with the comforting image of the customer pulling up to Ho(t)me(n) Depot. But if you made a bad recommendation, you'd see a car pulling up outside of "Slowe's" across the street.

That may have planted the seed, but it's become so much more than that.

I hate Lowe's.

First there was Ho(t)me(n) Depot. The founders had a vision: build a big warehouse and sell everything anybody could want for home improvement out of that warehouse. Selling out of a warehouse meant you didn't have to spend a lot of money on maintaining a separate warehouse, you could have all your inventory right there, ready to be picked up and carted home. Then along came Lowe's. They decided to also sell home improvement stuff (no points for Original Ideas, obviously), but instead of looking like a warehouse, they wanted to make it prettier. I guess the thinking there was that average folks might be intimidated walking into a place that looks like a lumberyard. And I guess there's some merit to that. But Ho(t)me(n) Depot bridges that divide by hiring people knowledgeable about the stuff we sell. If you have a plumbing problem or want to install canister lights in your living room, then head to your local Ho(t)me(n) Depot and there will be someone there who will not just sell you every blessed thing you need to fix the problem (at rock bottom prices), but they'll talk you through it step-by-step so you can go home and take care of it yourself. Trust!

So now, after working there, I love Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Being good at my job boils down to one thing: knowledge of how to do stuff. All day long, folks come to me with problems, and I listen, offer suggestions, and do my best to get them to a point where they feel confident that they have everything they need to fix it themselves. (Today, for example, a guy asked me if we sold backsplash type things for over the stove. I said, "I'll show you what we have here in KItchens & Baths, then I'll tell you why you shouldn't buy it, and then I'll offer a suggestion. I showed him this cheapo plastic crap that we sell that looks like pressed tin that graced the ceilings of so many of my NYC apartments. But, I explained, it's plastic. So it has no heat resistance. So it's not what you want for over a stove. Then I took him over to the aisle where we have the wall tile. I explained that he could pick out a selection of decorative tile to fit behind his stovetop, come up with a unique arrangement, set it, grout it, and it would look pretty damn good. His face lit up while I talked. "Is that hard to do?" he asked. I talked him through it, step by step, then turned him over to an associate in Floors & Walls so he could pick out his tile and get everything he needed for the project.)

You can do it. We can help.

So yeah. I love Ho(t)me(n) Depot.

And I really hate Lowe's.

I remember reading in one of those Brain Science articles I'm so fond of about how there's a part of the brain that has evolved to help us operate in a tribal fashion. It came out of hooking up the crania of two people to EKGs and having them talk about politics. Some people in the group identified themselves as Democrats, some as Republicans, and some had no particular political affiliation that they could name. When two independents were discussing immigration or foreign policy or whatever, the parts of their brains associated with logical thinking and decision making and verbal skills lit up. More or less the same deal when a Democrat or a Republican was talking to an independent.

But, when a Democrat was talking to a Republican, and they knew that about each other, those parts of the brain were dimmed in comparison to the part that identifies friends and enemies, kin and strangers. And the discussions often became heated. When two Democrats or two Republicans were talking, even though they disagreed, there was no aggression.

The researchers concluded that back in the days when we were all roaming the savanahs, it was vitally important that we be able to recognize members of our tribe and be cooperative and such, but also to recognize members of other tribes with whom we were competing for food and water and mates and respond with aggression.

In other words, there's a neurological basis for tribalism.

And that's gotta be what's at work here.

For one thing, I sense similar feelings in my fellow employees. I think if I were to suggest that we run across the street some night and let the air out of the tires of the cars in the Lowe's parking lot--and how skeevy is it that Lowe's always open up basically across the street from a Ho(t)me(n) Depot? Low indeed--I bet I'd get some takers.

Seeking further confirmation, I decided to ask my friend UnFortunate, who works at Barnes & Noble, if he had any feelings about Borders. On my coffee break one day, I sent him a text message to inquire.

Almost immediately came the reply: I loathe Borders.

When Suddenly...

My father screamed!

I screamed!

Nothing supernatural. Just that three run home run at the bottom of the 7th Inning!

The Rockies are still in it!

(Now for the bad news: this game will go on all night and I've got to get to bed.)

(Hate that.)

Trick Or Treat

Driving home from Ho(t)me(n) Depot tonight, I came upon the sight of the full moon, just risen (or maybe setting), in the tops of the trees, newly bare of leaves after the wind and rain we've just had. It was a brilliant orange in the dark sky.

And of course I said out loud to no one, "It's the Great Pumkin, Charlie Brown!"

Ah, Hallowe'en.

For a significant part of my life, I would readily list Hallowe'en as my favorite holiday, bar none.

And I'm not thinking here of the gay Hallowe'en. That never moved me much. Sure, you can wrap it all up in stuff about sexual personae and masking and the illusion of surface and such, but pretty much it's an excuse for people who want to do drag but are afraid to--and probably shouldn't--to do drag. (Not that I have been totally immune to that: somewhere I have a picture of my Hallowe'en costume from my freshman year of college when I got dressed up as a vampire slut or something. Not especially successful.)

I'm thinking of the Hallowe'en from my youth.

That Hallowe'en.

Combining chocolate, scary movies on television (especially black and white scary movies, and a great costume.

And by great costume, I mean vampires, werewolves and ghosts and such. In 7th Grade, wearing my Hunchback Grave Robber Carrying A Coffin costume, I won the prize for "Scariest." And damn, you should have seen me the year I was a satyr, covering my upper body in brown body paint and waring these pants made from brown "fun fur" as haunches.

And from a verrrry early age, I put myself in charge of decorating for Hallowe'en, which was usually a euphemism for me turning the entire house into a Witches Cottage or the Lair Of The Vampire or something ("Oh the sofa? I moved it out onto the back porch because I couldn't get it to fit"). And I would raid the fields of local farmers to get corn shalks to line the driveway. All the way up.

And at church, the Young People's Fellowship would decorate the Sunday School classrooms as a Haunted House. A few times, I got into trouble for making things a little too scary for the younger kids who were our guests.

And carving jack-o'-lanterns. And all the rest.

Ah, Hallowe'en.

Every year, the day would swing around in the calendar, bringing me joy.

Thanks for putting in an appearance, O Great Pumpkin. I sure could use some of that joy now.

Transpire

I am so juiced about my dungeon demo at Transpire at Club XO in Philadelphia on November 3rd.

Tonight I talked with Rick, the guy who is charged with managing the talent roster. He and everybody else involved are thrilled to have me, and I think the Great Lesson of 2007 will turn out to be that you can't go too wrong if you go where they want you.

[Gasp! Wait! Kevin Youkilis is batting... Holy shit! Almost hit him in the head. Full count. C'mon, Kevin... And he walks. Sweet.]

It is gonna be sweet. Got my chains already. And my padlocks. Thinking about what to do with positioning. The options include on the floor with my piece of uncut leather as a mat, in my big black plastic cement mixing tub (which comes in handy when you want to piss all over the guy once he's chained up, although I won't be doing that in a public venue I don't think), or maybe I'll just throw my weight bench in the car. The issue there is lumbar support.

But anyway, I was talking to Rick, and he gave me free tickets to a screening of Trans porn that's going down before the event. Of course, my instant response was, "Buck Angel?"

No. In fact, it's not Buck Angel. With whom I am totally obsessed.

But Rick, of course, totally knows who Buck Angel is. And get this... said that they were trying to get in touch with him to see if he'd make an appearance. As in, "If you happen to be on the East Coast..."

Okay. This is big. Huge, in fact. This means that I might get to meet Buck Angel.

Setting aside for a moment just how humiliating that will be for me, as I stare at my boots and all that comes out my mouth is hummina-hummina-hummina. But regardless. That would be enough for me. Just being in The Presence would suffice.

Who knows? Maybe Buck Angel would correctly interpret my non-verbal seemingly insane ramblings correctly as an invitation to forgo whatever else he has going on--which I guess he would call "his life" or something--and fulfil his destiny and become my personal love money sex slave.

It could happen!

*sigh*

And I'm also excited because this is a big Trans thing. The battle currently being waged for Trans inclusion has been called the civil rights struggle of our age. And as a leatherman, it is my issue.

Pour quoi?

When Rick described to me the Trans journey as a spiritual one, and how it all goes down in the arena of your body, that resonated for me. Same deal with SM. The body is the arena wherein we discover our souls. Submitting your back to the whip or your breasts to the surgical knife because powers you don't understand compel you to do so, compel you to trust in the Universe and trust in the strength and courage that you don't know you have... Those are the makings of a magical life.

Way back when during my ACT UP days, the affinity group with whom I had done several actions gave rise to the Lesbian Caucus of ACT UP. Which I became a part of, mostly because it didn't occur to me not to. I knew and loved those women and few people I have met are higher in my estimation. Of course, there was the whole issue of the fact that I was not a lesbian. And so, I decided that I was the charter member of the Boys' Auxilliary of the Lesbian Caucus of ACT UP. And in the tradition of Womens' Auxilliaries of yore, offered to have coffee and danishes waiting when the members of the Lesbian Caucus finished up their meetings. They responded by making me an Honorary Lesbian.

Which, of course, I loved.

So I'm wondering. Could I become honorary trans?

Although that kinda brings me around to my CHC membership.

And I've been thinking about that quite a bit lately, too.

There was a splash in the gay press this summer about the Chicago Hellfire Club and their exclusion of trans-men from their signature event, Inferno.

I've sort of been operating under the idea that I could work to change that from inside, rather than by leaving. But I think that there I may be deluding myself. I'm an associate member, and decision making in CHC is vested entirely with the full members. Besides having to be voted in as a full member, it also means having to make monthly meetings of the full membership, and those meetings are held in Chicago. So no. I'm not going to become a full member any time soon.

And, alas, there is no principled position that I've heard articulated to back up CHC's policies of excluding men who are not born with penises. Rather, it's just a matter of "Eeeew! That will get me all skeeved out if I know that there's a man without a penis anywhere around me!". And the more I think about it, there's not a lot of difference between that and "But if we let the negroes in they might date our daughters!"

And the more I think about it, that just doesn't cut the mustard.

There's another aspect of this, too. In a conversation with the Baron several weeks ago, I had an insight about myself, something that has been the lynchpin--or a quirk or whatever--in my character for as long as I can remember: I am a radical egalitarian. I don't like the whole "On the bus, off the bus" dynamic. It's one thing to associate yourself with like-minded people. All of us like that. But the danger there is that we human beings are inherently tribal, and very quickly, we'll all get to thinking that those folks who are of different minds than us, well they just don't rate. They're off the bus. And we're all on the bus. So we must be better than them. And now how can we go about keeping them off the bus?

I'm dismissive of the gnostic elements in so much pop cultural new age-y psychology for the same reason. If'n I start hearing that "living authentically" or whatever means that you're at a higher level than the great mass of men and women who aren't, they're playing the on-the-bus-off-the-bus game. And in my head, I'm already thinking up arguments--however specious and contorted they might be--about why People Who Just Don't Get It actually have the right idea.

And with CHC and Inferno, you get that in spades. Lots of talk about how Inferno is the Best Event and how we're all privileged to be there. And necessarily,that would mean that there are men out there in the world who just don't cut the mustard.

For example, they weren't born with penises.

Yeah.

I have no idea where this is all going.

For now, I'll just say this: it skeeves me out to do SM in the presence of men who would come up with contrived legalistic exclusionary policies because they get skeeved out doing SM in the presence of men who might not have been born with penises.

Not only am I excited to be doing chain bondage at this club in Philadelphia next weekend because I'm a total ham and I love to show off, but I'm deeply honored to have been asked to be there.

Shorts Shrift

After two months at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I have had a Not Good day at work.

It was bananas. So much to do, and I was basically the only one on the floor in my department from the time I got there until I got some help at 2 p.m. And I had all this downstocking to do and these picks to get and... and...

Oh. And there was only smokin hot man the whole day! (Okay. Well three. But two I couldn't get a good look at.)

I was running and running all day long.

But here was the thing that really made it Not Good.

I wore shorts.

You see every month, there's an All Store Meeting. At 7 freakin o'clock on a Sunday morning! If'n you're schedule to work, then you're there anyway and you get paid for it. If you're not scheduled, then you're "invited" to come in anyway to take part in the festivities.

Uh huh.

Gosh, whaddyaknow, I did not drag my sorry butt out of bed at 5:30 a.m. this past Sunday to make the All Store Meeting.

Apparently, there was this total Proletarian Uprising.

Involving shorts.

Our Store Manager had an announcement. It seems that according to our dress code, we're only permitted to wear shorts from May 1st to October 1st.

And there was a question on that point.

Along the lines of, "Uh... It's eighty-five degrees outside. Could that maybe be relaxed?"

And a lively discussion ensued.

Al Gore may have been mentioned.

Now then. All of this was unbeknownst to me. Who got up this morning and decided that my dark olive drab hiking shorts would look pretty snappy this morning.

I had barely clocked in when a co-worker approached me and said, "So... You're wearing shorts."

And then explained what went down at the All Store Meeting.

Silly me, I failed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

Assistant Manager after Assistant Manager approached, voicing concern about my bare calves. I tried to make a joke about it ("I know I know I know! I didn't make the All Store Meeting! I'm sorry!"), but this didn't cut it. They were still Concerned.

And sure enough, I ran into our Store Manager, who barked, "You're wearing shorts."

I explained. I apologized. He was placated. And I finally got it.

My fashion statement was perceived as being a political statement.

On the way home, I recounted the Unfortunate Episode of the Mid-October Shorts to the Baron, who got it immediately.

"You see," he explained, "what happened in 1792 in France was that the bourgeoisie snatched the baton of power from the nobility, and rather than considering what right they had to have it or how best to use it, they simply committed themselves to hold on to it in whatever way they could. And the best way to do exercise that illigitimate power is to tell the rest of us when and how high to jump and what tune to dance to. Although that only works if they're completely arbitrary and only serve to reinforce that they have the power and you don't."

Well since you put it that way.

And I responded by pointing out that this turned my entire day into a french existentiallist theater piece, in that I am, if nothing else, a man who prides himself on being an expert Jumper and impressive Dancer-On-Command.Had I but known about the whole No Shorts From October Through The End Of April Deal I would have work a burka before I'd wear shorts.

One of my co-workers compared my plight to that of Woody Allen's character in the movie Bananas where he mistakenly spurs a revolution in a southamerican republic.

So no more shorts.

But tomorrow, I'm gonna wear my tight low-rider black jeans.

The Dress Code didn't say anything about showing my ass crack.

They'll need a re-write before I'm through.

ALCS

Did you see that game???

Amazing. Beautiful.

The Red Sox were flawless. Just incredible. That double play in the Seventh. And my boy Youkilis got a beautiful home run.

And these guys going up against the Red Hot Rockies?

This is gonna be the best World Series in years.

Big story in the Sports section of the Times today. The headline asked the question, "Are The Red Sox Ready To Be The Next Yankees?"

Fugue Of Sorts

And so it's come to pass here on Singletails that what I try to do here is write literary essays. (Uneditited and straight-outta-my-head literary essays, but it is a weblog after all.) Although I started off with short little chunks, my aspiration has come to be descriptive passages about my Real Life experiences and whatever small insights might arise therefrom.

Well, we need to take a break from that, because I'm working too damn much. Being full time at Ho(t)me(n) Depot means that all day long there's this barrage of smokin hot men I'm presented with, truly taxing my erotic imagination. (It occurred to me today that me working at Ho(t)me(n) Depot is akin to a pedophile getting a job as a playground monitor. It's like, "Wait. Lemme get this straight. Not only are you not gonna chase me off the property, but you're gonna pay me for being here???"

But, over the past week or so, there's been plenty of thoughts passing through my head that actually had little or nothing to do with the autobody guy with ice-blue eyes and a chest like a dark brown angora sweater showing between the buttons on his blue Dickies shirt with hopes of success at being a house flipper to whom I was explaining how he could put together a great looking kitchen for about $5000 (Pause. Breathe.) but rather, I thought, would merit mention here in a posting.

So, here's a miscellany of some of those thoughts. Not in the form of a literary essay.

In the World Series, I'm liking the Rockies, those gutsy unknowns who are showing Major League Baseball that just because they were born while Ronald Reagan was President doesn't mean they can't play great baseball. Although, the Red Sox still have some of the hottest men in the major leagues--Varitek! Youklis! Drew! I am talking to you!--so whatever happens, it's gonna be worth watching . . . Philadelphia was just voted the City With The Ugliest People In America by Travel & Leisure magazine. On the local news, when they were getting man-in-the-street responses, one guy said, "Uhhh... Yeah. I guess that's true." . . . Run, don't walk, to see the movie Into The Wild. Amazing. Beautiful. And inspiring. Inspiring me to think about buying a Honda Element and spending a year driving around the country (mostly the West) with Faithful Companion along for the ride. And re-reading Jack Kerouac and Jack London. . . . So after a long hiatus, Queer Eye For The Straight Guy is back on the air. And is totally Weak. Luckily, Heroes and Mad Men are rocking my world. Could this mean that I'm becoming disenchanted with cheesy reality tv shoes? Time will tell. Season Four of Project Runway is in the works. . . . Okay. So a guy on my softball team told me that he's kicking out his problematic roommate, and he'd be happy to rent me his second bedroom in his NYC apartment for $500 a month and this great job that I'm totally qualified for has just become available up in NYC. So I could hook my father up with a eldercare agency to fix him dinner and keep him company and just be back here in the Howling Wilderness of Pennsylvania on weekends and spend Monday through Friday in New York City. The implications of this are so staggering that I've failed to grasp them. At all. In the immortal words of Rhoda Morgenstern, "New York, this is your last chance!" . . . My Hard Labor Ready gig this week was working for a husband and wife team who clean things. I was helping them clean this mammoth furniture store that's getting ready to open, even though the construction on the place is still going on. I spent 5.5 hours dusting and wiping down this awful furniture. It was all oversize and over-designed and really really really poorly made. We're talkin' crap. The finishing was so bad that I had to stop using the shammy cloth because it would grip the fibers and leave fuzz on the doors and drawerfronts. The reveals were all out of whack, and the cheap-o hinges weren't adjustable so the owners would have to live with it. As I worked, I kept asking myself, "Who is going to pay money for this crappy furniture?" And then it dawned on me: what better to fill your over-priced, poorly constructed, ostentatious McMansion than with over-priced, poorly built, ostentatious awful furniture? . . . My over-used quip of late: "Well, it's not a perfect world. And how do we know this? Because I can't get a Rueben at Quizno's, which would make a great Rueben if they wanted to. But that's all the proof you need that it's not a perfect world.

Trifecta

Last night at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I was working with my Department Head getting ready for inventory. And he popped the question: Do you want to go full-time?

And I said "Sure." Not because I am sure, but just because I was asked. And because instead of having to work three jobs, I'd be able to only work one. (Although I'd still like to get down to Hard Labor Ready on weekdays off to keep my hand in the mix and give me a little extra cash.) And hopefully, this will give me a little bit more say in my availability for work, and make my weekly schedule a wee bit more predictable.

That said, I decided that after my ninety day probationary period is up, I'll start perusing the want ads again. Not that I'm unhappy at Ho(t)me(n) Depot--quite the reverse--I just worry that too much time there might blight my resume. But we'll see. As I learned during the first eight months of 2007, employers aren't chafing at the bit to bring on board a forty-three year old when there are all those twenty- and thirty-somethings eager to open veins and give blood to have a job.

But regardless, I take that gesture as indication that The Like Me, and after this long sojourn in the desert of rejection, that is welcome indeed.

And speaking of being liked, I got a call from my softball coach today. He was calling to make sure I'd be at the league awards ceremony tomorrow night.

When the call came in, I was working for Installer Guy tearing up carpet. (Tearing up carpet is really hard work. If anybody ever tells you, "Buddy, you've got a big future ahead or you as a Carpet Tearer Upper," just go ahead and deck him.) So there I am, with all these other carpet tearer upper guys, my cellie blows up, I see it's George and answer it, and give him the bad news.

No, in fact I won't be there tomorrow night. I have to work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot.

My coach was really disappointed to hear that. And he explained why. I'd be missing out on getting the trophy everybody on the Ball Breakers is getting for coming in second in the season. But what's more, after much discussion among my teammates, I am going to receive the Managers Award, which comes with its own trophy.

So there I am, standing amidst all that tearing up of carpet, and I start to cry.

George explained that there are few more dedicated Ball Breakers, and, most importantly for him, I am the source of No Drama Whatsoever. And, I'm beloved by each and every Ball Breaker.

(Yeah. I'm crying again.)

Okay.

Change of plans.

Tomorrow when I get off work from Ho(t)me(n) Depot, instead of heading for home, I'm gonna head down to the PA Turnpike, take it east, hook up with the Jersey Turnpike, through the Holland Tunnel, and I should arrive in NYC in time to meet up with the Ball Breakers at Ty's on Christopher Street after the awards ceremony.

For one thing, no way could I miss that.

And for another thing, it's been what--weeks? months?--since I went out and had a good time. (Not that hanging out at Starbucks isn't a Good Time, but you know what I mean.)

And for another thing, NYC is no doubt diminished by my absence, and I'd best amend that.

And for another thing, I'm getting two softball trophies!

(Oh. Wait. We covered that already.)

And just a note for my NYC readers, I should be hitting Ty's around 9:30, 10 pm. A mere sixteen days remain until I turn forty-three. So if'n you'd like to wish me the best on my next journey 'round the sun, this might be your only opportunity.


So that's all good, right?

But wait. There's more!

I got a call from a guy I worked with at the Previous Place of emPloy. He was the Program Director for the harm reduction intervention we did for trans folks, and he was a great guy. Absolutely one of my favorite people on staff there. We had several memorable talks over coffee and cigarets, which would start out with him educating me about trans issues, and not infrequently end with both of us kicking back and talking about how totally cool it was being a guy. (And as that had not always been the case with him, his appreciation in many ways exceeded mine.) Ah, the joys of getting punched by a drunk in a bar, sucking it up and being out of touch with your feelings, being able to strike up a conversation with any other guy on the planet by opening a paper to the Sports page and saying, "can you believe this shit?"... So anyways, as if he wasn't busy enough, he's doing this party at a nightclub down in Philadelphia. And once a month, they do a BDSM theme. And he has people do demos. And it seems that he's unable to find anybody to Top in these demos other women--possibly because it's explicitly trans-friendly, and perchance did I know anybody...

And, I did. A few people I could ask. And, of course, I'd be happy to oblige.

And he was thrilled about that.

So get this.

On November 3rd, I'll get to leather up, head down to Philadelphia, be On The Guest List at a trendy club, and do a demo!

Oh, schwing.

I was thinking of singletails (natch), but I'm wondering if chain bondage might be more fun. When I've done chain bondage demos before, I pass out lengths of chain to onlookers and have them do some of the lays. And at the end, when we've exhausted all 200 pounds of my chain, we have a lucky bottom immoblized by cold, eternal steel. And then, of course, there's the Grand Finale, when I remove the padlocks and he struggles to free himself.

(Yes, I need a demo bottom. Yes, if anyone knows Buck Angel personally I can't think of anybody who would be more appropriate, but I'm open to other possibilities.)

So I've hit the Trifecta: Job, Softball, SM.

Perhaps 2007 will close on a better note than that with which it opened.

Adventures Of The DILF Patrol!

DILF* sightings at Ho(t)me(n) Depot have been frequent over the past few days. So much so that I pass the time by contemplating which DILF will earn the title Dilf Of The Day. Yesterday it was a total toss up between this guy buying a new dishwasher with his wife who was being followed around by a cross between a very good looking donkey and an onion (that would be, an ass so beautiful it brings tears to your eyes). And he had a shaved head and a moustache almost as bushy as mine. But just when I was thinking it couldn't get any better than that, along comes this little Black Irish looking thug wearing a wife beater and basketball shorts built like a bantam weight boxer. I still can't decide which of them deserves the Dilf Of The Day title.

So today, competition was again pretty good. Worried that I'd again have trouble narrowing the field, I decided to make it situational. Sort of like putting beauty pageant IML contestants through the painful for all involved ordeal of answering questions posed by the judges.

So I ran through the following scenario in my mind to try to determine which DILF would be the most rewarding...

The DILF is brought in, gagged and hands bound behind his back (rope available in aisle 13!), forced down over a sawhorse (in aisle 34 in Building Materials!) and restrained there (Stow straps in Aisle 24 in Hardware!).

(Can't you just see the look on his face? An admixture of fear, astonishment, and anger. Love that.)

The gag is removed, but he can barely get out three or four words before the beating begins. Hard. On his ass. With a paddle.

First there'd be the angry exclamations. Then the gutteral grunts. Then the pitch would grow up. Then his eyes would tear up.

The beating continues.

Until he breaks.

Bellowing, sobbing, begging.

Still I'm paddling his ass.

Then I crouch down so my face is right down on the level with his, red and hot and streaked with tears and sweat.

When he begs me, "Please! No more!", that's when I'd tell him that I'll only stop if he gives me the best blowjob I've ever had. I undo the buttons of my fly and let my hardon bob in front of him, so close he has to look at it cross-eyed.

He'd probably protest some... ("Hell no! I don't...")

And that would get him another couple of whacks on his cherry red ass.

(Don'ch'a love how when you're beating a really meaty ass, you see those ripples?)

I'd continue till he says "Okay! Okay I'll do it!"

Then I'd stick first just the head of my dick in his open mouth. And when he looks up with me, his eyes full of pleading, I'd thrust it in all the way, making him gag on it.

"Boy," I'd say, "I've got some bad news for you. This is NOT the best blowjob I've ever had in my life," and raise the paddle again.

Watch him go at it with everything he's got.

Then I'd say, "You want to take my load down your throat, don't ya? You'd like that a lot, huh fukker?"

And when he groans out a "yes," I'd give him what he asked for.

And ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!

At the very last minute, as I was headed to the locker room to stow away my orange apron and head to the time clock, I saw him.

From what I saw of his torso in his black sleeveless tshirt and his calves coming out of his baggy camo cargo shorts, he was covered in tattoos. Not great tattoos. Hot Stuff the Little Devil kind of tattoos. Tattoos straight guys get when they're drunk. He was arguing with his girlfriend (fried blond hair, out of shape, sallow complexion) in the plumbing aisle.

I got rid of my apron and clocked out quick as I could. When I got to the plumbing fixtures aisle, they were still there arguing. On closer inspection, he was even better than I thought. I feigned interest in sharkbite connectors (the latest thing in plumbing, they work really well and don't require soldering).

He was perfect.

It would take a hell of a lot of beating for this man to give me a blow job.

Finally, she won the argument, and they headed off, him sort of sullen. As they walked ahead of me, I noticed that he had a big vertical tear in the seat of his cargo shorts.

No way. That would be too good to be true.

I kept my eyes glued there.

Damn. He was wearing boxer shorts. White with little red dots. Maybe hearts.

The headed for check out, I headed out the door and off to the gym.

A clear winner for DILF Of The Day.

Later at home, my father asked, "So how was your day?"

"Good," I said.

"Did you sell much?"

"Not much. It was pretty slow. A couple of faucets. And a bathtub."

"Well if you were slow, why was it a good day?"

Whack! Whack!! Whack!!! "Please... No more! Please!"

"Oh, y'know, I liked the customers I worked with."


*DILF: Similar to "MILF," code among straight guys for a married woman of whom carnal knowledge would be desireable; an acronym for "Mom I'd Like To Fuck." Only in this case, it's "Dad I'd Like To Fuck."

Ho Ho Ho

Okay. Even I...

Busy day today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Running around like crazy, and it was all I could do to make sure I was providing Excellent Customer Service (one of our Core Values). We were moving all of the clearance merchandise from the front of the store and dispersing it in different departments. My department manager explained what all the fuss was about: we had to get ready for Christmas.

"Uhhh... I've gotta point out that it's eighty-five degrees out there today."

Alas, the man doesn't have the most subtle sense of humor in the world, so he patiently explained that it's important to get the jump on the competition, and this year that means two months out.

Right.

But it's eighty-five degrees outside.

Now, when it comes to this whole global warming thing, I'm an agnostic.

I know, I know, I know.

Ocean temperatures are rising, there's standing water at the North Pole, polar bears are drowning...

But here's the thing. The chief culprit is carbon dioxide, right? And of the carbon dioxide in the earth's atmosphere, about four percent is the result of human activity. And one fifth of the world's population lives China, and they're a long, long, long way from anything resembling adherence to the Kyoto Protocols. So me tooling around in my trusty Jeep Liberty that gets all of 18 miles-per-gallon truly is a tear in a salted sea.

I don't bring this up to the Baron.

The Baron, you see, is the opposite of me in that he dreads Summer and hates hot weather.

And by "hot weather," the Baron is thinking of a temperature above 75°.

When the Baron gets exercised along the lines of Oh-My-God-It's-The-Fifth-Hot-And-Humid-Day-In-A-Row, or Oh-My-God-It's-Been-Raining-For-Eight-Hours-Straight, I generally respond with a, "Yeah, but I remember weather like this from when I was a kid in the '70s, so it's no big deal."

But I do not remember weather like this so close to my birthday (twenty-one shopping days left!).

At this point I'd like to point out that I always get paper bags at the supermarket, never plastic, and I bundle them up and bury them in a landfill back in the woods.

Just Do What I Tell You Without Question Always

Cool!

Starbucks is doing this thing now where every day they're giving out these little cards that allows you to download a free song from iTunes. Today, the featured artist is Keith Urban, whom I like. And yesterday, it was Joni Mitchell, whom I love.

Ah... Joni Mitchell.

Remember Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer? The guy who I was all out of sorts about a few years ago? Who was great in the dungeon but was so terrifically deficient in every other respect?

Well, before those deficiencies became apparent to me, he told me about how he had gone up to Seattle to meet with the Big Muckety Mucks at Starbucks. He had produced this television special about Ray Charles, and Starbucks was doing this whole Ray Charles thing...

- - - - - We interrupt this post to bring you an important announcement - - - - -

Woohoo! Cleveland just beat the Yankees in Game 2! In the eleventh inning and two outs, Travis Hafner--who's HOT!--got an RBI to win the Game! Yesssss! Yankees are down two games! Woohoo! Go Indians! It's Tribe Time!

- - - - - We now return you to the posting already in progress - - - - -

...so Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer was trying to sell his Ray Charles special to Starbucks so they could sell the DVD.

Starbucks said 'Thanks but no thanks,' explaining that they'd already planned out their whole Ray Charles thing in detail so Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer was too late to get on that train.

But, they weren't cool to the idea.

In the shower one morning, I got an idea, and called up Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer to excitedly tell him how he could make a bunch of money and do something great for the world.

"Joni Mitchell!"

"What?"

"You should do an All-Star Tribute to Joni Mitchell! Joni is a national treasure! Even though she's canadian. She has an amazing repertoire of songs she's written. Everybody who was alive and conscious during the 1970s and '80s loves here, and everybody who wasn't deserves to be introduced to her. And she's led an incredible life, collaborating with so many other artists! And she's perfect for Starbucks. Starbucks would love Joni, and I bet Joni would love Starbucks."

There was a pause.

"Joni Mitchell? Seriously? I mean, Joni's okay... But she hasn't done anything for years. And she's just not... y'know... she's not a star. You can't do a tribute like that to someone who's not a star."

And then, of course, he got all Hollywood on me, dropping names about all the people he sees at parties--he knows Rita Moreno PERSONALLY!--and how he's never ever run into Joni Mitchell at a party. He was invited to George Lopez' birthday party, but Joni Mitchell wasn't.

Well.

Joni Mitchell just signed up to have Starbucks produce and distribute a collection of her music and an album of artists who inspire her.

Naturally, right? Starbucks and Joni Mitchell: perfect together.

If only Joni Mitchell had been invited to George Lopez' birthday party, Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer would have a huge pile of money and wouldn't have to worry about paying rent on his seedy little apartment off Sunset.

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.