Did'ja see the debates last night?
Really interesting. Kudoes to Charlie Gibson for doing a great job as moderator, and to that ferret-y New Hampshire guy.
I couldn't help but feel for Hillary Clinton. And I found myself thinking about Laura Bennet.
Laura, you might remember, was a contestant on last season's Project Runway. I loved Laura. Even though I was kinda happy when Jeffrey Sibelia won the big prize at Bryant Park, that was bittersweet because it meant that Laura lost.
Laura, you see, was the grown-up in the room.
Her prior experience had only been making clothes for herself. Everything she sent down the runway was impeccably tailored and inspired. No puckers in her seams. Heidi Klum said on several occasions, "Oh Jah! I'd vear effery dress of hers," and "I vont von off dose in effery color." Right before they passed her over to give the award to Michael ("I think women will want to wear my crotchless hot pants. I sure want women to wear my crotchless hot pants"), Uli (...and don't get me wrong! If I were a girl I'd be wearing stuff that looked a lot like Uli's), or Jeffrey (hey now, you're a rock star, get the show on, get paid).
I bet Laura Bennet and Hillary Clinton would have a lot to talk about.
Now I know something about politics. Any politician elected to higher office is completely pathological. They have things they want really really bad. Now we all have things we want really really bad, but if you aren't willing to cut out your grandmother's heart, throw it on the floor, stomp on it, and then use that nice scarf she knitted you to wipe the blood from your shoes in order to get what you want, you're not going to be very successful in politics. And then there's the press. Political reporting is like a class full of fifth graders. The teacher gets up and does her level best present a science lesson and the response is "Ah-HAH! You have a sweat ball hanging off your nose!" followed immediately by, "You still like me even though I said that, right?"
When Hillary refers to her "experience," I think she's talking about the first two years of her husband's presidency. Bill Clinton, the Arkansas Traveller, came into the White House, all about "Ah have a vision for Amurica!" He had promised a bunch of nutty AIDS activists in New York--oh wait! I was one of those nutty AIDS activists!--that first thing he did he would rescind the executive order that banned HIV positive people from immigrating to the U.S.. And he did. And in Less Than One Week a bill sailed through Congress that made it Federal Law! He told the joint chiefs of staff that the ban on gay men and lesbians serving in the military had to go. And those men, each of whom loved the Army, the Air Force, the Navy, and the Marine Corps respectively more than they loved their wives, children, god, and country basically said, "We'll see, Draft Dodger." And of course we all know how health care reform went down.
To be sure, I get excited hearing Obama's ideas. And Edwards', too. But at the back of my mind, I can't help thinking, "What the hell are those kids going to be able to accomplish?" I haven't heard any of Hillary's policies that I would oppose, and she is someone who would be able to get things done. No matter how many dead grandmothers she'd have to leave in her wake.
A woman I used to know in NYC is a major healthcare policy guru. Maybe you've heard of the Ryan White CAER Act? Well she sort of invented that. And got it passed through Congress and signed by Bush 41. She's one of the smartest people I've ever known. During the '93 healthcare debate, she was invited to go down to DC and spend some time discussing healthcare with Hillary. All of us wanted to know how it went. "She's incredible," was the report, "There was no topic I brought up that she not only had heard about, but she had thought deeply about and considered all sides of the question. We ended up talking for about three or four hours. No breaks. No intermission."
One of the best things I've heard from Hillary Clinton--and I can't remember the forum-- was when she was asked about the whole immigration issue that's roiling the Republican race. In a brief, offhand way, she answered that it was only an issue because the economy was swirling the drain. If there were plenty of good jobs to go around, there wouldn't be all this anxiety among american workers about furriners coming up here from Mexico and stealing our jobs. And omigosh, that's pretty much my recollection of the 'Nineties. The economy was booming, I had a swell job and could take nice vacations and buy two houses, so who really gave a rat's ass about politics? When some issue would make ripples on the placid shores of Peace And Prosperity, Bill Clinton would lull us back to sleep with one of those doofy little "plans" of his.
Ultimately, what I really want from the Next President Of The United States Of America is to be left alone and not have to worry about anything. And a job that pays an income plus or minus three integers from my age. And oh yeah. Don't torture anybody.
There's no doubt in my mind: Hillary Clinton would make a great President.
But still, I think of the kids at Starbucks. Those emissaries from the Land of Facebook and YouTube and Bands I've Never Heard Of. As them about Iraq and they respond, "I support the troops," and don't have much to say beyond that. But then there's their views on homosexuality that leave me astonished again and again: what's the big deal? Unless you're a dork about it.
What's the big deal? Twenty years ago, my government was content to let me and my kind die. Because they hated us.
How did that happen? Will & Grace?
Despite all those Massive Throbbing Protests and civil disobedience arrests and agitative propaganda I was involved in, I don't see much in the way of a cause and effect relationship.
Is it really a new world out there? Are my perspectives and experiences as relevant as spiking your hair with mousse and shoulder pads and spandex pants? Were Heidi Klum and Nina Garcia and Michael Korrs right in that Laura Bennet did great work, but the future belongs to Rock Star Jeffrey Sibelia?
And is Barak Obama the President of the United States of America in that new world I can't quite get used to?
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Friday, January 04, 2008
Don't Tell The Baron
Last night, as I drove home through the silent streets of Newtown, Pennsylvania, I was squealing with glee: Obama came in first in New Hampshire. What a momentous night in american political history! An African-American man wins lily-white Iowa. How would a nineteen year old pro-jihadist in Syria greet the news that a man named Barak Obama has become the President of the United States of America? An Obama presidency would truly be healing we need. (Heh. The built-in spell check here on Blogger doesn't recognize the words "Barak" or "Obama," although "Hillary" comes up without the red underscore.) Every time I've heard the man speak, I'm nodding along in agreement. The man has a depth and an authenticity I've long since stopped looking for in politicians, even those I admire.
All but lost in my reveries and about half way home, my cellie explodes. It's the Baron.
Uh oh.
I couldn't deal.
I let it go to voice mail.
I couldn't make the transition to dispassionate listener quickly enough.
I listened to the message. Sure enough, the Baron was broiling with rage about the outcome of the Iowa caucuses. The Baron, you see, is way Way WAY for Hillary.
And not without good reason.
Like all of us, the Baron has suffered terribly through the past seven years of having George W. Bush in the White House. The Baron will reel off the names for you: George McGovern, Walter Mondale, Michael Dukakis, John Kerry. The predilection the Democrats have for choosing nincompoops who just scream out Will Never Be President as their nominees. Please God, pleads the Baron, not this year. Please not this year. The country won't survive four more years under Republican rule.
Hillary, the Baron feels, strongly, is the only horse in the game who can meet and overcome the vicious attacks from the Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy to come. Because she's just as vicious as they are. Oh. And there's the fact that she just happens to be married to one of the greatest political minds of the past generation.
So for the Baron, it's Hillary or Oblivion.
When I point out that Hillary has a national 42% negative rating across the board--that is to say, that 42% of the country, Republicans and Democrats and Independents, won't vote for Hillary under any circumstances because they hate her guts--and ask from which of the states of the Old Confederacy or the West necessary to put her over the top in the electoral college can she reasonably hope to win, the Baron is dismissive.
The Baron was outraged at the whole Oprah endorsement. "How stupid can those commentators be? Those people came out to see Oprah cuz they watch her on television sitting on their decrepit sofas eating their Hostess Sno-Balls or Ring-Dings or whatever! They don't vote!"
Thus far, I've been able to hide behind the overall strength of the Democrat line-up. "Any of them would be a great candidate and a great president, but on the Republican side, they're all a bunch of non-starters." And, of course, pointing to my early endorsement of Bill Richardson. (Who would make a great President.) "Yeah," replies the Baron, "Richardson would make a good Secretary of State or Vice President to President Hillary Clinton."
But it's only January. And there's a long way to go until November.
O! The suspense!
Will the Baron uncover my sentiments? Will he ever forgive me? Will he talk to me again?
If it goes down the way the Baron predicts and Someone-Other-Than-Hillary wins the Democratic nomination and goes on to defeat in November, I will definitely feel like it's All My Fault and have to do some serious penance.
Oy.
There are Serious Issues at stake in this here election.
All but lost in my reveries and about half way home, my cellie explodes. It's the Baron.
Uh oh.
I couldn't deal.
I let it go to voice mail.
I couldn't make the transition to dispassionate listener quickly enough.
I listened to the message. Sure enough, the Baron was broiling with rage about the outcome of the Iowa caucuses. The Baron, you see, is way Way WAY for Hillary.
And not without good reason.
Like all of us, the Baron has suffered terribly through the past seven years of having George W. Bush in the White House. The Baron will reel off the names for you: George McGovern, Walter Mondale, Michael Dukakis, John Kerry. The predilection the Democrats have for choosing nincompoops who just scream out Will Never Be President as their nominees. Please God, pleads the Baron, not this year. Please not this year. The country won't survive four more years under Republican rule.
Hillary, the Baron feels, strongly, is the only horse in the game who can meet and overcome the vicious attacks from the Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy to come. Because she's just as vicious as they are. Oh. And there's the fact that she just happens to be married to one of the greatest political minds of the past generation.
So for the Baron, it's Hillary or Oblivion.
When I point out that Hillary has a national 42% negative rating across the board--that is to say, that 42% of the country, Republicans and Democrats and Independents, won't vote for Hillary under any circumstances because they hate her guts--and ask from which of the states of the Old Confederacy or the West necessary to put her over the top in the electoral college can she reasonably hope to win, the Baron is dismissive.
The Baron was outraged at the whole Oprah endorsement. "How stupid can those commentators be? Those people came out to see Oprah cuz they watch her on television sitting on their decrepit sofas eating their Hostess Sno-Balls or Ring-Dings or whatever! They don't vote!"
Thus far, I've been able to hide behind the overall strength of the Democrat line-up. "Any of them would be a great candidate and a great president, but on the Republican side, they're all a bunch of non-starters." And, of course, pointing to my early endorsement of Bill Richardson. (Who would make a great President.) "Yeah," replies the Baron, "Richardson would make a good Secretary of State or Vice President to President Hillary Clinton."
But it's only January. And there's a long way to go until November.
O! The suspense!
Will the Baron uncover my sentiments? Will he ever forgive me? Will he talk to me again?
If it goes down the way the Baron predicts and Someone-Other-Than-Hillary wins the Democratic nomination and goes on to defeat in November, I will definitely feel like it's All My Fault and have to do some serious penance.
Oy.
There are Serious Issues at stake in this here election.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Ever Wonder How Writers Of SM Porn Come By Their Ideas? SingleTails Brings You Some Insights Into That!
For real!
I spent six hours tonight sweeping and mopping, working for a nice couple who are trying to put together an income from cleaning up at construction sites. They're good people, but the work is beyond tedious. For the past several weeks, they've been doing their clean-up deal at these new doctors' offices being built down in Newtown. I wince whenever I get a phone call that they have work for me, but I need the money.
Doing manual labor, your mind tends to wander. One of the things I like about it. Robert Frost used to write his poems while working on his farm, my thoughts go more along the lines of stories I read in Drummer at a far too tender age all those years ago.
Lately, I've been doing a lot of sweeping and mopping down in Newtown. We come in as the contractors are heading out, so the place is eerily quiet. Like opening sequence of an episode of The Night Stalker quiet. (Yeah, so my pop cultural references are thirty five years out of date, so what?) The only sound is the slosh of the water in the big yellow bucket.
I have to admit, it's work that I consider beneath me. No opportunities to shine really. Although I do a good job of mopping. I learned to mop in one of my first jobs, as a dishwasher at Mother's Restaurant in New Hope. The guy who taught me--starting out with him saying, "You're doing that all wrong!"--was a Navy man, and he explained to me that the United States Navy had taught him how to mop, and he was going to teach me. First, you soak the head of your mop, which he called your "swab," and get it holding a lot of water. Then you get as much water as you can on the floor. "Let the water do the work." Water is the Universal Solvent. It soaks the grime off the floor and it becomes suspended in the water. Then, you wring out your mop and pick up the water and the grime, which ends up in your mop bucket.
"This is slave work," I thought one night. And that was the genesis of my reveries.
I thought about one of those Shadowy Underground Organizations that turn men into slaves to be sold on the auction block that was the staple of so much of the fiction in Drummer. (I, of course, hold out hope that such entities are not entirely fictitious, but from what I've seen, I'm losing a lot of hope there.) Of course, the big problem with induction into slavery would be the maintenance and upkeep of the slaves. Especially if the slave was unwillingly enslaved, and that's the best kind, right? You've always got to keep your slave under lock and key, or he'll be trotting off to tell the authorities all about what you've got going on and you'd end up doing time in prison and that would suck. So there you are, providing three square a day, emptying the bedpan (!)... And then there's the whole problem of healthcare and visits to the dentist.
I know a little bit about neuro-psychology, and as we know, a little knowledge can be dangerous.
So here's how I solved the Unwilling Slave problem.
First off, pump the slavery candidate full of some psycho-tropic drug that will significantly increase the number of dopamine receptors in his brain. Dopamine is the neurotransmitter involved in pleasure and learning. When you're experiencing that intense feeling of pleasure, your brain is being flooded with dopamine. Smoking and the use of certain drugs such as stimulants like meth and cocaine provide a sudden burst of dopamine, and it's thought that this is part of the reason that they're so addictive. Dopamine is also released in your brain during sex, when you've just eaten a filling meal, and when someone gently strokes you. So increasing your slavery candidates dependency on dopamine will start him on the road to slavery by making him a slave to pleasure.
So far, so good. But there's still his awareness that he's locked up in your cage rather than out doing whatever it was he was doing before you abducted him into slavery, right? If only it were possible to induce some form of amnesia...
But wait! It is! With electroshock therapy! The way the electrodes are positioned these days, memory loss is usually short-lived. But back in the '40s when it was first used, amnesia was a big problem. So using those electrode arrangements of yesteryear, the slavery candidates memories would be a dreamy blur. And coupled with his dopamine receptivity, he'd be fairly easily controlled.
Now we're getting somewhere!
And here's the thing. All those things that you know how to do without thinking about them--like sweeping and mopping and sucking dick and walking and such--are memories unaffected by electroshock. So you'd have the perfect slave!
So with all that as background, the most recent iteration of the Shadowy Underground Organization took shape. Powerful men would be abducted and put through the treatment and then sold as slaves. But during a training period of sorts, the Shadowy Underground Organization would make some money off them by running an office cleaning service. Their cleaning crews would come in after business hours and uncomplainingly vacuum and mop and clean toilets and empty trashcans under the watchful eye of their trainers. Back at the compound, they'd also be trained in sexual service and such.
The plot developed...
The managing editor of a muckraking weekly newspaper hires a cleaning crew to take care of the paper's new offices. Since he does most of the copy editing, often he's working late when they arrive. He finds the cleaners a wee bit bizarre, all these big, built men with shaved heads wearing identical uniforms and with these faraway blissed-out expressions on their faces. With some regularity, the cleaners change, but they all seem to be big, built guys, and always with the shaved heads (for the electrodes). He questions the "supervisor," but gets unsatisfactory answers. He becomes really suspicious when he recognizes a guy he used to play rugby with, but the guy doesn't respond when he calls him by his name, just keeps mopping away with a dreamy smile on his lips. He decides to follow the cleaners van and see if he can learn more.
At a warehouse facility on the outskirts of the city, the TRUE AND TERRIBLE NATURE OF THE CLEANING SERVICE IS DISCOVERED!! But wait! HIS SPYING IS DISCOVERED! The chase! The capture! Bound, he's taken before the majordomo of the Shadowy Underground Organization, who describes in detail all of that background stuff about dopamine and electroshock therapy. And then, with a sinister gleam in his eye, announces that our protagonist will soon join the ranks of the cleaning crew. And our story ends with him cleaning a toilets, being loaded back into the van, and taken back to the warehouse on the outskirts of the city, stowed away in a cage for the night, awaiting--unbeknownst to him--the day when his training will be complete and he'll be sold on the auction block to the highest bidder.
Running through the details of that story in my mind whilst I mop and vacuum and such is enough to keep me semi-tumescent the whole night. And lately at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, when I spot a smokin' hot man, I'll think Perfect Slavery Candidate! And I amuse myself while mopping by clearing my mind of all thought, just focusing on the swoosh of the mop as I put down the water and mop it up again, with a faraway blissed-out smile on my face.
I spent six hours tonight sweeping and mopping, working for a nice couple who are trying to put together an income from cleaning up at construction sites. They're good people, but the work is beyond tedious. For the past several weeks, they've been doing their clean-up deal at these new doctors' offices being built down in Newtown. I wince whenever I get a phone call that they have work for me, but I need the money.
Doing manual labor, your mind tends to wander. One of the things I like about it. Robert Frost used to write his poems while working on his farm, my thoughts go more along the lines of stories I read in Drummer at a far too tender age all those years ago.
Lately, I've been doing a lot of sweeping and mopping down in Newtown. We come in as the contractors are heading out, so the place is eerily quiet. Like opening sequence of an episode of The Night Stalker quiet. (Yeah, so my pop cultural references are thirty five years out of date, so what?) The only sound is the slosh of the water in the big yellow bucket.
I have to admit, it's work that I consider beneath me. No opportunities to shine really. Although I do a good job of mopping. I learned to mop in one of my first jobs, as a dishwasher at Mother's Restaurant in New Hope. The guy who taught me--starting out with him saying, "You're doing that all wrong!"--was a Navy man, and he explained to me that the United States Navy had taught him how to mop, and he was going to teach me. First, you soak the head of your mop, which he called your "swab," and get it holding a lot of water. Then you get as much water as you can on the floor. "Let the water do the work." Water is the Universal Solvent. It soaks the grime off the floor and it becomes suspended in the water. Then, you wring out your mop and pick up the water and the grime, which ends up in your mop bucket.
"This is slave work," I thought one night. And that was the genesis of my reveries.
I thought about one of those Shadowy Underground Organizations that turn men into slaves to be sold on the auction block that was the staple of so much of the fiction in Drummer. (I, of course, hold out hope that such entities are not entirely fictitious, but from what I've seen, I'm losing a lot of hope there.) Of course, the big problem with induction into slavery would be the maintenance and upkeep of the slaves. Especially if the slave was unwillingly enslaved, and that's the best kind, right? You've always got to keep your slave under lock and key, or he'll be trotting off to tell the authorities all about what you've got going on and you'd end up doing time in prison and that would suck. So there you are, providing three square a day, emptying the bedpan (!)... And then there's the whole problem of healthcare and visits to the dentist.
I know a little bit about neuro-psychology, and as we know, a little knowledge can be dangerous.
So here's how I solved the Unwilling Slave problem.
First off, pump the slavery candidate full of some psycho-tropic drug that will significantly increase the number of dopamine receptors in his brain. Dopamine is the neurotransmitter involved in pleasure and learning. When you're experiencing that intense feeling of pleasure, your brain is being flooded with dopamine. Smoking and the use of certain drugs such as stimulants like meth and cocaine provide a sudden burst of dopamine, and it's thought that this is part of the reason that they're so addictive. Dopamine is also released in your brain during sex, when you've just eaten a filling meal, and when someone gently strokes you. So increasing your slavery candidates dependency on dopamine will start him on the road to slavery by making him a slave to pleasure.
So far, so good. But there's still his awareness that he's locked up in your cage rather than out doing whatever it was he was doing before you abducted him into slavery, right? If only it were possible to induce some form of amnesia...
But wait! It is! With electroshock therapy! The way the electrodes are positioned these days, memory loss is usually short-lived. But back in the '40s when it was first used, amnesia was a big problem. So using those electrode arrangements of yesteryear, the slavery candidates memories would be a dreamy blur. And coupled with his dopamine receptivity, he'd be fairly easily controlled.
Now we're getting somewhere!
And here's the thing. All those things that you know how to do without thinking about them--like sweeping and mopping and sucking dick and walking and such--are memories unaffected by electroshock. So you'd have the perfect slave!
So with all that as background, the most recent iteration of the Shadowy Underground Organization took shape. Powerful men would be abducted and put through the treatment and then sold as slaves. But during a training period of sorts, the Shadowy Underground Organization would make some money off them by running an office cleaning service. Their cleaning crews would come in after business hours and uncomplainingly vacuum and mop and clean toilets and empty trashcans under the watchful eye of their trainers. Back at the compound, they'd also be trained in sexual service and such.
The plot developed...
The managing editor of a muckraking weekly newspaper hires a cleaning crew to take care of the paper's new offices. Since he does most of the copy editing, often he's working late when they arrive. He finds the cleaners a wee bit bizarre, all these big, built men with shaved heads wearing identical uniforms and with these faraway blissed-out expressions on their faces. With some regularity, the cleaners change, but they all seem to be big, built guys, and always with the shaved heads (for the electrodes). He questions the "supervisor," but gets unsatisfactory answers. He becomes really suspicious when he recognizes a guy he used to play rugby with, but the guy doesn't respond when he calls him by his name, just keeps mopping away with a dreamy smile on his lips. He decides to follow the cleaners van and see if he can learn more.
At a warehouse facility on the outskirts of the city, the TRUE AND TERRIBLE NATURE OF THE CLEANING SERVICE IS DISCOVERED!! But wait! HIS SPYING IS DISCOVERED! The chase! The capture! Bound, he's taken before the majordomo of the Shadowy Underground Organization, who describes in detail all of that background stuff about dopamine and electroshock therapy. And then, with a sinister gleam in his eye, announces that our protagonist will soon join the ranks of the cleaning crew. And our story ends with him cleaning a toilets, being loaded back into the van, and taken back to the warehouse on the outskirts of the city, stowed away in a cage for the night, awaiting--unbeknownst to him--the day when his training will be complete and he'll be sold on the auction block to the highest bidder.
Running through the details of that story in my mind whilst I mop and vacuum and such is enough to keep me semi-tumescent the whole night. And lately at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, when I spot a smokin' hot man, I'll think Perfect Slavery Candidate! And I amuse myself while mopping by clearing my mind of all thought, just focusing on the swoosh of the mop as I put down the water and mop it up again, with a faraway blissed-out smile on my face.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Low Resolution
There I am, watching Project Runway. Catching my breath during a commercial.
And there's Faithful Companion, sitting on the comfy chair he prefers, looking at me in a way that could only be called "thoughtful."
Hey, I said, I've decided on my New Year's Resolution! Remember how 2007 was Year of the Dog, and so I decided to make it Year Of My Dog? Well it's over. Now it's the Year of the Something Else. The Snake, I think. During 2008, I'm going to ignore you totally! No more walks, no more kibble, no more scooching. Nope. No more. I'm kinda bored with having a dog. So I'm just gonna forget that I do.
Maybe I'll sell you for medical experiments.
Maybe I'll stick you with forks for fun.
Faithful Companion's big brown eyes don't even blink.
"Okay okay okay!" I say, "Kidding!"
Faithful Companion turns his head to study something on the coffee table that only he can see.
"Wanna go for a walk?" I ask.
He's off the chair, at my feet, wagging his tail right away.
And there's Faithful Companion, sitting on the comfy chair he prefers, looking at me in a way that could only be called "thoughtful."
Hey, I said, I've decided on my New Year's Resolution! Remember how 2007 was Year of the Dog, and so I decided to make it Year Of My Dog? Well it's over. Now it's the Year of the Something Else. The Snake, I think. During 2008, I'm going to ignore you totally! No more walks, no more kibble, no more scooching. Nope. No more. I'm kinda bored with having a dog. So I'm just gonna forget that I do.
Maybe I'll sell you for medical experiments.
Maybe I'll stick you with forks for fun.
Faithful Companion's big brown eyes don't even blink.
"Okay okay okay!" I say, "Kidding!"
Faithful Companion turns his head to study something on the coffee table that only he can see.
"Wanna go for a walk?" I ask.
He's off the chair, at my feet, wagging his tail right away.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Blast From The Past
So Christmas dwindles. The Christmas section at Ho(t)me(n) Depot gets smaller and smaller. First it was 30% off, then 50% off, and now a whopping 70% off. Although it's a little disconcerting. Because you see, these discounts are announced by a series of banner signs reading "70%" "OFF" "CHRIST" "MAS." So looking down the Plumbing Repair Aisle (23) as I often have the occasion to do, what I see is a big sign suspended above a little grove of metalic trees with twinklelights reading "CHRIST."
You see what I mean.
No more soft rock and soft jazz Christmas music. We're back to the usual fare.
So life seems to be returning to something I'd like to call "Normal."
Christ!
And then, the other night, I stopped into Starbucks in Chalfont to pick up a latté. There was a passel of young folks there, one of whom was the former girlfriend of a guy I used to work with at Wuperior Soodcraft. And another was a young woman who used to work at Starbucks in Doylestown wherein I used to hang out a lot. We all caught up a bit. It was revealed to me that the nickname assigned to me by the staff at Starbucks in Doylestown was "Snakes." And they used to pass the time by creating a backstory for me.
"Snakes." I love that.
So this guy came up behind us, and during a lull in the conversation, he tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You're Drew. I remember you."
I turned around, there was a sudden intake of breath from me. It was Bucky.
Only longtime readers of SingleTails will remember Bucky. It was four years ago, when I was freshly relocated to the Howling Wilderness of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. An Ex of mine, the Man Who Ages Backwards, took the train down from NYC to pay me a visit. We had lunch, went to the Mercer Museum (which he didn't get a lot out of), and then stopped at Starbucks in Doylestown to have some coffee and talk before I had to take him to the train. At one point, as we sat talking, I happened to look up, and there pulling the espressos was one of the most handsome young men I've ever seen in my life. So handsome that my jaw dropped and my mind went blank mid-sentence.
That, it turned out, was Bucky. For a while, he was Starbucks boy. But then, y'see, I got to know him, and he became Bucky.
Much drama ensued. Bucky was all of eighteen years old. He was solicitous of my time and attention. I might even say he was flirtatious. But in this way way WAY ambiguous way. It was like, he'd take a step closer, I'd take a step closer, and he'd take three steps back.
Which, of course, drove me crazy. Making me want him so bad. Just check back on some of my posts from November and December of 2003. I was obsessed! Finally, Bucky announced that he was heading to Wisconsin to be with his brand new girlfriend. Coulda knocked me over with a feather.
Christ.
Well I'll be damned. Here comes your ghost again.
There, in the flesh--the steamin' hot flesh, looking better than ever--was Bucky.
We sat. We talked. Just like we used to do.
Bucky is stunningly handsome.
To me anyway.
He's got great hair. That's weird for me to say, right? You probably don't think of me and hair in the same sentence. But Bucky has this great, wild, wavy hair. More young outlaw biker than surfer boy. Beautiful face. Beautiful eyes. And the way his beard frames his face. Amazing. And that mouth. Those full, sensuous lips.
So Bucky and I were talking.
Mostly when we talked way back when, we'd talk about writing. And what we were each reading. Bucky wants to be a writer, I like writing. So Bucky tells me that he wants to write a screenplay. And he launches into this prolonged (prolonged!) blow-by-blow of the whole deal. It was kinda sci-fi. In the future, women rule the world. Men are reduced to servitude. The men rebel. I think there's some kind of war. And it comes down to the last two men on the planet. They're being sought after by the women, because they need the men's sperm to reproduce. So there are the two men, out there on the run.
At this point, Bucky's voice starts to crack from nervousness.
Christ.
You see, Bucky explains, the two men are gay. But here's the thing. Women have been in control for so long, and men have been subjugated for so long (Bucky didn't use the word "subjugated"), that they don't know how to be sexual with each other.
Bucky looked right at me. "But then, they figure it out."
Gosh, I said, that's really great.
(Implausible, but great.)
We talked for a little longer. It turns out that the girlfriend Bucky went to live with in Wisconsin he had never met. And he found out she was about fourteen years old. And so that didn't work out.
Now many many years ago, when I was about the age that Bucky is now, the Baron and I had a term we'd toss around: pre-fag sprout. Spouts were ostensibly straight guys who would probably turn out to be gay. For example, one of the signs of a sprout was dating outside your race, playing around with the idea of being romantically transgressive. (To be sure, not every young man who dates outside his race is a pre-fag sprout, but many pre-fag sprouts date outside their race.) And of course, that hyper-romantic A-Girl-I-Never-Met-Likes-Me-So-I'll-Move-Half-Way-Across-The-Country thing? Totally pre-fag sprout.
So it was time for me to go. And I asked Bucky if he wanted a ride home.
Was it my imagination, or did his face light up?
He lived about a half a mile away. He mentioned that his roommate was probably asleep. Sitting in my jeep outside Bucky's house, I thought about putting my hand on his thigh. About leaning in and kissing his wonderful lips. About gently massaging the nape of his neck. Instead, we shook hands. But then continued to hold each other's hand firmly while we continued our conversation. He said goodnight and I watched him disappear inside his house.
Christ.
That night, my fevered imagination had Bucky trussed, belted, soaked, caged, restrained, afraid, insensate, beaten, subdued, wrecked, and begging for more. Bucky Bucky Bucky.
Bucky and I had swapped numbers, and so the next day, when I got off work, I gave Bucky a call. "Hey it's me, Drew. Just got off work. Heading to your local Starbucks. Be great to hang out with you again today. If you can, stop by. Either way, give me a call."
And he didn't.
There's no explaining Bucky. Is he or isn't he? And if he doesn't know, why the hell not? We live in a time where kids come out in junior high school. Same sex prom dates don't even make the papers anymore.
The Baron, of course, was happy to throw a bucket of ice water on my reverie. "Older men, if they're smart, get in relationships with younger men taking on a paternal role. If they try to be a peer, it's just kind of pathetic. But what the younger man wants is a peer. So you see, there's a conflict there, right?"
Right.
But I don't necessarily want to be Bucky's boyfriend. I just want to jump his bones.
Or whatever.
I mean... Christ!
Still no phone call from Bucky. And I'm pretty relieved by that. Like I really need to devote my time and attention to a sexually ambiguous 22 year old? Surely not. Especially when there just happen to be some adult men in the world who offer so much more. And without the ambiguity.
Or without that fundamental ambiguity.
After all, all of our intimate relationships are ultimately ambiguous. We never really know. For sure. Living with that ambiguity is what's key. Pretending it's not there... well, that way lies destruction.
So, if the opportunity arose, I'd definitely tap Bucky's ass. But the same, of course, goes for Vin Diesel. (Now there's another study in sexual ambiguity, huh?) But if neither happens, I'm cool.
You see what I mean.
No more soft rock and soft jazz Christmas music. We're back to the usual fare.
So life seems to be returning to something I'd like to call "Normal."
Christ!
And then, the other night, I stopped into Starbucks in Chalfont to pick up a latté. There was a passel of young folks there, one of whom was the former girlfriend of a guy I used to work with at Wuperior Soodcraft. And another was a young woman who used to work at Starbucks in Doylestown wherein I used to hang out a lot. We all caught up a bit. It was revealed to me that the nickname assigned to me by the staff at Starbucks in Doylestown was "Snakes." And they used to pass the time by creating a backstory for me.
"Snakes." I love that.
So this guy came up behind us, and during a lull in the conversation, he tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You're Drew. I remember you."
I turned around, there was a sudden intake of breath from me. It was Bucky.
Only longtime readers of SingleTails will remember Bucky. It was four years ago, when I was freshly relocated to the Howling Wilderness of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. An Ex of mine, the Man Who Ages Backwards, took the train down from NYC to pay me a visit. We had lunch, went to the Mercer Museum (which he didn't get a lot out of), and then stopped at Starbucks in Doylestown to have some coffee and talk before I had to take him to the train. At one point, as we sat talking, I happened to look up, and there pulling the espressos was one of the most handsome young men I've ever seen in my life. So handsome that my jaw dropped and my mind went blank mid-sentence.
That, it turned out, was Bucky. For a while, he was Starbucks boy. But then, y'see, I got to know him, and he became Bucky.
Much drama ensued. Bucky was all of eighteen years old. He was solicitous of my time and attention. I might even say he was flirtatious. But in this way way WAY ambiguous way. It was like, he'd take a step closer, I'd take a step closer, and he'd take three steps back.
Which, of course, drove me crazy. Making me want him so bad. Just check back on some of my posts from November and December of 2003. I was obsessed! Finally, Bucky announced that he was heading to Wisconsin to be with his brand new girlfriend. Coulda knocked me over with a feather.
Christ.
Well I'll be damned. Here comes your ghost again.
There, in the flesh--the steamin' hot flesh, looking better than ever--was Bucky.
We sat. We talked. Just like we used to do.
Bucky is stunningly handsome.
To me anyway.
He's got great hair. That's weird for me to say, right? You probably don't think of me and hair in the same sentence. But Bucky has this great, wild, wavy hair. More young outlaw biker than surfer boy. Beautiful face. Beautiful eyes. And the way his beard frames his face. Amazing. And that mouth. Those full, sensuous lips.
So Bucky and I were talking.
Mostly when we talked way back when, we'd talk about writing. And what we were each reading. Bucky wants to be a writer, I like writing. So Bucky tells me that he wants to write a screenplay. And he launches into this prolonged (prolonged!) blow-by-blow of the whole deal. It was kinda sci-fi. In the future, women rule the world. Men are reduced to servitude. The men rebel. I think there's some kind of war. And it comes down to the last two men on the planet. They're being sought after by the women, because they need the men's sperm to reproduce. So there are the two men, out there on the run.
At this point, Bucky's voice starts to crack from nervousness.
Christ.
You see, Bucky explains, the two men are gay. But here's the thing. Women have been in control for so long, and men have been subjugated for so long (Bucky didn't use the word "subjugated"), that they don't know how to be sexual with each other.
Bucky looked right at me. "But then, they figure it out."
Gosh, I said, that's really great.
(Implausible, but great.)
We talked for a little longer. It turns out that the girlfriend Bucky went to live with in Wisconsin he had never met. And he found out she was about fourteen years old. And so that didn't work out.
Now many many years ago, when I was about the age that Bucky is now, the Baron and I had a term we'd toss around: pre-fag sprout. Spouts were ostensibly straight guys who would probably turn out to be gay. For example, one of the signs of a sprout was dating outside your race, playing around with the idea of being romantically transgressive. (To be sure, not every young man who dates outside his race is a pre-fag sprout, but many pre-fag sprouts date outside their race.) And of course, that hyper-romantic A-Girl-I-Never-Met-Likes-Me-So-I'll-Move-Half-Way-Across-The-Country thing? Totally pre-fag sprout.
So it was time for me to go. And I asked Bucky if he wanted a ride home.
Was it my imagination, or did his face light up?
He lived about a half a mile away. He mentioned that his roommate was probably asleep. Sitting in my jeep outside Bucky's house, I thought about putting my hand on his thigh. About leaning in and kissing his wonderful lips. About gently massaging the nape of his neck. Instead, we shook hands. But then continued to hold each other's hand firmly while we continued our conversation. He said goodnight and I watched him disappear inside his house.
Christ.
That night, my fevered imagination had Bucky trussed, belted, soaked, caged, restrained, afraid, insensate, beaten, subdued, wrecked, and begging for more. Bucky Bucky Bucky.
Bucky and I had swapped numbers, and so the next day, when I got off work, I gave Bucky a call. "Hey it's me, Drew. Just got off work. Heading to your local Starbucks. Be great to hang out with you again today. If you can, stop by. Either way, give me a call."
And he didn't.
There's no explaining Bucky. Is he or isn't he? And if he doesn't know, why the hell not? We live in a time where kids come out in junior high school. Same sex prom dates don't even make the papers anymore.
The Baron, of course, was happy to throw a bucket of ice water on my reverie. "Older men, if they're smart, get in relationships with younger men taking on a paternal role. If they try to be a peer, it's just kind of pathetic. But what the younger man wants is a peer. So you see, there's a conflict there, right?"
Right.
But I don't necessarily want to be Bucky's boyfriend. I just want to jump his bones.
Or whatever.
I mean... Christ!
Still no phone call from Bucky. And I'm pretty relieved by that. Like I really need to devote my time and attention to a sexually ambiguous 22 year old? Surely not. Especially when there just happen to be some adult men in the world who offer so much more. And without the ambiguity.
Or without that fundamental ambiguity.
After all, all of our intimate relationships are ultimately ambiguous. We never really know. For sure. Living with that ambiguity is what's key. Pretending it's not there... well, that way lies destruction.
So, if the opportunity arose, I'd definitely tap Bucky's ass. But the same, of course, goes for Vin Diesel. (Now there's another study in sexual ambiguity, huh?) But if neither happens, I'm cool.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
2007: This Was The Year That Was
"Oh man," I said to the Baron, "this year is really kicking my ass!"
And in many respects, it did. Poverty! Toil! Pain! Desperation! Rejection! Now, I'd add a qualifier along the lines of "relatively speaking" to the Poverty, Toil, Pain, and Desperation, the Rejection thing stands. Man! What was that? Crazy.
Somebody once said that looking back, you don't remember the periods of your life when you were happy, but only the hard times. But I think that somebody was wrong. At least in my case.
I have a clear recollection of sending out all those resumes and not hearing anything back, or going on those interviews only to hear, "Sorry," but I wouldn't say that's what I remember.
I remember seeing 300 with the New York boys of Leather. I remember sitting poolside with the members of my SM-Spirituality Discussion Group. I remember the great time I had doing my workshop on flogging and whipping at CLAW. I remember the sweet delight of JPZapper and DogToppers great July dungeon party. I remember Each And Every inning of Each And Every game of this golden season of playing softball with the Ball Breakers. I remember days at the beach and smoking cigars on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown. I remember working at a steel mill. I remember how being unemployed gave me lots of time to devote to the gym, and how round about August I had the body I've always wanted. For a month or so. And damn! If I knew in advance that I could only do one SM scene the whole year, then I think I would have picked marching Man of Discipline out into the woods, stringing him up between two trees, and whipping him to my heart's content.
So here's the wrap up.
Best Movie Yeah, I loved 300. And I had a great time with Hairspray, but I think the honors for the best movie that I saw all year wouldhave to go to the only movie I saw without the benefit of freshly baked cookies, Into The Wild. I think I want the DVD.
Best TV Heroes! Heroes Heroes Heroes! See that guy hanging on every episode? The one who calls Tuesday "H-Day Minus Six"? That would be me. Ever'buddy on my softball team was wild about Buffy, but that never did a lot for me. But Save The Cheerleader, Save The World pushes all of my buttons.
Best Book Check it out. C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, brought into my life by none other than 'bastian.
Low Point (For All Of Us) 2007 did for us homos what Bill Clinton's second term did for heterosexuals. There I was, greeted on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown by a table full of my straight guy buddies with the inquiry, "So... Uh... Foot tapping?" Sheesh! Things I thought I'd never have to explain and elaborate on, huh?
High Point (For All Of Us) Although there are certainly more than a few unfulfilled promises there, was I the only one who breathed a sigh of relief when the Democrats took control of both houses of Congress and installed Nancy Pelosi as the Speaker? I just felt a little bit like, "Oh cool. I don't have to emigrate to Canada after all."
Low Point (For Me Personally) Remember hot tub guy? Yeah, him. What a dick. And I'm not talking anatomically. And the moment in which I realized that all the time, energy, and attention I had invested in that drug-addled bozo was for nought was not one I'd like to recall.
High Point (For Me Personally) When the demented and psychologically unbalanced Board of Directors of my Previous Place of emPloyment gave me the boot--uhhh... in the six months I was there I brought in over $400,000--I responded with grace and dignity. Which really knocked them on their sorry asses. I didn't know I had it in me! One of my finest moments.
The Journey And The Destination! San Diego! Palm Springs! Alpha! Dinner with Roadkill! The inside of an Alexander House! All those great Richard Neutra buildings! The Barracks! The Best Mexican Food Ever! Kumquats right off the tree! What a great trip that was.
Best Wardrobe Acquisition For a change, no cows had to die for me to look good! The prize goes to my chocolate brown Puma warm-up suit. Look for me to be featuring it down at MAL. In a sea of black leather, there I'll be. As I'm fond of telling myself, at this point in my life, I have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all myself.
Best Unforeseen Development Hands down, me in the orange apron.
Music! I was a little disappointed by Lucinda Williams' West. But I sure liked the latest offering from the Dixie Chicks. But I think the music that had the greatest impact on me this year was the 300 soundtrack.
"He's the Creative Type." The presentation I did on SM as a Spiritual Journey for MAsT was wonderful, but I think the creative output that gave me the most pleasure this year was keeping warm last winter by writing the Great (Gay) American (Erotic) (Werewolf) Novel(la). And I'm pleased to report that a sequel is taking shape in my head.
Favorite News Item Of The YearI was home with my father. He always has the television on, and in the morning, it's often set to CNN. That morning, the junior senator from Illinois held a rally on the steps of the old state house in Springfield to announce his candidacy. And the speech he gave was some of the best political oratory I've ever heard. Not saying that I'm a Barak guy. But overall, the Democratic field is just pretty darn amazing. Particularly stacked up against the Republicans. And the serious Democratic nominee could be either a woman or an african-american. That day, to my mind was the start of Oh no way. In San Francisco, a tiger kills one man and mauls two others. And they think the tiger was probably stalking around the City By The Bay for several hours. A tiger! I bet that neither of the two guys who got mauled while they were eating at a restaurant thought, "Gosh! I hope I don't get mauled by a tiger today!" when they left the house that morning. That is just plain amazing.
The more astute longtime readers might recall my favorite news story that I would look forward to every winter. It always happened at least once, always running along the same lines: kids throwing snowballs at cars, some guy who's carrying gets out of his car and shoots a kid. Amongst the casualties of global warming is kids throwing snowballs at cars and thus getting shot for that. But a man-eating tiger running around San Francisco sure makes the loss of that easier.
Y'know, in years past, putting together Best and Worst lists has been pretty easy. But this year hasn't been so much characterized by significant events. Rather, it's been the whole journey. With only a few exceptions, each individual day was pretty much like any other, cleaved as they were almost down the middle by the Time Before Ho(t)me(n) Depot and the Time After Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Either I was moping about the house getting my resume rejected or I was rushing home from Ho(t)me(n) Depot to report to all of you about how I tricked a hot boy into saying "So I need to grease up my hole real good" and similar shenanigans. (Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there seemed to be this rash of guys with movie star good looks. It was weird. So a guy wearing a sweatshirt identifying him as an employee of Shelby & Sons Plumbing Contractors came in buying some PVC, and he looked a hell of a lot more like a guy who would play a plumber in a movie than he did an actual real life plumber. And that kept happening! All day long today was like Ho(t)me(n) Depot 90210! Anyway.)
So I think that the key aspect of this posting might be more along the lines of 2007: What I Learned.
This year, I attained Middle Age. I became a Middle Aged Man.
Most notably, I can't change down the baseline with my previous speed. I am now faced with the challenge of developing a Nice Quick Trot.
But so much more.
O pity the young! There you are, late 20's, early 30's, climbing the ladder of success, rung by rung, hand over hand. All the lights turn green, all the doors open as you appraoch. Naturally, you assume that this is because you're you. Sweet, wonderful, talented, charmbing, vigorous you! But no, it's just the happenstance of your year of birth. Fortune won't always be smiling at you. At a certain point, she'll turn her attention to one of those many fresh-faced, bright-eyed young'n's coming up behind you. Although it feels like Supreme Injustice worthy of shaking your fists at the Heavens, it's not really. It's just the way of things.
It is to be hoped that you made the best of things while you had the chance, but probably not. What's the point of being young if you don't squander your gifts?
Cormac McCarthy offers that every man has two important tasks facing him: find work he enjoys and someone he likes to live with. And I would add to that that many of us get distracted from these two important tasks with all those green lights and opening doors. (I sure did.) But mercifully, my episode of shaking my fists at the Heavens at the unfairness of it all was brief. Lasting maybe a couple of days. A week at most.
But pretty quickly I came to a realization: this is my life.
It's that simple.
The alarm rings, you get out of bed, and you head out to do what you gotta do. I take care of business. I pay cash. I do my best. And in every situation, I do my best to be kind. Friendship, relaxing with a good cigar, owning a dog, sweat, the turn of the seasons, some thought that's new to me, trying to grasp the import of some dream as it vanishes on waking... Finding joy in these small things.
Oh. And one more. Writing and being read. Here on SingleTails. When I was about eleven I set out to write a novel. And managed to get about thirty pages out. The effort was derailed when I gave the unfinished manuscript to my sister to read (Never let anybody read it until it's done) and she laughed because I had confused the name of one of my characters, Arthur, with the word Author. (Great artists are never understood by their big sisters! O that I had known that then!) And I think that all things considered, 2007 hasn't been a bad year for SingleTails.
So all the best to all of you for 2008. No idea what the New Year's Resolution is going to be yet. And, of course, as recent history has proven to me, no idea what the next twelve months hold in store. But you can read all about it here.
All my love,
Drew
And in many respects, it did. Poverty! Toil! Pain! Desperation! Rejection! Now, I'd add a qualifier along the lines of "relatively speaking" to the Poverty, Toil, Pain, and Desperation, the Rejection thing stands. Man! What was that? Crazy.
Somebody once said that looking back, you don't remember the periods of your life when you were happy, but only the hard times. But I think that somebody was wrong. At least in my case.
I have a clear recollection of sending out all those resumes and not hearing anything back, or going on those interviews only to hear, "Sorry," but I wouldn't say that's what I remember.
I remember seeing 300 with the New York boys of Leather. I remember sitting poolside with the members of my SM-Spirituality Discussion Group. I remember the great time I had doing my workshop on flogging and whipping at CLAW. I remember the sweet delight of JPZapper and DogToppers great July dungeon party. I remember Each And Every inning of Each And Every game of this golden season of playing softball with the Ball Breakers. I remember days at the beach and smoking cigars on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown. I remember working at a steel mill. I remember how being unemployed gave me lots of time to devote to the gym, and how round about August I had the body I've always wanted. For a month or so. And damn! If I knew in advance that I could only do one SM scene the whole year, then I think I would have picked marching Man of Discipline out into the woods, stringing him up between two trees, and whipping him to my heart's content.
So here's the wrap up.
Best Movie Yeah, I loved 300. And I had a great time with Hairspray, but I think the honors for the best movie that I saw all year wouldhave to go to the only movie I saw without the benefit of freshly baked cookies, Into The Wild. I think I want the DVD.
Best TV Heroes! Heroes Heroes Heroes! See that guy hanging on every episode? The one who calls Tuesday "H-Day Minus Six"? That would be me. Ever'buddy on my softball team was wild about Buffy, but that never did a lot for me. But Save The Cheerleader, Save The World pushes all of my buttons.
Best Book Check it out. C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, brought into my life by none other than 'bastian.
Low Point (For All Of Us) 2007 did for us homos what Bill Clinton's second term did for heterosexuals. There I was, greeted on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown by a table full of my straight guy buddies with the inquiry, "So... Uh... Foot tapping?" Sheesh! Things I thought I'd never have to explain and elaborate on, huh?
High Point (For All Of Us) Although there are certainly more than a few unfulfilled promises there, was I the only one who breathed a sigh of relief when the Democrats took control of both houses of Congress and installed Nancy Pelosi as the Speaker? I just felt a little bit like, "Oh cool. I don't have to emigrate to Canada after all."
Low Point (For Me Personally) Remember hot tub guy? Yeah, him. What a dick. And I'm not talking anatomically. And the moment in which I realized that all the time, energy, and attention I had invested in that drug-addled bozo was for nought was not one I'd like to recall.
High Point (For Me Personally) When the demented and psychologically unbalanced Board of Directors of my Previous Place of emPloyment gave me the boot--uhhh... in the six months I was there I brought in over $400,000--I responded with grace and dignity. Which really knocked them on their sorry asses. I didn't know I had it in me! One of my finest moments.
The Journey And The Destination! San Diego! Palm Springs! Alpha! Dinner with Roadkill! The inside of an Alexander House! All those great Richard Neutra buildings! The Barracks! The Best Mexican Food Ever! Kumquats right off the tree! What a great trip that was.
Best Wardrobe Acquisition For a change, no cows had to die for me to look good! The prize goes to my chocolate brown Puma warm-up suit. Look for me to be featuring it down at MAL. In a sea of black leather, there I'll be. As I'm fond of telling myself, at this point in my life, I have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all myself.
Best Unforeseen Development Hands down, me in the orange apron.
Music! I was a little disappointed by Lucinda Williams' West. But I sure liked the latest offering from the Dixie Chicks. But I think the music that had the greatest impact on me this year was the 300 soundtrack.
"He's the Creative Type." The presentation I did on SM as a Spiritual Journey for MAsT was wonderful, but I think the creative output that gave me the most pleasure this year was keeping warm last winter by writing the Great (Gay) American (Erotic) (Werewolf) Novel(la). And I'm pleased to report that a sequel is taking shape in my head.
Favorite News Item Of The Year
The more astute longtime readers might recall my favorite news story that I would look forward to every winter. It always happened at least once, always running along the same lines: kids throwing snowballs at cars, some guy who's carrying gets out of his car and shoots a kid. Amongst the casualties of global warming is kids throwing snowballs at cars and thus getting shot for that. But a man-eating tiger running around San Francisco sure makes the loss of that easier.
Y'know, in years past, putting together Best and Worst lists has been pretty easy. But this year hasn't been so much characterized by significant events. Rather, it's been the whole journey. With only a few exceptions, each individual day was pretty much like any other, cleaved as they were almost down the middle by the Time Before Ho(t)me(n) Depot and the Time After Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Either I was moping about the house getting my resume rejected or I was rushing home from Ho(t)me(n) Depot to report to all of you about how I tricked a hot boy into saying "So I need to grease up my hole real good" and similar shenanigans. (Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there seemed to be this rash of guys with movie star good looks. It was weird. So a guy wearing a sweatshirt identifying him as an employee of Shelby & Sons Plumbing Contractors came in buying some PVC, and he looked a hell of a lot more like a guy who would play a plumber in a movie than he did an actual real life plumber. And that kept happening! All day long today was like Ho(t)me(n) Depot 90210! Anyway.)
So I think that the key aspect of this posting might be more along the lines of 2007: What I Learned.
This year, I attained Middle Age. I became a Middle Aged Man.
Most notably, I can't change down the baseline with my previous speed. I am now faced with the challenge of developing a Nice Quick Trot.
But so much more.
O pity the young! There you are, late 20's, early 30's, climbing the ladder of success, rung by rung, hand over hand. All the lights turn green, all the doors open as you appraoch. Naturally, you assume that this is because you're you. Sweet, wonderful, talented, charmbing, vigorous you! But no, it's just the happenstance of your year of birth. Fortune won't always be smiling at you. At a certain point, she'll turn her attention to one of those many fresh-faced, bright-eyed young'n's coming up behind you. Although it feels like Supreme Injustice worthy of shaking your fists at the Heavens, it's not really. It's just the way of things.
It is to be hoped that you made the best of things while you had the chance, but probably not. What's the point of being young if you don't squander your gifts?
Cormac McCarthy offers that every man has two important tasks facing him: find work he enjoys and someone he likes to live with. And I would add to that that many of us get distracted from these two important tasks with all those green lights and opening doors. (I sure did.) But mercifully, my episode of shaking my fists at the Heavens at the unfairness of it all was brief. Lasting maybe a couple of days. A week at most.
But pretty quickly I came to a realization: this is my life.
It's that simple.
The alarm rings, you get out of bed, and you head out to do what you gotta do. I take care of business. I pay cash. I do my best. And in every situation, I do my best to be kind. Friendship, relaxing with a good cigar, owning a dog, sweat, the turn of the seasons, some thought that's new to me, trying to grasp the import of some dream as it vanishes on waking... Finding joy in these small things.
Oh. And one more. Writing and being read. Here on SingleTails. When I was about eleven I set out to write a novel. And managed to get about thirty pages out. The effort was derailed when I gave the unfinished manuscript to my sister to read (Never let anybody read it until it's done) and she laughed because I had confused the name of one of my characters, Arthur, with the word Author. (Great artists are never understood by their big sisters! O that I had known that then!) And I think that all things considered, 2007 hasn't been a bad year for SingleTails.
So all the best to all of you for 2008. No idea what the New Year's Resolution is going to be yet. And, of course, as recent history has proven to me, no idea what the next twelve months hold in store. But you can read all about it here.
All my love,
Drew
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I Become A Transparent Eyeball
I haven't thought about this for years, and for no reason I can point to, it popped into my head. In Tenth Grade English, my teacher, Mr. Jimmerson, who was a total hippie, read it to all of us. It's a (very) short essay written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, with the title "Nature." I could be wrong, but I think I've also seen it referred to as "Crossing Boston Common."
Way back then when I was sixteen, it left me baffled. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. And that central image, the "transparent eyeball," got me all caught up, thinking of a cartoonish big thing with all those red capillaries and the nerve stem coming out the back...
But now, all these years later, I know what old Ralph Waldo is talking about. I guess that's what Tenth Grade English is all about. If Mr. Jimmerson is out there somewhere, I hope he senses some good vibrations that I'm sending out to him tonight.
Anyway. Here 't'is...
Standing on the bare ground, my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball-I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me-I am part or particle of God.The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances-master or servant, is then a trifle, and a disturbance. I am a lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I have something more connate and dear than in the streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.
Way back then when I was sixteen, it left me baffled. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. And that central image, the "transparent eyeball," got me all caught up, thinking of a cartoonish big thing with all those red capillaries and the nerve stem coming out the back...
But now, all these years later, I know what old Ralph Waldo is talking about. I guess that's what Tenth Grade English is all about. If Mr. Jimmerson is out there somewhere, I hope he senses some good vibrations that I'm sending out to him tonight.
Anyway. Here 't'is...
Standing on the bare ground, my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball-I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me-I am part or particle of God.The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances-master or servant, is then a trifle, and a disturbance. I am a lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I have something more connate and dear than in the streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Christmas Dinner
While I was channel surfing this morning, I hit on Good Morning America. I think they were discussing how to make a low calorie Christmas dinner or something. "Okay," said a perky woman, not that awful Rachel Ray thank the Lord, "so here we have ham, brussels sprouts, and potatoes. The makings of a classic Christmas Dinner!"
Egad! I thought, that's just what I'm making.
And so I did.
I made the ham with cumberland sauce; sauteed the brussels sprouts with bacon, butter, and chicken stock; and did up my mashed potatoes with lots of butter and milk. It definitely was not low calorie. But it was damn good.
The cumberland sauce was new to me. Got it right out of The Joy Of Cooking. That stuff rocks. It'll be a long time before I have ham without it.
Egad! I thought, that's just what I'm making.
And so I did.
I made the ham with cumberland sauce; sauteed the brussels sprouts with bacon, butter, and chicken stock; and did up my mashed potatoes with lots of butter and milk. It definitely was not low calorie. But it was damn good.
The cumberland sauce was new to me. Got it right out of The Joy Of Cooking. That stuff rocks. It'll be a long time before I have ham without it.
And Dwelt Among Us
Church was packed last night! And there were all these hot boys! It took Christmas Eve for services not to coincide with me working at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, but so be it.
When I got home, after making myself some nice hot chocolate, I settled in so that Faithful Companion and I could have our annual Christmas Eve Ritual. As we all know, from Midnight until 1 a.m. on Christmas Eve, all animals can talk. Here's how it went.
"Okay! It's midnight!"
(Faithful Companion looks at me expectantly.)
"That's right! Here's your big chance! What do you have to say for yourself?"
(He rests his head on my knee.)
"Anything to offer? Nothing at all? No complaints? No words of gratitude for all I do for you?"
(Faithful Companion observes me thoughtfully.)
"Any words of advice? You know me better than anybody. Anything I could be doing differently? Maybe more walks?"
(He wags his tail.)
"Well, if anything comes up, you've got fifty-three more minutes, okay?"
At about 12:30, I we went to bed.
When I got home, after making myself some nice hot chocolate, I settled in so that Faithful Companion and I could have our annual Christmas Eve Ritual. As we all know, from Midnight until 1 a.m. on Christmas Eve, all animals can talk. Here's how it went.
"Okay! It's midnight!"
(Faithful Companion looks at me expectantly.)
"That's right! Here's your big chance! What do you have to say for yourself?"
(He rests his head on my knee.)
"Anything to offer? Nothing at all? No complaints? No words of gratitude for all I do for you?"
(Faithful Companion observes me thoughtfully.)
"Any words of advice? You know me better than anybody. Anything I could be doing differently? Maybe more walks?"
(He wags his tail.)
"Well, if anything comes up, you've got fifty-three more minutes, okay?"
At about 12:30, I we went to bed.
Monday, December 24, 2007
2007: This Was The Year That Was
"Oh man," I said to the Baron, "this year is really kicking my ass!"
And in many respects, it did. Poverty! Toil! Pain! Desperation! Rejection! Now, I'd add a qualifier along the lines of "relatively speaking" to the Poverty, Toil, Pain, and Desperation, the Rejection thing stands. Man! What was that? Crazy.
Somebody once said that looking back, you don't remember the periods of your life when you were happy, but only the hard times. But I think that somebody was wrong. At least in my case.
I have a clear recollection of sending out all those resumes and not hearing anything back, or going on those interviews only to hear, "Sorry," but I wouldn't say that's what I remember.
I remember seeing 300 with the New York boys of Leather. I remember sitting poolside with the members of my SM-Spirituality Discussion Group. I remember the great time I had doing my workshop on flogging and whipping at CLAW. I remember the sweet delight of JPZapper and DogToppers great July dungeon party. I remember Each And Every inning of Each And Every game of this golden season of playing softball with the Ball Breakers. I remember days at the beach and smoking cigars on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown. I remember working at a steel mill. I remember how being unemployed gave me lots of time to devote to the gym, and how round about August I had the body I've always wanted. For a month or so. And damn! If I knew in advance that I could only do one SM scene the whole year, then I think I would have picked marching Man of Discipline out into the woods, stringing him up between two trees, and whipping him to my heart's content.
So here's the wrap up.
Best Movie Yeah, I loved 300. And I had a great time with Hairspray, but I think the honors for the best movie that I saw all year wouldhave to go to the only movie I saw without the benefit of freshly baked cookies, Into The Wild. I think I want the DVD.
Best TV Heroes! Heroes Heroes Heroes! See that guy hanging on every episode? The one who calls Tuesday "H-Day Minus Six"? That would be me. Ever'buddy on my softball team was wild about Buffy, but that never did a lot for me. But Save The Cheerleader, Save The World pushes all of my buttons.
Best Book Check it out. C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, brought into my life by none other than 'bastian.
Low Point (For All Of Us) 2007 did for us homos what Bill Clinton's second term did for heterosexuals. There I was, greeted on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown by a table full of my straight guy buddies with the inquiry, "So... Uh... Foot tapping?" Sheesh! Things I thought I'd never have to explain and elaborate on, huh?
High Point (For All Of Us) Although there are certainly more than a few unfulfilled promises there, was I the only one who breathed a sigh of relief when the Democrats took control of both houses of Congress and installed Nancy Pelosi as the Speaker? I just felt a little bit like, "Oh cool. I don't have to emigrate to Canada after all."
Low Point (For Me Personally) Remember hot tub guy? Yeah, him. What a dick. And I'm not talking anatomically. And the moment in which I realized that all the time, energy, and attention I had invested in that drug-addled bozo was for nought was not one I'd like to recall.
High Point (For Me Personally) When the demented and psychologically unbalanced Board of Directors of my Previous Place of emPloyment gave me the boot--uhhh... in the six months I was there I brought in over $400,000--I responded with grace and dignity. Which really knocked them on their sorry asses. I didn't know I had it in me! One of my finest moments.
The Journey And The Destination! San Diego! Palm Springs! Alpha! Dinner with Roadkill! The inside of an Alexander House! All those great Richard Neutra buildings! The Barracks! The Best Mexican Food Ever! Kumquats right off the tree! What a great trip that was.
Best Wardrobe Acquisition For a change, no cows had to die for me to look good! The prize goes to my chocolate brown Puma warm-up suit. Look for me to be featuring it down at MAL. In a sea of black leather, there I'll be. As I'm fond of telling myself, at this point in my life, I have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all myself.
Best Unforeseen Development Hands down, me in the orange apron.
Music! I was a little disappointed by Lucinda Williams' West. But I sure liked the latest offering from the Dixie Chicks. But I think the music that had the greatest impact on me this year was the 300 soundtrack.
"He's the Creative Type." The presentation I did on SM as a Spiritual Journey for MAsT was wonderful, but I think the creative output that gave me the most pleasure this year was keeping warm last winter by writing the Great (Gay) American (Erotic) (Werewolf) Novel(la). And I'm pleased to report that a sequel is taking shape in my head.
Favorite News Item Of The YearI was home with my father. He always has the television on, and in the morning, it's often set to CNN. That morning, the junior senator from Illinois held a rally on the steps of the old state house in Springfield to announce his candidacy. And the speech he gave was some of the best political oratory I've ever heard. Not saying that I'm a Barak guy. But overall, the Democratic field is just pretty darn amazing. Particularly stacked up against the Republicans. And the serious Democratic nominee could be either a woman or an african-american. That day, to my mind was the start of Oh no way. In San Francisco, a tiger kills one man and mauls two others. And they think the tiger was probably stalking around the City By The Bay for several hours. A tiger! I bet that neither of the two guys who got mauled while they were eating at a restaurant thought, "Gosh! I hope I don't get mauled by a tiger today!" when they left the house that morning. That is just plain amazing.
The more astute longtime readers might recall my favorite news story that I would look forward to every winter. It always happened at least once, always running along the same lines: kids throwing snowballs at cars, some guy who's carrying gets out of his car and shoots a kid. Amongst the casualties of global warming is kids throwing snowballs at cars and thus getting shot for that. But a man-eating tiger running around San Francisco sure makes the loss of that easier.
Y'know, in years past, putting together Best and Worst lists has been pretty easy. But this year hasn't been so much characterized by significant events. Rather, it's been the whole journey. With only a few exceptions, each individual day was pretty much like any other, cleaved as they were almost down the middle by the Time Before Ho(t)me(n) Depot and the Time After Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Either I was moping about the house getting my resume rejected or I was rushing home from Ho(t)me(n) Depot to report to all of you about how I tricked a hot boy into saying "So I need to grease up my hole real good" and similar shenanigans. (Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there seemed to be this rash of guys with movie star good looks. It was weird. So a guy wearing a sweatshirt identifying him as an employee of Shelby & Sons Plumbing Contractors came in buying some PVC, and he looked a hell of a lot more like a guy who would play a plumber in a movie than he did an actual real life plumber. And that kept happening! All day long today was like Ho(t)me(n) Depot 90210! Anyway.)
So I think that the key aspect of this posting might be more along the lines of 2007: What I Learned.
This year, I attained Middle Age. I became a Middle Aged Man.
Most notably, I can't change down the baseline with my previous speed. I am now faced with the challenge of developing a Nice Quick Trot.
But so much more.
O pity the young! There you are, late 20's, early 30's, climbing the ladder of success, rung by rung, hand over hand. All the lights turn green, all the doors open as you appraoch. Naturally, you assume that this is because you're you. Sweet, wonderful, talented, charmbing, vigorous you! But no, it's just the happenstance of your year of birth. Fortune won't always be smiling at you. At a certain point, she'll turn her attention to one of those many fresh-faced, bright-eyed young'n's coming up behind you. Although it feels like Supreme Injustice worthy of shaking your fists at the Heavens, it's not really. It's just the way of things.
It is to be hoped that you made the best of things while you had the chance, but probably not. What's the point of being young if you don't squander your gifts?
Cormac McCarthy offers that every man has two important tasks facing him: find work he enjoys and someone he likes to live with. And I would add to that that many of us get distracted from these two important tasks with all those green lights and opening doors. (I sure did.) But mercifully, my episode of shaking my fists at the Heavens at the unfairness of it all was brief. Lasting maybe a couple of days. A week at most.
But pretty quickly I came to a realization: this is my life.
It's that simple.
The alarm rings, you get out of bed, and you head out to do what you gotta do. I take care of business. I pay cash. I do my best. And in every situation, I do my best to be kind. Friendship, relaxing with a good cigar, owning a dog, sweat, the turn of the seasons, some thought that's new to me, trying to grasp the import of some dream as it vanishes on waking... Finding joy in these small things.
Oh. And one more. Writing and being read. Here on SingleTails. When I was about eleven I set out to write a novel. And managed to get about thirty pages out. The effort was derailed when I gave the unfinished manuscript to my sister to read (Never let anybody read it until it's done) and she laughed because I had confused the name of one of my characters, Arthur, with the word Author. (Great artists are never understood by their big sisters! O that I had known that then!) And I think that all things considered, 2007 hasn't been a bad year for SingleTails.
So all the best to all of you for 2008. No idea what the New Year's Resolution is going to be yet. And, of course, as recent history has proven to me, no idea what the next twelve months hold in store. But you can read all about it here.
All my love,
Drew
And in many respects, it did. Poverty! Toil! Pain! Desperation! Rejection! Now, I'd add a qualifier along the lines of "relatively speaking" to the Poverty, Toil, Pain, and Desperation, the Rejection thing stands. Man! What was that? Crazy.
Somebody once said that looking back, you don't remember the periods of your life when you were happy, but only the hard times. But I think that somebody was wrong. At least in my case.
I have a clear recollection of sending out all those resumes and not hearing anything back, or going on those interviews only to hear, "Sorry," but I wouldn't say that's what I remember.
I remember seeing 300 with the New York boys of Leather. I remember sitting poolside with the members of my SM-Spirituality Discussion Group. I remember the great time I had doing my workshop on flogging and whipping at CLAW. I remember the sweet delight of JPZapper and DogToppers great July dungeon party. I remember Each And Every inning of Each And Every game of this golden season of playing softball with the Ball Breakers. I remember days at the beach and smoking cigars on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown. I remember working at a steel mill. I remember how being unemployed gave me lots of time to devote to the gym, and how round about August I had the body I've always wanted. For a month or so. And damn! If I knew in advance that I could only do one SM scene the whole year, then I think I would have picked marching Man of Discipline out into the woods, stringing him up between two trees, and whipping him to my heart's content.
So here's the wrap up.
Best Movie Yeah, I loved 300. And I had a great time with Hairspray, but I think the honors for the best movie that I saw all year wouldhave to go to the only movie I saw without the benefit of freshly baked cookies, Into The Wild. I think I want the DVD.
Best TV Heroes! Heroes Heroes Heroes! See that guy hanging on every episode? The one who calls Tuesday "H-Day Minus Six"? That would be me. Ever'buddy on my softball team was wild about Buffy, but that never did a lot for me. But Save The Cheerleader, Save The World pushes all of my buttons.
Best Book Check it out. C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, brought into my life by none other than 'bastian.
Low Point (For All Of Us) 2007 did for us homos what Bill Clinton's second term did for heterosexuals. There I was, greeted on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown by a table full of my straight guy buddies with the inquiry, "So... Uh... Foot tapping?" Sheesh! Things I thought I'd never have to explain and elaborate on, huh?
High Point (For All Of Us) Although there are certainly more than a few unfulfilled promises there, was I the only one who breathed a sigh of relief when the Democrats took control of both houses of Congress and installed Nancy Pelosi as the Speaker? I just felt a little bit like, "Oh cool. I don't have to emigrate to Canada after all."
Low Point (For Me Personally) Remember hot tub guy? Yeah, him. What a dick. And I'm not talking anatomically. And the moment in which I realized that all the time, energy, and attention I had invested in that drug-addled bozo was for nought was not one I'd like to recall.
High Point (For Me Personally) When the demented and psychologically unbalanced Board of Directors of my Previous Place of emPloyment gave me the boot--uhhh... in the six months I was there I brought in over $400,000--I responded with grace and dignity. Which really knocked them on their sorry asses. I didn't know I had it in me! One of my finest moments.
The Journey And The Destination! San Diego! Palm Springs! Alpha! Dinner with Roadkill! The inside of an Alexander House! All those great Richard Neutra buildings! The Barracks! The Best Mexican Food Ever! Kumquats right off the tree! What a great trip that was.
Best Wardrobe Acquisition For a change, no cows had to die for me to look good! The prize goes to my chocolate brown Puma warm-up suit. Look for me to be featuring it down at MAL. In a sea of black leather, there I'll be. As I'm fond of telling myself, at this point in my life, I have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all myself.
Best Unforeseen Development Hands down, me in the orange apron.
Music! I was a little disappointed by Lucinda Williams' West. But I sure liked the latest offering from the Dixie Chicks. But I think the music that had the greatest impact on me this year was the 300 soundtrack.
"He's the Creative Type." The presentation I did on SM as a Spiritual Journey for MAsT was wonderful, but I think the creative output that gave me the most pleasure this year was keeping warm last winter by writing the Great (Gay) American (Erotic) (Werewolf) Novel(la). And I'm pleased to report that a sequel is taking shape in my head.
Favorite News Item Of The Year
The more astute longtime readers might recall my favorite news story that I would look forward to every winter. It always happened at least once, always running along the same lines: kids throwing snowballs at cars, some guy who's carrying gets out of his car and shoots a kid. Amongst the casualties of global warming is kids throwing snowballs at cars and thus getting shot for that. But a man-eating tiger running around San Francisco sure makes the loss of that easier.
Y'know, in years past, putting together Best and Worst lists has been pretty easy. But this year hasn't been so much characterized by significant events. Rather, it's been the whole journey. With only a few exceptions, each individual day was pretty much like any other, cleaved as they were almost down the middle by the Time Before Ho(t)me(n) Depot and the Time After Ho(t)me(n) Depot. Either I was moping about the house getting my resume rejected or I was rushing home from Ho(t)me(n) Depot to report to all of you about how I tricked a hot boy into saying "So I need to grease up my hole real good" and similar shenanigans. (Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there seemed to be this rash of guys with movie star good looks. It was weird. So a guy wearing a sweatshirt identifying him as an employee of Shelby & Sons Plumbing Contractors came in buying some PVC, and he looked a hell of a lot more like a guy who would play a plumber in a movie than he did an actual real life plumber. And that kept happening! All day long today was like Ho(t)me(n) Depot 90210! Anyway.)
So I think that the key aspect of this posting might be more along the lines of 2007: What I Learned.
This year, I attained Middle Age. I became a Middle Aged Man.
Most notably, I can't change down the baseline with my previous speed. I am now faced with the challenge of developing a Nice Quick Trot.
But so much more.
O pity the young! There you are, late 20's, early 30's, climbing the ladder of success, rung by rung, hand over hand. All the lights turn green, all the doors open as you appraoch. Naturally, you assume that this is because you're you. Sweet, wonderful, talented, charmbing, vigorous you! But no, it's just the happenstance of your year of birth. Fortune won't always be smiling at you. At a certain point, she'll turn her attention to one of those many fresh-faced, bright-eyed young'n's coming up behind you. Although it feels like Supreme Injustice worthy of shaking your fists at the Heavens, it's not really. It's just the way of things.
It is to be hoped that you made the best of things while you had the chance, but probably not. What's the point of being young if you don't squander your gifts?
Cormac McCarthy offers that every man has two important tasks facing him: find work he enjoys and someone he likes to live with. And I would add to that that many of us get distracted from these two important tasks with all those green lights and opening doors. (I sure did.) But mercifully, my episode of shaking my fists at the Heavens at the unfairness of it all was brief. Lasting maybe a couple of days. A week at most.
But pretty quickly I came to a realization: this is my life.
It's that simple.
The alarm rings, you get out of bed, and you head out to do what you gotta do. I take care of business. I pay cash. I do my best. And in every situation, I do my best to be kind. Friendship, relaxing with a good cigar, owning a dog, sweat, the turn of the seasons, some thought that's new to me, trying to grasp the import of some dream as it vanishes on waking... Finding joy in these small things.
Oh. And one more. Writing and being read. Here on SingleTails. When I was about eleven I set out to write a novel. And managed to get about thirty pages out. The effort was derailed when I gave the unfinished manuscript to my sister to read (Never let anybody read it until it's done) and she laughed because I had confused the name of one of my characters, Arthur, with the word Author. (Great artists are never understood by their big sisters! O that I had known that then!) And I think that all things considered, 2007 hasn't been a bad year for SingleTails.
So all the best to all of you for 2008. No idea what the New Year's Resolution is going to be yet. And, of course, as recent history has proven to me, no idea what the next twelve months hold in store. But you can read all about it here.
All my love,
Drew
Pot and Lid
Saturday went like clockwork.
Left work, hit the grocery store, got home, took a nap, woke up, made dinner for my father, and headed west to Pottstown, PA to attend the Christmas party at the home of JPZapper and DogTopper. I got there a little later than planned and the party was in full swing, but there was still plenty of ham and shrimp cocktail left. (Y'know that Tanqueray commercial where the guy is unbecomingly scarfing down shrimp cocktail by the wee fistful? That's me. That's so me. I have no idea what it is about shrimp cocktail. Not like it's hard to come by or anything. They sell these shrimp rings at my localSuperFresh StoopidFresh for a mere $6.99 or so. But when I'm at a party and I see shrimp cocktail, I immediately get this weird gollum-like greediness: I want all that shrimp cocktail for myself and I get upset if someone else starts filling their plate.)
And I got to hang out with the other guys that I know from there. Male of Datt and Male fame grabbed me under the mistletoe and wanted a kiss. I happily obliged, and then said, "And I also have a spring of mistletoe on my belt buckle!" (I didn't, but I might look into that.) Male asked me what was up, and I told him excitedly about a chain bondage demo I did at this trans nightclub down in Philadelphia, interjecting, "Oh right! You were there, too!" Because honestly, other than the joys of Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there isn't a lot going on. But such is life.
When I gobbled up the last of the potstickers (yum!) I realized that I hadn't checked out the food in the parlor sufficiently, and headed in to correct that. Alas, only brie and swiss cheese, not my favorites. I know I know I know, because I'm a gay man I'm supposed to like brie, because apparently it tastes Just Like Cum. But I don't. And I'm not too wild about the taste of cum either.
But I noticed a guy sitting in the corner, and I realized I knew him.
It was Warrior.
I first met Warrior and his Master, Hammer, years ago when I went through GMSMA's Novices Special Interest Group. During one of the final sessions, we visited Hammer and Warrior to see the scene they did so well: strapping. While Warrior warmed up with various stretches, Hammer told us about his love of applying a leather strap to a lean, muscular man. For him, there was nothing better. And into his life, the leathergods saw fit to bring Warrior, a lean and muscular man (a dancer and choreographer of great renown, in fact), who loved to get strapped. Hammer restrained Warrior with his arms akimbo and went to work on him, using the end of a thick leather belt with the end doubled back on itself to form a sort of handle. The strap was about a foot long, maybe less. When Hammer got going, the sound was rhythmic, like someone clapping his hands. He was constantly circling Warrior, changing his focus from arms to chest to thighs to butt to back. It was beautiful. It struck me at the time that it was like watching a virtuoso play a musical instrument. And indeed it was.
Hammer and Warrior also made a huge impression on me in that when they met, two men in the fullness of life, they found in each other so much of what they were each seeking. For every pot, there's a lid, but only once in a great while do the respective pot and lid find themselves in the same place at the same time. But in the case of Hammer and Warrior, they did.
And that gave me great hope.
It was great seeing Warrior. I sat in the chair next to him (with some conveniently place M&Ms), and we talked. Mostly about travel, the places we'd been and what we did there. Warrior has traveled much more than I have as his dancing has taken him all over the world. But I, of course, have only seen the sights a guy can see from Brooklyn Heights. Well, not quite. Warrior mentioned that Hammer hated the fact that Warrior had to be on the road so much, but reconciled himself to that. He mentioned that he was hoping to get to Taiwan, which seems to be towards the top of his list of The Best Places I've Been the way Moscow is with me. Possibly a teaching engagement, which would mean that he'd be there for an extended period of time.
"Oh gosh," I said, "Poor Hammer! Does he know you'll be off in Taiwan?"
"Oh," Warrior answered, "You don't know. Hammer died in November. Prostate cancer."
I didn't know. And I was pretty floored by that. In a way, it didn't seem possible, for a number of reasons.
I said all the things that you say to someone who has recently experienced a terrible loss. Warrior said all the things you say when you've recently experienced a terrible loss.
And then, Warrior mentioned just how grateful he felt, deep down under his grief was this profound feeling of gratitude. For twelve wonderful years, he and Hammer had been together, pot and lid, lid and pot. And not everyone gets that. At all, little less twelve years of it.
I told him about Special Guy, whose picture I still carry in my wallet. We were together for five months. Five wonderful months. I may not have Special Guy anymore, but I'll always have those five wonderful months. And that's more than a lot of people ever get in life. Some people don't get much more than a week. Or a night. Or nothing at all.
During my five months with Special Guy, I wasn't quite aware of what was going down. I just knew that I was dating this really great guy. This guy who liked me. This guy who I liked spending time with, even if that meant lying next to him in bed talking because his back was out. For Hammer and Warrior though, it was different. They did know. I don't doubt that every blessed day they thought, "Holy Cow! Another day with him!"
Right up until the last day.
Pot and lid, lid and pot.
Life is pretty interesting when you think about it, huh?
Left work, hit the grocery store, got home, took a nap, woke up, made dinner for my father, and headed west to Pottstown, PA to attend the Christmas party at the home of JPZapper and DogTopper. I got there a little later than planned and the party was in full swing, but there was still plenty of ham and shrimp cocktail left. (Y'know that Tanqueray commercial where the guy is unbecomingly scarfing down shrimp cocktail by the wee fistful? That's me. That's so me. I have no idea what it is about shrimp cocktail. Not like it's hard to come by or anything. They sell these shrimp rings at my local
And I got to hang out with the other guys that I know from there. Male of Datt and Male fame grabbed me under the mistletoe and wanted a kiss. I happily obliged, and then said, "And I also have a spring of mistletoe on my belt buckle!" (I didn't, but I might look into that.) Male asked me what was up, and I told him excitedly about a chain bondage demo I did at this trans nightclub down in Philadelphia, interjecting, "Oh right! You were there, too!" Because honestly, other than the joys of Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there isn't a lot going on. But such is life.
When I gobbled up the last of the potstickers (yum!) I realized that I hadn't checked out the food in the parlor sufficiently, and headed in to correct that. Alas, only brie and swiss cheese, not my favorites. I know I know I know, because I'm a gay man I'm supposed to like brie, because apparently it tastes Just Like Cum. But I don't. And I'm not too wild about the taste of cum either.
But I noticed a guy sitting in the corner, and I realized I knew him.
It was Warrior.
I first met Warrior and his Master, Hammer, years ago when I went through GMSMA's Novices Special Interest Group. During one of the final sessions, we visited Hammer and Warrior to see the scene they did so well: strapping. While Warrior warmed up with various stretches, Hammer told us about his love of applying a leather strap to a lean, muscular man. For him, there was nothing better. And into his life, the leathergods saw fit to bring Warrior, a lean and muscular man (a dancer and choreographer of great renown, in fact), who loved to get strapped. Hammer restrained Warrior with his arms akimbo and went to work on him, using the end of a thick leather belt with the end doubled back on itself to form a sort of handle. The strap was about a foot long, maybe less. When Hammer got going, the sound was rhythmic, like someone clapping his hands. He was constantly circling Warrior, changing his focus from arms to chest to thighs to butt to back. It was beautiful. It struck me at the time that it was like watching a virtuoso play a musical instrument. And indeed it was.
Hammer and Warrior also made a huge impression on me in that when they met, two men in the fullness of life, they found in each other so much of what they were each seeking. For every pot, there's a lid, but only once in a great while do the respective pot and lid find themselves in the same place at the same time. But in the case of Hammer and Warrior, they did.
And that gave me great hope.
It was great seeing Warrior. I sat in the chair next to him (with some conveniently place M&Ms), and we talked. Mostly about travel, the places we'd been and what we did there. Warrior has traveled much more than I have as his dancing has taken him all over the world. But I, of course, have only seen the sights a guy can see from Brooklyn Heights. Well, not quite. Warrior mentioned that Hammer hated the fact that Warrior had to be on the road so much, but reconciled himself to that. He mentioned that he was hoping to get to Taiwan, which seems to be towards the top of his list of The Best Places I've Been the way Moscow is with me. Possibly a teaching engagement, which would mean that he'd be there for an extended period of time.
"Oh gosh," I said, "Poor Hammer! Does he know you'll be off in Taiwan?"
"Oh," Warrior answered, "You don't know. Hammer died in November. Prostate cancer."
I didn't know. And I was pretty floored by that. In a way, it didn't seem possible, for a number of reasons.
I said all the things that you say to someone who has recently experienced a terrible loss. Warrior said all the things you say when you've recently experienced a terrible loss.
And then, Warrior mentioned just how grateful he felt, deep down under his grief was this profound feeling of gratitude. For twelve wonderful years, he and Hammer had been together, pot and lid, lid and pot. And not everyone gets that. At all, little less twelve years of it.
I told him about Special Guy, whose picture I still carry in my wallet. We were together for five months. Five wonderful months. I may not have Special Guy anymore, but I'll always have those five wonderful months. And that's more than a lot of people ever get in life. Some people don't get much more than a week. Or a night. Or nothing at all.
During my five months with Special Guy, I wasn't quite aware of what was going down. I just knew that I was dating this really great guy. This guy who liked me. This guy who I liked spending time with, even if that meant lying next to him in bed talking because his back was out. For Hammer and Warrior though, it was different. They did know. I don't doubt that every blessed day they thought, "Holy Cow! Another day with him!"
Right up until the last day.
Pot and lid, lid and pot.
Life is pretty interesting when you think about it, huh?
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Just An Idea
I want to have a Gay Slur Dinner Party!
The menu would include...
Fruit Salad,
Tenderloin of Beef (a.k.a. Tube Steak) and Braised Fennel (called Finocchio in Italian, and ask an italian-american friend or acquaintance what else are called by that name),
and for dessert, Cream Puffs!
Discarded ideas include Froot Loops and Salmon (Light In Your) Loaf(ers).
As a centerpiece on the table, a nice bouquet of pansies.
Any other ideas?
The menu would include...
Fruit Salad,
Tenderloin of Beef (a.k.a. Tube Steak) and Braised Fennel (called Finocchio in Italian, and ask an italian-american friend or acquaintance what else are called by that name),
and for dessert, Cream Puffs!
Discarded ideas include Froot Loops and Salmon (Light In Your) Loaf(ers).
As a centerpiece on the table, a nice bouquet of pansies.
Any other ideas?
Friday, December 21, 2007
Just In Case You're Wondering...
The Starbucks on State Street in Newtown, PA has the hottest boy baristas (boy-ristas?).
Bar none.
Nuff said.
Bar none.
Nuff said.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
What I'm Not Getting For Christmas This Year
"So what are you not getting for Christmas this year?"
The question was posed, and it was an interesting one. If you think about it, what you are getting--especially if you know you're getting it five days before The Day, is sort of beside the point. But what you're not getting... definitionally, that's the stuff of dreams.
So what is the Man Who Denies Himself Nothing not getting? I thought and thought. There's the iPhone, but whatever. I'm fine with my BlackBerry. And cigars are always good with me, although I'm ridiculously particular about cigars. Wine and liquor are mostly wasted on me. Lobster and raw oysters are welcome, but logistically difficult.
But by Not Thinking About It, I thought of it. Something I've always always wanted: a straight razor head shave. Finished off with something like Bay Rum. And old school barbers I've visited have included a sort of backrub in the whole barbering experience. This is particularly welcome. Why isn't it done anymore? One guy I went to had a sort of vibrating pad he laid across my shoulders, providing that Magic Fingers kinda massage and some heat. After a head shave (the clippers kind that I used to favor when I was still going to barbers instead of taking care of myself in the shower every morning with a triple blade), it's bliss.
So here's what I'm not getting for Christmas this year: A straight razor head shave followed by a gentle backrub until I fall asleep.
That would be perfect.
So.
What are you not getting for Christmas this year?
The question was posed, and it was an interesting one. If you think about it, what you are getting--especially if you know you're getting it five days before The Day, is sort of beside the point. But what you're not getting... definitionally, that's the stuff of dreams.
So what is the Man Who Denies Himself Nothing not getting? I thought and thought. There's the iPhone, but whatever. I'm fine with my BlackBerry. And cigars are always good with me, although I'm ridiculously particular about cigars. Wine and liquor are mostly wasted on me. Lobster and raw oysters are welcome, but logistically difficult.
But by Not Thinking About It, I thought of it. Something I've always always wanted: a straight razor head shave. Finished off with something like Bay Rum. And old school barbers I've visited have included a sort of backrub in the whole barbering experience. This is particularly welcome. Why isn't it done anymore? One guy I went to had a sort of vibrating pad he laid across my shoulders, providing that Magic Fingers kinda massage and some heat. After a head shave (the clippers kind that I used to favor when I was still going to barbers instead of taking care of myself in the shower every morning with a triple blade), it's bliss.
So here's what I'm not getting for Christmas this year: A straight razor head shave followed by a gentle backrub until I fall asleep.
That would be perfect.
So.
What are you not getting for Christmas this year?
A Myth Exploded: Homo Depot
So.
Home Depot is as gay as a Barbra Streisand Film Festival, huh? So Homo Depot even garnered a mention on Will & Grace, huh?
On what planet?
Perhaps you've noticed that I refer to my place of employ as Ho(t)me(n) Depot here on SingleTails. Because it is. This will be evident to the most casual visitor. (Just today, there was this 6'3" built inked slab of muscle with a Marine horseshoe buzzcut wandering through Hardware, though not, alas, Aisle 31, the Rope and Chain aisle.) Hot Men, we got. Homos, not so much.
In fact, I am the only homo at my Ho(t)me(n) Depot. There are a couple of probable lesbians, but I'm the only gay male on the payroll. EVEN THOUGH there are a few guys there whom you would THINK are homos, they aren't. I'm it.
And I'm way too humble to say that I alone put the Homo in Homo Depot. I don't think I even make a dent.
There is, however, this Way Disconcerting experience, which goes down about once a week.
I'll run into him in the (Bonfire Of The) Vanities Aisle or the Bath Accessories Aisle. There he'll be, flapping his hands at the wrists, complaining that the fixture he's after only comes in chrome and brushed nickel (SO ten minutes ago!) and not Antique Bronze. But just as tears are welling up in my eyes and I'm about to give the Top Secret Handshake by which we identify each other--I know that's not near my favorite flavor, but still!--along will come The Wife. As in, an actual biological woman. She'll explain that she's just no good at getting things "to match," but luckily she married a man who seems to have "a knack" for that kind of thing. One woman even cheerfully and without any discernible irony offered that her husband picks out her clothes for her. Every day.
I swear, Montgomeryville, PA seems to be stuck in some kind of time warp, forever trapped in about 1958 or so. And there's even this guy I work with who will drop into a five minute conversation the fact that he Loves Football about four times and who keeps a big framed picture of he and his decade-or-so-older-than-him wife on his desk even though that's not allowed. (Protestething too much, I'd say.) And he's a total flamer if there ever was one.
And I think this explains, in part, all that I manage to get away with when I'm blatantly flirting with my Carhartt wearing tradesmen customers, even going so far as to offer up an appreciative "Woof!" now and then well within earshot: y'see, even if I were to flounce around in a tutu with a cigarette holder securing a Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light clenched in my teeth, it wouldn't dawn on them that given the choice between oysters and mussels, I'm a mussel man. Homos are just not anywhere on their radar. Because homos aren't in Montgomeryville, Pennsylvania. At all.
So how did this happen?
And it's such a marked contrast to the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown, a mere ten miles up 202, where the openly gay fifteen year old high school sophomores greet their straight male buddies by saying, "Hey handsome man! Give me some sugar!," and said straight male buddies will oblige by giving them a hug and a little peck on the cheek. Man! Is it a Brave New World coming down the pike or what?
Not that I'm complaining, mind you. These days, I'm all about Looking rather than Touching. And in the midst of playing my daily game of Who-Would-I-Most-Like-To-See-Bound-Gagged-Helpless-And-Begging-For-Mercy-But-Wanting-It-SO-Bad, the guy would break into my reveries and ask, "So, what time to you get off today?" That would ruin everything.
But I just want to make one thing clear: the sobriquet Homo Depot is unfounded. There ain't no homo in your Depot, no matter how much you'd like it to be otherwise.
Home Depot is as gay as a Barbra Streisand Film Festival, huh? So Homo Depot even garnered a mention on Will & Grace, huh?
On what planet?
Perhaps you've noticed that I refer to my place of employ as Ho(t)me(n) Depot here on SingleTails. Because it is. This will be evident to the most casual visitor. (Just today, there was this 6'3" built inked slab of muscle with a Marine horseshoe buzzcut wandering through Hardware, though not, alas, Aisle 31, the Rope and Chain aisle.) Hot Men, we got. Homos, not so much.
In fact, I am the only homo at my Ho(t)me(n) Depot. There are a couple of probable lesbians, but I'm the only gay male on the payroll. EVEN THOUGH there are a few guys there whom you would THINK are homos, they aren't. I'm it.
And I'm way too humble to say that I alone put the Homo in Homo Depot. I don't think I even make a dent.
There is, however, this Way Disconcerting experience, which goes down about once a week.
I'll run into him in the (Bonfire Of The) Vanities Aisle or the Bath Accessories Aisle. There he'll be, flapping his hands at the wrists, complaining that the fixture he's after only comes in chrome and brushed nickel (SO ten minutes ago!) and not Antique Bronze. But just as tears are welling up in my eyes and I'm about to give the Top Secret Handshake by which we identify each other--I know that's not near my favorite flavor, but still!--along will come The Wife. As in, an actual biological woman. She'll explain that she's just no good at getting things "to match," but luckily she married a man who seems to have "a knack" for that kind of thing. One woman even cheerfully and without any discernible irony offered that her husband picks out her clothes for her. Every day.
I swear, Montgomeryville, PA seems to be stuck in some kind of time warp, forever trapped in about 1958 or so. And there's even this guy I work with who will drop into a five minute conversation the fact that he Loves Football about four times and who keeps a big framed picture of he and his decade-or-so-older-than-him wife on his desk even though that's not allowed. (Protestething too much, I'd say.) And he's a total flamer if there ever was one.
And I think this explains, in part, all that I manage to get away with when I'm blatantly flirting with my Carhartt wearing tradesmen customers, even going so far as to offer up an appreciative "Woof!" now and then well within earshot: y'see, even if I were to flounce around in a tutu with a cigarette holder securing a Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light clenched in my teeth, it wouldn't dawn on them that given the choice between oysters and mussels, I'm a mussel man. Homos are just not anywhere on their radar. Because homos aren't in Montgomeryville, Pennsylvania. At all.
So how did this happen?
And it's such a marked contrast to the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown, a mere ten miles up 202, where the openly gay fifteen year old high school sophomores greet their straight male buddies by saying, "Hey handsome man! Give me some sugar!," and said straight male buddies will oblige by giving them a hug and a little peck on the cheek. Man! Is it a Brave New World coming down the pike or what?
Not that I'm complaining, mind you. These days, I'm all about Looking rather than Touching. And in the midst of playing my daily game of Who-Would-I-Most-Like-To-See-Bound-Gagged-Helpless-And-Begging-For-Mercy-But-Wanting-It-SO-Bad, the guy would break into my reveries and ask, "So, what time to you get off today?" That would ruin everything.
But I just want to make one thing clear: the sobriquet Homo Depot is unfounded. There ain't no homo in your Depot, no matter how much you'd like it to be otherwise.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Putey-Poot
Since I had the honors of being Time Magazine's Man Of The Year last year, I was interested to see who would join the elite ranks of Time's Men Of The Year this year. (Okay, so technically I shared that honor with every other human being on the planet, but when I looked in the reflective surface of my issue of Time Magazine, I didn't see any of you people; I just saw me.)
And it's Vladimir Putin!
Call me a crazy-assed, ignerint, gaywad, proto-fascist, dork--but please, not to my face--but I like the guy.
In 1999 and 2000, I had the opportunity to travel to Moscow, capital of the Russian Federation, and provide a russian NGO with technical assistance to launch an HIV prevention initiative. In total, I made three trips over there, and I have to say that Moscow was the most amazing place I've ever been. It's a beautiful city, steeped in history. The russian people are a soulful, doleful bunch. Sit down next to somebody in the lounge of a banya and right away you're talking about What It All Means.
And the history.
I read John Reed's Ten Days That Shook The World, the book that inspired Warren Beatty's movie Reds, prior to my first trip, and so I got off the plane ready to be steeped. At what other point in human history has a people taken it upon itself to shape their own destiny on such a scale as transpired during the Russian Revolution? Okay. So the results were pretty tragic in many respects, but still, gotta give credit for pluck, huh?
And I remember having lunch with a woman who was serving as my translator. About my age, we started comparing notes on our reminiscences of life in our respective countries during the 1980s. I told her about how I was sure that Soviet missiles were on the launchpads, ready to strike, about the nuclear non-proliferation movement, and about the fear and paranoia that pervaded the Reagan years. She told me that the russians saw the United States as unprincipled cowboys, hellbent on destroying the Soviet Union. In the worldview of her and her countrymen, the US was the crazy person in the room with the gun. We had a poignant moment when the same thought hit us at the same time: thank God the missiles never left the launchpad, and so fifteen years later, both of us could be sitting here in the Alexander Gardens outside the Kremlin on a beautiful day in June.
And also, once I got to know a russian, I would ask them what they remembered from 1991. Back then, the Old Guard decided that Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms had gone far enough and it was time to return to the Bad Old Days. Tanks rolled through the streets but the people of Moscow put their lives on the line to go and face down the Red Army. And the people, and Boris Yeltsin, the Moscow Party Boss, held the day.
"I headed towards Ostankino... We were all so scared... We didn't know what would happen..."
Russia at the turn of the Century was quite a place to be. Everything was up in the air. Most people scraped by on the equivalent of about $40 a month. But everywhere in Moscow, in their black Lexus's and Range Rovers with tinted windows were the Novii Ruskii, the "New Russians." Clad in Armani (also black) for the men and Versace for the women, they'd shop in the exclusive stores and go to the nightclubs and restaurants with astronomical prices, places that catered only to them. I thought at the time that they were the equivalent of the late 19th Century robber barons in this country, amassing fortunes unchecked. What Russia needed was a rough riding Teddy Roosevelt to rein them all in, level the playing field, and lessen the human misery that often comes with reaping a huge fortune by making opportunities available to everyone.
And along came former spy-master Vladimir Putin. And he did just that.
And yeah, he's run roughshod over freedom of the press and decided that regional governors would be best installed by him rather than by the electorate. But from what I hear, all across the country, and not just in Moscow and Peterburg, there is emerging a russian Middle Class.
And another thing. Russia is a Great Nation with a rich history. And distinctly russian art, architecture, literature, and philosophy. Putin has leveraged russian oil resources--which he nationalized--and once again made Russia a major player on the world stage, answerable to no one, charting their own course. Standing up to American hegemony is no small feat, and for the Bush administration, it's wildly inconvenient, but Putin is doing that, too.
Oh. And there's rumors that he's secretly gay.
And his hand-picked successor is a guy named Medvedyev, which I believe translates as "Little Bear."
On one of my last trips to Moscow, I was invited to a party. I thought it would be, y'know, a party. In somebody's apartment. Hors d'oeuvres. Drinks. It turned out that it was a Party. A huge bash with hundreds of people. There were tables piled with food, wine, vodka, dancing, music. And, of course, the toasts. At one point, my host rose and announced that the next toast would be given by "nahsh droog amyerikanski," our American friend, meaning me.
My mind raced.
I rose.
"I propose a toast to the russian people, the greatest lovers in the world!" (Some laughter, nervous and otherwise.) "Why do I say the russian people are the greatest lovers in the world? Because the russian people love life. They love food and drink and music and laughter and dancing and stories and poetry and family and friends. Every russian man and woman I have met here has been a true and ardent lover of life. But life has been a cruel lover to the russian people. They have given her their hearts, but Life has repaid their love harshly, often with poverty, violence, and deprivation. But no matter what Life gives them, russians only love Life all the more. The russian people know a deeper love than any the world over. And that is why I say that the russian people are the greatest lovers in the world. And I raise my glass to all of you! 'Nastrovya!"
It went over big.
And it's Vladimir Putin!
Call me a crazy-assed, ignerint, gaywad, proto-fascist, dork--but please, not to my face--but I like the guy.
In 1999 and 2000, I had the opportunity to travel to Moscow, capital of the Russian Federation, and provide a russian NGO with technical assistance to launch an HIV prevention initiative. In total, I made three trips over there, and I have to say that Moscow was the most amazing place I've ever been. It's a beautiful city, steeped in history. The russian people are a soulful, doleful bunch. Sit down next to somebody in the lounge of a banya and right away you're talking about What It All Means.
And the history.
I read John Reed's Ten Days That Shook The World, the book that inspired Warren Beatty's movie Reds, prior to my first trip, and so I got off the plane ready to be steeped. At what other point in human history has a people taken it upon itself to shape their own destiny on such a scale as transpired during the Russian Revolution? Okay. So the results were pretty tragic in many respects, but still, gotta give credit for pluck, huh?
And I remember having lunch with a woman who was serving as my translator. About my age, we started comparing notes on our reminiscences of life in our respective countries during the 1980s. I told her about how I was sure that Soviet missiles were on the launchpads, ready to strike, about the nuclear non-proliferation movement, and about the fear and paranoia that pervaded the Reagan years. She told me that the russians saw the United States as unprincipled cowboys, hellbent on destroying the Soviet Union. In the worldview of her and her countrymen, the US was the crazy person in the room with the gun. We had a poignant moment when the same thought hit us at the same time: thank God the missiles never left the launchpad, and so fifteen years later, both of us could be sitting here in the Alexander Gardens outside the Kremlin on a beautiful day in June.
And also, once I got to know a russian, I would ask them what they remembered from 1991. Back then, the Old Guard decided that Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms had gone far enough and it was time to return to the Bad Old Days. Tanks rolled through the streets but the people of Moscow put their lives on the line to go and face down the Red Army. And the people, and Boris Yeltsin, the Moscow Party Boss, held the day.
"I headed towards Ostankino... We were all so scared... We didn't know what would happen..."
Russia at the turn of the Century was quite a place to be. Everything was up in the air. Most people scraped by on the equivalent of about $40 a month. But everywhere in Moscow, in their black Lexus's and Range Rovers with tinted windows were the Novii Ruskii, the "New Russians." Clad in Armani (also black) for the men and Versace for the women, they'd shop in the exclusive stores and go to the nightclubs and restaurants with astronomical prices, places that catered only to them. I thought at the time that they were the equivalent of the late 19th Century robber barons in this country, amassing fortunes unchecked. What Russia needed was a rough riding Teddy Roosevelt to rein them all in, level the playing field, and lessen the human misery that often comes with reaping a huge fortune by making opportunities available to everyone.
And along came former spy-master Vladimir Putin. And he did just that.
And yeah, he's run roughshod over freedom of the press and decided that regional governors would be best installed by him rather than by the electorate. But from what I hear, all across the country, and not just in Moscow and Peterburg, there is emerging a russian Middle Class.
And another thing. Russia is a Great Nation with a rich history. And distinctly russian art, architecture, literature, and philosophy. Putin has leveraged russian oil resources--which he nationalized--and once again made Russia a major player on the world stage, answerable to no one, charting their own course. Standing up to American hegemony is no small feat, and for the Bush administration, it's wildly inconvenient, but Putin is doing that, too.
Oh. And there's rumors that he's secretly gay.
And his hand-picked successor is a guy named Medvedyev, which I believe translates as "Little Bear."
On one of my last trips to Moscow, I was invited to a party. I thought it would be, y'know, a party. In somebody's apartment. Hors d'oeuvres. Drinks. It turned out that it was a Party. A huge bash with hundreds of people. There were tables piled with food, wine, vodka, dancing, music. And, of course, the toasts. At one point, my host rose and announced that the next toast would be given by "nahsh droog amyerikanski," our American friend, meaning me.
My mind raced.
I rose.
"I propose a toast to the russian people, the greatest lovers in the world!" (Some laughter, nervous and otherwise.) "Why do I say the russian people are the greatest lovers in the world? Because the russian people love life. They love food and drink and music and laughter and dancing and stories and poetry and family and friends. Every russian man and woman I have met here has been a true and ardent lover of life. But life has been a cruel lover to the russian people. They have given her their hearts, but Life has repaid their love harshly, often with poverty, violence, and deprivation. But no matter what Life gives them, russians only love Life all the more. The russian people know a deeper love than any the world over. And that is why I say that the russian people are the greatest lovers in the world. And I raise my glass to all of you! 'Nastrovya!"
It went over big.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wintry Mix
Ah, the Ball Breakers!
My softball team! Great bunch of guys that they are.
Thenightly attempt by the local media to scare the crap out of old people weather report on the evening news was not promising. A "wintry mix" or snow, sleet, and rain would commence about 10 p.m. and after that, disaster, chaos, bedlam, crisis, doom, and impassable roads would ensue.
All day long at work, I was dreading the coming battle with my father. He'd beg. He'd plead. He'd lay on the guilt like cream chipped beef on toast. Maybe I'd relent and spend the next week being all sullen and resentful. Maybe I'd stick to my guns and go and feel rotten.
During the day, I got to spend some more time up in Christmas. As always, it restored my soul. Although it was a different experience. Since Christmas is strictly a "While Supplies Last!" affair at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I ended up disappointing as many folks as those whose Christmas Dreams I managed to make come true. ("Ornament hooks? Sorry to say we're fresh out.") I clocked out at 3 p.m. and headed for home. After giving Faithful Companion a walk, I took a two hour long nap (right on schedule!). When I got up, feeling refreshed, I decided to have it out with my father. Only having slept on it, I took a different approach...
"Dad, my softball team is having a Christmas Party tonight, and I'm going. I've heard the weather report. Most of the trip is highway driving, and the salt trucks are out there already. I'm a safe and careful driver. I'll be heading home early enough so I'll miss the worst of it. I'll be back safe and sound around midnight."
That took the wind out of his sails! He could only respond with a paltry "Do you have to go? I wish you wouldn't. But okay."
After fixing some hot dogs, I hit the road.
The drive out to my former hometown of Beautiful Jersey City went off without a hitch and I arrived right on time. And ooooh, the party was good! We feasted on shrimp cocktail and pigs in the blanket and scallops wrapped in bacon. We all got each other caught up on what we've been up to, and I think I impressed them all with my tales of Ho(t)me(n) Depot.
For no good reason, I was reminded of when I was a hotline crisis counselor for the New York City Gay And Lesbian Anti-Violence Project about a million years ago. Most of the calls we received were, in fact, from gay and lesbian survivors of bias related violence, domestic violence and such. But we also received calls from people asking for bar recommendations, complaining that they couldn't meet anybody, and, believe it or not, the occasional jerk off call.
That's right, jerk off calls!
And suddenly I was reminded of one of those jerk off calls. This guy called and said that he was at what he called a "gay party." He was verrrry upset, speaking in whispered tones, explaining that he had snuck away to the bedroom. He felt that he was in danger because everyone at the "gay party" was taking off their pants. (This, apparently, is what usually happened at "gay parties.") Unfortunately, as this was his first "gay party," he didn't know about the taking-off-the-pants thing, and he was wearing women's underwear. He was sure that if all those gays found out he was wearing women's underwear, they'd promptly gang rape him.
I think I advised him to not take off his pants, explaining that he had a terrible rash or something.
"But if I don't take my pants off, they'll gang rape me!" he protested.
I had to admit he had a point there. He was pretty much stuck. Either way he was going to get gang raped. "But," I pointed out, "what do you expect, going to a 'gay party' after all?"
So here I was, all these years later, at a "gay party." No one suggested we all take our pants off. Not that I would have been in any danger of gang rape since I was going commando as always and not women's underpants. But even absent the possibility of gang rape, those "gay parties" are a whole lotta fun. The pigs-in-the-blanket alone were worth the trip.
At 10:30, I had to hit the road. Some sort of precipitation had started to fall. I took it slow heading west on I-78, finishing up my latté and taking hits off my Rosenberger's Iced Tea to stay alert. On the highway, I had no problem, even though I did switch up to four wheel drive. Unfortunately, four wheel drive means I could see the needle on my gas gauge moving to the right. I was worried about winding, narrow River Road, and then the steep hill coming up from the river I'd need to take to get home.
But, I'm a safe and careful driver. Taking it slow, I got home just fine.
My softball team! Great bunch of guys that they are.
The
All day long at work, I was dreading the coming battle with my father. He'd beg. He'd plead. He'd lay on the guilt like cream chipped beef on toast. Maybe I'd relent and spend the next week being all sullen and resentful. Maybe I'd stick to my guns and go and feel rotten.
During the day, I got to spend some more time up in Christmas. As always, it restored my soul. Although it was a different experience. Since Christmas is strictly a "While Supplies Last!" affair at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I ended up disappointing as many folks as those whose Christmas Dreams I managed to make come true. ("Ornament hooks? Sorry to say we're fresh out.") I clocked out at 3 p.m. and headed for home. After giving Faithful Companion a walk, I took a two hour long nap (right on schedule!). When I got up, feeling refreshed, I decided to have it out with my father. Only having slept on it, I took a different approach...
"Dad, my softball team is having a Christmas Party tonight, and I'm going. I've heard the weather report. Most of the trip is highway driving, and the salt trucks are out there already. I'm a safe and careful driver. I'll be heading home early enough so I'll miss the worst of it. I'll be back safe and sound around midnight."
That took the wind out of his sails! He could only respond with a paltry "Do you have to go? I wish you wouldn't. But okay."
After fixing some hot dogs, I hit the road.
The drive out to my former hometown of Beautiful Jersey City went off without a hitch and I arrived right on time. And ooooh, the party was good! We feasted on shrimp cocktail and pigs in the blanket and scallops wrapped in bacon. We all got each other caught up on what we've been up to, and I think I impressed them all with my tales of Ho(t)me(n) Depot.
For no good reason, I was reminded of when I was a hotline crisis counselor for the New York City Gay And Lesbian Anti-Violence Project about a million years ago. Most of the calls we received were, in fact, from gay and lesbian survivors of bias related violence, domestic violence and such. But we also received calls from people asking for bar recommendations, complaining that they couldn't meet anybody, and, believe it or not, the occasional jerk off call.
That's right, jerk off calls!
And suddenly I was reminded of one of those jerk off calls. This guy called and said that he was at what he called a "gay party." He was verrrry upset, speaking in whispered tones, explaining that he had snuck away to the bedroom. He felt that he was in danger because everyone at the "gay party" was taking off their pants. (This, apparently, is what usually happened at "gay parties.") Unfortunately, as this was his first "gay party," he didn't know about the taking-off-the-pants thing, and he was wearing women's underwear. He was sure that if all those gays found out he was wearing women's underwear, they'd promptly gang rape him.
I think I advised him to not take off his pants, explaining that he had a terrible rash or something.
"But if I don't take my pants off, they'll gang rape me!" he protested.
I had to admit he had a point there. He was pretty much stuck. Either way he was going to get gang raped. "But," I pointed out, "what do you expect, going to a 'gay party' after all?"
So here I was, all these years later, at a "gay party." No one suggested we all take our pants off. Not that I would have been in any danger of gang rape since I was going commando as always and not women's underpants. But even absent the possibility of gang rape, those "gay parties" are a whole lotta fun. The pigs-in-the-blanket alone were worth the trip.
At 10:30, I had to hit the road. Some sort of precipitation had started to fall. I took it slow heading west on I-78, finishing up my latté and taking hits off my Rosenberger's Iced Tea to stay alert. On the highway, I had no problem, even though I did switch up to four wheel drive. Unfortunately, four wheel drive means I could see the needle on my gas gauge moving to the right. I was worried about winding, narrow River Road, and then the steep hill coming up from the river I'd need to take to get home.
But, I'm a safe and careful driver. Taking it slow, I got home just fine.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The Endless Round Of Holiday Parties!
Woohooo!
My social life is picking up!
(Another reason to love the holiday season.)
Next Saturday, I get off work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot at 3 p.m. (having arrived at work at 6 a.m.), rush home, take a nap, make dinner for my father, drive up to Beautiful Downtown Jersey City, and there I'll enjoy the company of my softball team, the Ball Breakers.
So. Cool.
I'll have to hit the road around 10:30 to head home so I can get a good night's sleep so I can be at work at 9 a.m. the next morning, but so be it. The party is being thrown by our team manger, George. I haven't yet been able to attend one of George's Holiday shindigs, but from what I hear, they're a blast.
So then, the next weekend, same deal (get off work at 3 p.m., rush home, nap, make dinner), then head over to Pottstown for the Christmas get together hosted by DogTopper and JPZapper. Yay! Yay! Yay!
Those guys totally absolutely rule.
Okay. Then there's Christmas, then there's New Years (be lookin' for the SingleTails year end wrap up! after this Annis Horribilus, it might be a doozie), and then, I'll be attending the fiftieth birthday party of Datt (of Datt and Male Fame) on January 12th. (Since it's all about Five-0, I'm gonna wear my police uniform!)
And that brings us right up to MAL.
Lately, MAL has dominated my thoughts. It's like a prison release date or something. Work day in and day out? No problem! Watch every penny denying myself so many wee little luxuries? Down with that, Yo! Going an entire goddamn year without romance? Almost there!
But on the way are four precious days in January. Four days of Not Working, eating in restaurants, maybe splurging on something for myself in the vendor mart (I'm on the lookout for a chunky belt buckle or new arm bands), and move through a numinous cloud of romantic possibilities. Four whole days!
I fear though that I might be running the risk of getting my expectations impossibly high. (And by "impossibly high" I mean getting laid, which often doesn't happen.) So gotta rein that in. Gotta just focus on just being there and soaking it all in. Just that sweet experience of walking into a crowded room and seeing a friendly face. Anything else is gravy.
Not that it won't tax my finances. Hotel + gas + tolls + sending Faithful Companion to doggie lock-up = about one solid paycheck. And then there's the logistics involved, namely making sure that my father has food to eat for four days when I'm away. And, finally, the emotional toll taken by my father's bitter complaining. Not that he doesn't do that whenever I leave the house for any reason whatsoever. I should be used to that by now. But I'm not.
MAL MAL MAL MAL MAL.
Five weeks away.
And oh yeah. I have got to get back to the gym. I haven't gone sincemy life fell apart back over the summer August or so. And dropped about fifteen pounds since then. Maybe wraith-like lean-as-a-snake thin will be what's sexy this year, but I better not count on that.
MAL MAL MAL MAL.
My social life is picking up!
(Another reason to love the holiday season.)
Next Saturday, I get off work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot at 3 p.m. (having arrived at work at 6 a.m.), rush home, take a nap, make dinner for my father, drive up to Beautiful Downtown Jersey City, and there I'll enjoy the company of my softball team, the Ball Breakers.
So. Cool.
I'll have to hit the road around 10:30 to head home so I can get a good night's sleep so I can be at work at 9 a.m. the next morning, but so be it. The party is being thrown by our team manger, George. I haven't yet been able to attend one of George's Holiday shindigs, but from what I hear, they're a blast.
So then, the next weekend, same deal (get off work at 3 p.m., rush home, nap, make dinner), then head over to Pottstown for the Christmas get together hosted by DogTopper and JPZapper. Yay! Yay! Yay!
Those guys totally absolutely rule.
Okay. Then there's Christmas, then there's New Years (be lookin' for the SingleTails year end wrap up! after this Annis Horribilus, it might be a doozie), and then, I'll be attending the fiftieth birthday party of Datt (of Datt and Male Fame) on January 12th. (Since it's all about Five-0, I'm gonna wear my police uniform!)
And that brings us right up to MAL.
Lately, MAL has dominated my thoughts. It's like a prison release date or something. Work day in and day out? No problem! Watch every penny denying myself so many wee little luxuries? Down with that, Yo! Going an entire goddamn year without romance? Almost there!
But on the way are four precious days in January. Four days of Not Working, eating in restaurants, maybe splurging on something for myself in the vendor mart (I'm on the lookout for a chunky belt buckle or new arm bands), and move through a numinous cloud of romantic possibilities. Four whole days!
I fear though that I might be running the risk of getting my expectations impossibly high. (And by "impossibly high" I mean getting laid, which often doesn't happen.) So gotta rein that in. Gotta just focus on just being there and soaking it all in. Just that sweet experience of walking into a crowded room and seeing a friendly face. Anything else is gravy.
Not that it won't tax my finances. Hotel + gas + tolls + sending Faithful Companion to doggie lock-up = about one solid paycheck. And then there's the logistics involved, namely making sure that my father has food to eat for four days when I'm away. And, finally, the emotional toll taken by my father's bitter complaining. Not that he doesn't do that whenever I leave the house for any reason whatsoever. I should be used to that by now. But I'm not.
MAL MAL MAL MAL MAL.
Five weeks away.
And oh yeah. I have got to get back to the gym. I haven't gone since
MAL MAL MAL MAL.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Have Yourself
So I made Christmas.
Not that it was Well Thought Out or anything.
I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. at Ho(t)me(n) Depot and left work feeling drained and severely in need of a nap. And coming down with something. (Another reason I don't like winter here in the Northeast: I spend November through March either Coming Down With Something or Getting Over Something. Currently I'm Coming Down With Something, that seems to be manifesting itself as the worst sore throat I have ever experienced. As I write this, I pause now and then to take a bite of some nice hot buttered toast made with sourdough bread. Chewing it is a delight, but then comes the part where I have to swallow, and that's like a globule of molten lead at the back of my palate. I could easily devote this weblog to a Journal Of My Maladies, Illnesses, And Afflictions and I'd always have something to write about. But I won't. So enough of that.)
Anyway, so there I am arriving home from work. I took Faithful Companion for a walk, then grabbed a pair of clippers and set to work removing some of the lower hanging branches and boughs from the white pine trees that grace the Old Homestead. The windstorm we had last week knocked a large branch off the holly bush, so I brought that to my "staging area," the front porch. For the next few hours, I was busy festooning flat surfaces around the house with greens.
This is something that I've been doing since I was about eleven years old. I can remember my family marveling at my uncanny ability--akin to being "special" on Heroes--to place boughs of white pine on the mantle over the fireplace. I definitely have an "ability" there. I'm not sure how far "decorating for Christmas" ability will get me in life though. But I remember my Awful Ex, during the first Christmas together when I convinced him that we should have a tree, sat silent with awe and amazement as I threaded twinkle lights along the individual branches of our tree. "No bare spots!" I barked. At one point he asked if there had been a mandatory Lights class at my high school, to which I replied, "You mean you didn't get that going to school in Nashville?"
But the thing that really struck me this year was the ritual of the whole deal. I wasn't thinking, I was just doing. Le coeur à sa raison que la raison ne connaît pas. As though every lay of evergreen were pre-ordained from the dark recesses of the mist shrouded path. This is the way that Christmas is to be Done. And I do. Or did.
At a few points, the question arose in my mind, "Christmas for who?" After all, it's unlikely that my father would even notice, little less appreciate my efforts. And it's not like I'm expecting anyone to drop in for a nice cup of eggnog or some of my knee-bucklingly delicious Hot Cocoa. Chances are good that no one will ever see my Christmas.
But I'll see. And I'll enjoy. It's Christmas for me.
As with so much else in my life, I'm both the player on stage and the audience. And if I don't make it happen, it ain't gonna happen.
And I think it's a pretty good gauge of my well-being that I do do.
Not that it was Well Thought Out or anything.
I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. at Ho(t)me(n) Depot and left work feeling drained and severely in need of a nap. And coming down with something. (Another reason I don't like winter here in the Northeast: I spend November through March either Coming Down With Something or Getting Over Something. Currently I'm Coming Down With Something, that seems to be manifesting itself as the worst sore throat I have ever experienced. As I write this, I pause now and then to take a bite of some nice hot buttered toast made with sourdough bread. Chewing it is a delight, but then comes the part where I have to swallow, and that's like a globule of molten lead at the back of my palate. I could easily devote this weblog to a Journal Of My Maladies, Illnesses, And Afflictions and I'd always have something to write about. But I won't. So enough of that.)
Anyway, so there I am arriving home from work. I took Faithful Companion for a walk, then grabbed a pair of clippers and set to work removing some of the lower hanging branches and boughs from the white pine trees that grace the Old Homestead. The windstorm we had last week knocked a large branch off the holly bush, so I brought that to my "staging area," the front porch. For the next few hours, I was busy festooning flat surfaces around the house with greens.
This is something that I've been doing since I was about eleven years old. I can remember my family marveling at my uncanny ability--akin to being "special" on Heroes--to place boughs of white pine on the mantle over the fireplace. I definitely have an "ability" there. I'm not sure how far "decorating for Christmas" ability will get me in life though. But I remember my Awful Ex, during the first Christmas together when I convinced him that we should have a tree, sat silent with awe and amazement as I threaded twinkle lights along the individual branches of our tree. "No bare spots!" I barked. At one point he asked if there had been a mandatory Lights class at my high school, to which I replied, "You mean you didn't get that going to school in Nashville?"
But the thing that really struck me this year was the ritual of the whole deal. I wasn't thinking, I was just doing. Le coeur à sa raison que la raison ne connaît pas. As though every lay of evergreen were pre-ordained from the dark recesses of the mist shrouded path. This is the way that Christmas is to be Done. And I do. Or did.
At a few points, the question arose in my mind, "Christmas for who?" After all, it's unlikely that my father would even notice, little less appreciate my efforts. And it's not like I'm expecting anyone to drop in for a nice cup of eggnog or some of my knee-bucklingly delicious Hot Cocoa. Chances are good that no one will ever see my Christmas.
But I'll see. And I'll enjoy. It's Christmas for me.
As with so much else in my life, I'm both the player on stage and the audience. And if I don't make it happen, it ain't gonna happen.
And I think it's a pretty good gauge of my well-being that I do do.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
That Barrista Must Be Stopped!!!
I'm enjoying a nice mug of my Unbelievably Amazing Cocoa. What torture! It coats the side of the mug, and there's no way I can get my tongue in there to get all of it! I have to say, I make a sublime hot chocolate.
But it brings to mind a pretty terrible thing I saw just the other day at my beloved Starbucks.
Y'know how they have those Suggested Pairings things?
(For a while, I was providing a buddy of mine from the Starbucks in Doylestown with flavored lubes and flavored condoms that I got from work. I'd always ask for his recommendations on lube and condom Pairings.)
So anyway, here was their suggested Pairing for the day...
We suggest...
Our new bacon, egg and avocado breakfast wrap
...paired with...
A Peppermint Mocha!
Oh. My. God.
Is my barrista nine years old?
Who the hell would sit down to eggs and avocado and want to wash it down with chocolatey-pepperminty-coffee?
When I stopped for breakfast at the Starbucks in Chalfont on break from work today, I mentioned it to my current fav barrista and was reassured by her response: Eeeewwwwwww!
But it brings to mind a pretty terrible thing I saw just the other day at my beloved Starbucks.
Y'know how they have those Suggested Pairings things?
(For a while, I was providing a buddy of mine from the Starbucks in Doylestown with flavored lubes and flavored condoms that I got from work. I'd always ask for his recommendations on lube and condom Pairings.)
So anyway, here was their suggested Pairing for the day...
We suggest...
Our new bacon, egg and avocado breakfast wrap
...paired with...
A Peppermint Mocha!
Oh. My. God.
Is my barrista nine years old?
Who the hell would sit down to eggs and avocado and want to wash it down with chocolatey-pepperminty-coffee?
When I stopped for breakfast at the Starbucks in Chalfont on break from work today, I mentioned it to my current fav barrista and was reassured by her response: Eeeewwwwwww!
All Work, No Play
I drank the Kool-Ade eggnog.
My worklife--and that's pretty much all the life I have right now--has become a a super-saturated solution of Christmas.
And I'm loving it.
Every chance I get, I'm sneaking away from Kitchens & Baths to get up front to Christmas so I can help people pick out the Perfect Wreath or whatever. And while I'm up there, running through my anti-materialist minimalism lovin' head are thoughts of "I want that. And that. And that and that and that."
After all, how many reindeer sculpted from gold wire filled with red and green ornaments (provacatively described on the box they came in as "Deer W/Balls") can you tote home before you have enough?
I have to confess that I did buy a soft-sculpture bear holding a little fir tree in his paw. I couldn't resist him. Just because he looks Hot. That is to say, if I met his human equivalent--bushy black beard, wide shoulders, smouldering eyes, nice guy, flannel shirt--I'd do him!
And I'm paying the price of being Trusted and Reliable at work. This week, I'm opening on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. That means that on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, I'll be going to bed around 8 p.m. Interestingly, it's sort of the reverse of my schedule my last summer in NYC when I would get home and go to bed about 4:30 a.m. and wake up at 4 p.m.
Ah, those were the days! "Gosh! I'm meeting Diabolique for dinner at six o'clock! I'd better set my alarm!"
But I continue to enjoy myself.
Yesterday I had a blast. For the first time in two weeks, I took an honest to goodness Day Off Work. No Ho(t)me(n) Depot. No Hard Labor Ready.
Since my berber neighbor, my deceased sister's ex-husband's cousin, has been working some mysterious "job" somewhere north of Albany since October, my father hasn't had a haircut in months. My father is sort of looking like Ebenezer Scrooge lately. Make that Ebenezer Scrooge wearing an Eagles sweatshirt. So yesterday morning, I suggested we go to the barber shop. It was cold and gusty here yesterday, but it wasn't raining, so my father wasn't in too much pain. I bundled him into the car, and off we went. The barber shop he usually goes to in Plumsteadville (go ahead and plug that into Google Maps, I dare ya!) was closed, with a handwritten note on the door that only said, "Sorry. Heart Problems." I said a prayer for the Barber of Plumsteadville, but wondered if perhaps he had become smitten with one of those Tadzios that clutter the sidewalks of Doylestown rather than something cardiac.
So we headed off to Doylestown in search of another barber and managed to find one. The Barber of Doylestown had only been open a couple of weeks, so there wasn't much in the way of a crowd. Just an elderly man sitting in the chair getting his haircut and a guy of about fifty leafing through Field & Stream. It turned out that the Field & Stream was the elderly man's son, and I wondered if Giordano's Barber Shop had opened with a mind to cater to elderly men being looked after by their middle aged sons.
My dad got his turned. I did my best to bury myself in Men's Journal to distract myself from the racist patter of the barber ("Yeah movies today are terrible. All you see is black guys with white girls and white guys with black girls.")
But the Barber of Doylestown did a great job cutting my dad's hair! He looks great!
After the barbershop, I needed to get gas (Dad was flabbergasted that it took $48 to fill up my tank), and then I couldn't resist a stop at Starbucks. For patiently waiting in the car, I bought my dad an apple fritter, which he appreciated.
Dad and I had a nice time tooling around together. Often, all we do is snipe at each other. I've gotten pretty used to being greeted at home after a long day of work with "It's about time! Get dinner ready!" But here we were enjoying each other's company, leaving beside our usual What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? exchanges.
Back at home, I plunged in to cleaning my bathroom, spending a good three hours in there till it sparkled. After spending all that time tending to other people's bathrooms at work, it felt good to pay attention to my own. I'm particularly happy with one little assemblage on top of the chest of drawers that holds the towels: a few cock rings that don't quite look like cock rings, some sunglasses that look bad on me and one pair that my stepmother wore after her cataract surgery, and a jar of Dippity-Doo for some color.
And brrrrrrrr! It's pretty chilly out there now. The windstorm we had took all the leaves off the trees, so it's suddenly a wintry landscape out there, all greys and browns. Actually, it's a palette I love. Tomorrow for breakfast, I might fix myself some of my Unbelievably Amazing Cocoa.
Ah, my quiet life.
But guess what?
It's looking like I'll be going to MAL next month.
MAL. Mid-Atlantic Leather. January 18th through the 21st. I've had an offer of a roomshare in the host hotel no less, the Washington Plaza. It will surely strain my finances, but it won't break them.
A lot of my the internet exchanges that pass for a social life with me boil down to this one issue: So are you going to MAL next month? And a great collection of men--many of them old friends and acquaintances but some I'll be meeting for the first time--seem to be heading that way.
But oh jeez! I've grown so used to my own solitary company, and meeting my own sexual needs, how will I act when there are other flesh-and-blood human beings there with me?
Do me a favor. Please? If you see me down there in the lobby or the cigar tent or wherever, just go slow. Treat me like you would a precocious eleven year old. (Albeit a precocious eleven year old who knows how to throw a bullwhip.) Do that reflective questioning thing where you repeat the last phrase I said only putting it in the form of a question. If I do something inappropriate, like maybe doing my The Three Tenors Marketing Overkill Homage Of Kiri Te Kanawa Singing Selections From The Rolling Stones Song Book in the middle of the lobby, please don't let on that the moment is as awkward as it truly is. Just give me an out. Say something like, "Hey Drew! Would you help me pick out a flogger in the vendor mart?"
Oh. That's if I get off work, of course. I'm putting in for it nice and early, and apparently after December 25th the only thing rolling through the aisles of Ho(t)me(n) Depot will be balls of dust. And most importantly, I've fucking earned it.
My worklife--and that's pretty much all the life I have right now--has become a a super-saturated solution of Christmas.
And I'm loving it.
Every chance I get, I'm sneaking away from Kitchens & Baths to get up front to Christmas so I can help people pick out the Perfect Wreath or whatever. And while I'm up there, running through my anti-materialist minimalism lovin' head are thoughts of "I want that. And that. And that and that and that."
After all, how many reindeer sculpted from gold wire filled with red and green ornaments (provacatively described on the box they came in as "Deer W/Balls") can you tote home before you have enough?
I have to confess that I did buy a soft-sculpture bear holding a little fir tree in his paw. I couldn't resist him. Just because he looks Hot. That is to say, if I met his human equivalent--bushy black beard, wide shoulders, smouldering eyes, nice guy, flannel shirt--I'd do him!
And I'm paying the price of being Trusted and Reliable at work. This week, I'm opening on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. That means that on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, I'll be going to bed around 8 p.m. Interestingly, it's sort of the reverse of my schedule my last summer in NYC when I would get home and go to bed about 4:30 a.m. and wake up at 4 p.m.
Ah, those were the days! "Gosh! I'm meeting Diabolique for dinner at six o'clock! I'd better set my alarm!"
But I continue to enjoy myself.
Yesterday I had a blast. For the first time in two weeks, I took an honest to goodness Day Off Work. No Ho(t)me(n) Depot. No Hard Labor Ready.
Since my berber neighbor, my deceased sister's ex-husband's cousin, has been working some mysterious "job" somewhere north of Albany since October, my father hasn't had a haircut in months. My father is sort of looking like Ebenezer Scrooge lately. Make that Ebenezer Scrooge wearing an Eagles sweatshirt. So yesterday morning, I suggested we go to the barber shop. It was cold and gusty here yesterday, but it wasn't raining, so my father wasn't in too much pain. I bundled him into the car, and off we went. The barber shop he usually goes to in Plumsteadville (go ahead and plug that into Google Maps, I dare ya!) was closed, with a handwritten note on the door that only said, "Sorry. Heart Problems." I said a prayer for the Barber of Plumsteadville, but wondered if perhaps he had become smitten with one of those Tadzios that clutter the sidewalks of Doylestown rather than something cardiac.
So we headed off to Doylestown in search of another barber and managed to find one. The Barber of Doylestown had only been open a couple of weeks, so there wasn't much in the way of a crowd. Just an elderly man sitting in the chair getting his haircut and a guy of about fifty leafing through Field & Stream. It turned out that the Field & Stream was the elderly man's son, and I wondered if Giordano's Barber Shop had opened with a mind to cater to elderly men being looked after by their middle aged sons.
My dad got his turned. I did my best to bury myself in Men's Journal to distract myself from the racist patter of the barber ("Yeah movies today are terrible. All you see is black guys with white girls and white guys with black girls.")
But the Barber of Doylestown did a great job cutting my dad's hair! He looks great!
After the barbershop, I needed to get gas (Dad was flabbergasted that it took $48 to fill up my tank), and then I couldn't resist a stop at Starbucks. For patiently waiting in the car, I bought my dad an apple fritter, which he appreciated.
Dad and I had a nice time tooling around together. Often, all we do is snipe at each other. I've gotten pretty used to being greeted at home after a long day of work with "It's about time! Get dinner ready!" But here we were enjoying each other's company, leaving beside our usual What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? exchanges.
Back at home, I plunged in to cleaning my bathroom, spending a good three hours in there till it sparkled. After spending all that time tending to other people's bathrooms at work, it felt good to pay attention to my own. I'm particularly happy with one little assemblage on top of the chest of drawers that holds the towels: a few cock rings that don't quite look like cock rings, some sunglasses that look bad on me and one pair that my stepmother wore after her cataract surgery, and a jar of Dippity-Doo for some color.
And brrrrrrrr! It's pretty chilly out there now. The windstorm we had took all the leaves off the trees, so it's suddenly a wintry landscape out there, all greys and browns. Actually, it's a palette I love. Tomorrow for breakfast, I might fix myself some of my Unbelievably Amazing Cocoa.
Ah, my quiet life.
But guess what?
It's looking like I'll be going to MAL next month.
MAL. Mid-Atlantic Leather. January 18th through the 21st. I've had an offer of a roomshare in the host hotel no less, the Washington Plaza. It will surely strain my finances, but it won't break them.
A lot of my the internet exchanges that pass for a social life with me boil down to this one issue: So are you going to MAL next month? And a great collection of men--many of them old friends and acquaintances but some I'll be meeting for the first time--seem to be heading that way.
But oh jeez! I've grown so used to my own solitary company, and meeting my own sexual needs, how will I act when there are other flesh-and-blood human beings there with me?
Do me a favor. Please? If you see me down there in the lobby or the cigar tent or wherever, just go slow. Treat me like you would a precocious eleven year old. (Albeit a precocious eleven year old who knows how to throw a bullwhip.) Do that reflective questioning thing where you repeat the last phrase I said only putting it in the form of a question. If I do something inappropriate, like maybe doing my The Three Tenors Marketing Overkill Homage Of Kiri Te Kanawa Singing Selections From The Rolling Stones Song Book in the middle of the lobby, please don't let on that the moment is as awkward as it truly is. Just give me an out. Say something like, "Hey Drew! Would you help me pick out a flogger in the vendor mart?"
Oh. That's if I get off work, of course. I'm putting in for it nice and early, and apparently after December 25th the only thing rolling through the aisles of Ho(t)me(n) Depot will be balls of dust. And most importantly, I've fucking earned it.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
I Have Been To Newtown
There I was, on a date, in a movie theater in the mall in Jersey City, watching M. Night Shamalayan's (or whatever his name is) Signs. The opening titles, and then a pan of a field of corn, and in block letters down in the corner, "Doylestown, Pennsylvania."
My popcorn went flying, I made a noise something like "Aaaack!" My date was alarmed.
"I'm from there!" I explained to everyone sitting near me.
And indeed, the movie was filmed in good old Bucks County. In fact my sister-in-law, determined to get as close as she could to Mel Gibson (he was a 'phobe before he was an anti-semitic nutjob masochist), ended up driving onto the set during filming at the farm where the shooting took place.
But here's the thing. In the scenes shot "in town," the part of Doylestown was played by Newtown.
I had never been to Newtown. I felt cheated.
Originally, Newtown was going to be the county seat. But back then, you had the english settlers who lived in the lower part of the county and the german settlers who lived in the upper part of the county. The Germans complained that Newtown, which is southerly situated, was deep-in-the-heart of the english portion of the county, and they felt excluded. Thus, the seat was switched to Doylestown, that City On A Hill, which was roughly where the two factions met.
Even though it's about sixteen miles south of me, I never had any reason to go there.
Or so I thought.
Tonight, I helped out the married couple with the cleaning business I met on a Hard Labor Ready gig a few weeks ago cleaning the awful furniture store run by the most miserable people on the planet. (Even though they were cleaning to prepare for their Grand Opening Celebration, you could just smell failure in the air. I don't doubt they have their Going Out Of Business signs up by now.) Tonight's cleaning gig was at a soon to be doctor's office under construction in an office park kind of place down there in Newtown. After my duties were done, I couldn't resist heading into town to check out an as yet unvisited Starbucks.
So Newtown.
It's kind of like Doylestown on speed. Or New Hope on tranquilizers. If preciousness, charm, and all things quaint are your thing, head to Newtown. People there seem so scrubbed. And happy. As I walked the thirty paces from where I parked my jeep to the Starbucks, two people said "Hi!" to me in tones and manner akin to what you might hear in greeting from a game show host to Our Next Contestant. I was, however, rewarded with the awesome spectacle of the young man working the cash register who was very hairy, his arms covered by a dense pelt and bouquet of black fur coming out above his uppermost buttoned button on his shirt. They may be scrubbed in Newtown, but thankfully they don't seem to be manscaping.
The Baron and I have talked about a field trip to check out Newtown, and now that's a definite. We'll stroll the sidewalks dressed in holiday style (all the trees in town have these big red ribbons around them) and stop into Kate's Kountry Kitchen Kollectibles and such. No doubt All About Throw Pillows has a store in Newtown, although instead of being staffed by SingleTails sometime correspondent Tim, no doubt there's a blond young woman named Ashley or Sarabeth to help you pick out some nice ones for your chofa.
After my small but potent sugary taste of Newtown, I look forward to returning to the Land Of The Toolbelts tomorrow. There's no Ho(t)me(n) Depot in Newtown, although they do have a Bed Bath & Beyond.
My popcorn went flying, I made a noise something like "Aaaack!" My date was alarmed.
"I'm from there!" I explained to everyone sitting near me.
And indeed, the movie was filmed in good old Bucks County. In fact my sister-in-law, determined to get as close as she could to Mel Gibson (he was a 'phobe before he was an anti-semitic nutjob masochist), ended up driving onto the set during filming at the farm where the shooting took place.
But here's the thing. In the scenes shot "in town," the part of Doylestown was played by Newtown.
I had never been to Newtown. I felt cheated.
Originally, Newtown was going to be the county seat. But back then, you had the english settlers who lived in the lower part of the county and the german settlers who lived in the upper part of the county. The Germans complained that Newtown, which is southerly situated, was deep-in-the-heart of the english portion of the county, and they felt excluded. Thus, the seat was switched to Doylestown, that City On A Hill, which was roughly where the two factions met.
Even though it's about sixteen miles south of me, I never had any reason to go there.
Or so I thought.
Tonight, I helped out the married couple with the cleaning business I met on a Hard Labor Ready gig a few weeks ago cleaning the awful furniture store run by the most miserable people on the planet. (Even though they were cleaning to prepare for their Grand Opening Celebration, you could just smell failure in the air. I don't doubt they have their Going Out Of Business signs up by now.) Tonight's cleaning gig was at a soon to be doctor's office under construction in an office park kind of place down there in Newtown. After my duties were done, I couldn't resist heading into town to check out an as yet unvisited Starbucks.
So Newtown.
It's kind of like Doylestown on speed. Or New Hope on tranquilizers. If preciousness, charm, and all things quaint are your thing, head to Newtown. People there seem so scrubbed. And happy. As I walked the thirty paces from where I parked my jeep to the Starbucks, two people said "Hi!" to me in tones and manner akin to what you might hear in greeting from a game show host to Our Next Contestant. I was, however, rewarded with the awesome spectacle of the young man working the cash register who was very hairy, his arms covered by a dense pelt and bouquet of black fur coming out above his uppermost buttoned button on his shirt. They may be scrubbed in Newtown, but thankfully they don't seem to be manscaping.
The Baron and I have talked about a field trip to check out Newtown, and now that's a definite. We'll stroll the sidewalks dressed in holiday style (all the trees in town have these big red ribbons around them) and stop into Kate's Kountry Kitchen Kollectibles and such. No doubt All About Throw Pillows has a store in Newtown, although instead of being staffed by SingleTails sometime correspondent Tim, no doubt there's a blond young woman named Ashley or Sarabeth to help you pick out some nice ones for your chofa.
After my small but potent sugary taste of Newtown, I look forward to returning to the Land Of The Toolbelts tomorrow. There's no Ho(t)me(n) Depot in Newtown, although they do have a Bed Bath & Beyond.
Mr. Christmas
On Saturday, I got off work at 6 pm. The Saturday after Thanksgiving marks the date of Santa Saturday, the annual leather-bear event held by the Bucks MC, a day of leather pride flag granny afgans and meatball sandwiches. I believe the event officially ends at about the time I was punching out, but I decided to stop by anyway, much to the dismay of my father, who was waiting at home not-quite-patiently for me to get home and make him a hot turkey sandwich.
There was a good crowd still, though no cover charge, when I got there at about Seven. Heading through the tents, I saw no one I knew, until I ran into Michael Michael Motorcycle, with whom I attended a couple of the NYC Bike Shows over the past few years. MMM was looking real good, and we chatted for a bit and caught up. He's been seeing this guy who lives in Boston and who's fixing to move down here, a prospect that is probably both exciting and terrifying at the same time. After MMM and I parted, I made my way up on the porch and had just lit a cigar when this big guy in a brown leather jacket sidled up to me and said, "Hi."
Cool! We talked for a while, confirming that each of us thought the other met our personal standards for Got It Goin' On. By about 7:30, we were both ready to leave. I walked him to his car parked up behind the Eagle Fire House, and he drove me down to mine, parked in front ofSuperFresh StoopidFresh, and there we spent some time doing what in back in high school we used to call "necking." And he was good at that necking thing.
He was disappointed that I had to heed the call of Hot Turkey Sandwiches at home, and asked if we could meet up when I got off work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot the next day, Sunday. And I said sure.
The next day, Sunday, I started work at 8 a.m., opening up the store. At the morning meeting, the manager on duty asked me and a couple of other guys to help out with "Christmas."
Who were we to not oblige, so we dutifully headed over to Christmas, at the front of the store. There, in front of the displays of evergreen twinkling with LED lights, we found a row of pallets of boxes of stuff. Not having received much in the way of direction, we decided to open up the boxes and find places for the stuff on the shelves. This proved to be no easy thing. Christmas, it seemed, was in disarray, managed by no one in particular. Technically, it's under the provenance of the Seasonal Department, which is the offshoot of the Gardening Department. So much like the babe in the manger, Christmas at Ho(t)me(n) Depot is something of a bastard stepchild.
Well uh uh! Not on my watch!
I plunged in, familiarizing myself with where everything was on the shelves, finding room for stuff that I was taking out of the boxes, and making it all look pretty.
And, since there I was in an orange apron, folks would come up to me with questions like, "I'm looking for hooks so I can hang a wreath off my rain gutters on the roof... Where would those be?"
Now this was problematic. Y'see, we at Ho(t)me(n) Depot pride ourselves on our Product Knowledge. We know everything there is to know about the stuff we sell. Just ask me anything about shower enclosures, toilets, toilet seats, vanities, vanity tops, faucets, cabinets, kitchen storage solutions, or countertops. That's how we set ourselves above the competition, despite what the ecclesial husband of a certain Brooklyn Gardener might say (See! I really do read your Comments!) (Just pulling your chain, John).
But this stance left me sort of off balance in the middle of Christmas. Corian I know, twinklelights, not so much.
But I plunged in and did the best I could, picking up on things quickly and using all my problem solving skills. But the result of this was sort of viral: when someone I had just helped would offer a heartfelt "That's it! Thanks so much for your help!", everybody standing around who heard this would be moved to fire their questions at me. And so on and so on.
An example: "Excuse me, I'm looking for the candlelights that you plug in and put in the windows?" We hunted and hunted, and I was forced to conclude that we didn't, in fact, have them in stock. To let the nice lady down easy, I said, "I can't believe we don't have candlelights! They were a staple of my childhood! I think there's still Scotch tape on the windowsills of my dad's house. (There is.) The nice lady nodded, "And there's Scotch tape on my windowsills, too."
By the afternoon, I had the situation pretty much in hand. But I had a hard time letting go of a bit of resentment I felt at being dispatched to Christmas like I was being air-dropped into wilderness survival training ("Here's your Bowie knife and a flintstone! Good luck!"). And all of this Christmas shit! All those people overspending on those weird treetop angels wearing what looks like a bejeweled corset and faces that look a hell of a lot like Mother Of The Year Britney Spears... Do you really need one of those? C'mon! Get hold of yourselves!
But then, between helping a customer find The Perfect Flocking and packing Santa Clause hat wearing teddy bears (whoa. wait. that one with the little fir tree in his paws is kinda Hot), I had a recollection of my own idea of a Christmas tree. And it's gaudy, a mishmash of ornaments passed down from of old and the whole thing festooned with tinsel. That's the Christmas that I love, minimalist anti-materialist that I am. If I'm not trying to fish the glitter out of my eggnog, then I say t'hell with it. My ideal Christmas resembles not an ad for throw rugs in LL Bean but looks more like an explosion at Ice City.
I became Mr. Christmas.
I put my all into it. It was a manic spree.
And then it was over.
Time for me to clock out.
Oh. Right. That guy from Santa Saturday last night. I need to give him a call so we can make a plan to meet up. But wait, who's that standing in the middle of the kitchen cabinets display? Why... It's the guy from Santa Saturday.
Yup.
He drove over to pick me up after work.
I asked where he wanted to go for dinner and he said, "I made something for us. I got some salmon."
*gasp*
He made me dinner.
I'm the guy who always cooks dinner. Nobody ever cooks dinner for me.
But I followed him to his own humble abode in nearby Lansdale, and together we sat down to his Really Good Salmon.
A handsome man making me dinner. It's a Christmas wish come true. And it's still November.
There was a good crowd still, though no cover charge, when I got there at about Seven. Heading through the tents, I saw no one I knew, until I ran into Michael Michael Motorcycle, with whom I attended a couple of the NYC Bike Shows over the past few years. MMM was looking real good, and we chatted for a bit and caught up. He's been seeing this guy who lives in Boston and who's fixing to move down here, a prospect that is probably both exciting and terrifying at the same time. After MMM and I parted, I made my way up on the porch and had just lit a cigar when this big guy in a brown leather jacket sidled up to me and said, "Hi."
Cool! We talked for a while, confirming that each of us thought the other met our personal standards for Got It Goin' On. By about 7:30, we were both ready to leave. I walked him to his car parked up behind the Eagle Fire House, and he drove me down to mine, parked in front of
He was disappointed that I had to heed the call of Hot Turkey Sandwiches at home, and asked if we could meet up when I got off work at Ho(t)me(n) Depot the next day, Sunday. And I said sure.
The next day, Sunday, I started work at 8 a.m., opening up the store. At the morning meeting, the manager on duty asked me and a couple of other guys to help out with "Christmas."
Who were we to not oblige, so we dutifully headed over to Christmas, at the front of the store. There, in front of the displays of evergreen twinkling with LED lights, we found a row of pallets of boxes of stuff. Not having received much in the way of direction, we decided to open up the boxes and find places for the stuff on the shelves. This proved to be no easy thing. Christmas, it seemed, was in disarray, managed by no one in particular. Technically, it's under the provenance of the Seasonal Department, which is the offshoot of the Gardening Department. So much like the babe in the manger, Christmas at Ho(t)me(n) Depot is something of a bastard stepchild.
Well uh uh! Not on my watch!
I plunged in, familiarizing myself with where everything was on the shelves, finding room for stuff that I was taking out of the boxes, and making it all look pretty.
And, since there I was in an orange apron, folks would come up to me with questions like, "I'm looking for hooks so I can hang a wreath off my rain gutters on the roof... Where would those be?"
Now this was problematic. Y'see, we at Ho(t)me(n) Depot pride ourselves on our Product Knowledge. We know everything there is to know about the stuff we sell. Just ask me anything about shower enclosures, toilets, toilet seats, vanities, vanity tops, faucets, cabinets, kitchen storage solutions, or countertops. That's how we set ourselves above the competition, despite what the ecclesial husband of a certain Brooklyn Gardener might say (See! I really do read your Comments!) (Just pulling your chain, John).
But this stance left me sort of off balance in the middle of Christmas. Corian I know, twinklelights, not so much.
But I plunged in and did the best I could, picking up on things quickly and using all my problem solving skills. But the result of this was sort of viral: when someone I had just helped would offer a heartfelt "That's it! Thanks so much for your help!", everybody standing around who heard this would be moved to fire their questions at me. And so on and so on.
An example: "Excuse me, I'm looking for the candlelights that you plug in and put in the windows?" We hunted and hunted, and I was forced to conclude that we didn't, in fact, have them in stock. To let the nice lady down easy, I said, "I can't believe we don't have candlelights! They were a staple of my childhood! I think there's still Scotch tape on the windowsills of my dad's house. (There is.) The nice lady nodded, "And there's Scotch tape on my windowsills, too."
By the afternoon, I had the situation pretty much in hand. But I had a hard time letting go of a bit of resentment I felt at being dispatched to Christmas like I was being air-dropped into wilderness survival training ("Here's your Bowie knife and a flintstone! Good luck!"). And all of this Christmas shit! All those people overspending on those weird treetop angels wearing what looks like a bejeweled corset and faces that look a hell of a lot like Mother Of The Year Britney Spears... Do you really need one of those? C'mon! Get hold of yourselves!
But then, between helping a customer find The Perfect Flocking and packing Santa Clause hat wearing teddy bears (whoa. wait. that one with the little fir tree in his paws is kinda Hot), I had a recollection of my own idea of a Christmas tree. And it's gaudy, a mishmash of ornaments passed down from of old and the whole thing festooned with tinsel. That's the Christmas that I love, minimalist anti-materialist that I am. If I'm not trying to fish the glitter out of my eggnog, then I say t'hell with it. My ideal Christmas resembles not an ad for throw rugs in LL Bean but looks more like an explosion at Ice City.
I became Mr. Christmas.
I put my all into it. It was a manic spree.
And then it was over.
Time for me to clock out.
Oh. Right. That guy from Santa Saturday last night. I need to give him a call so we can make a plan to meet up. But wait, who's that standing in the middle of the kitchen cabinets display? Why... It's the guy from Santa Saturday.
Yup.
He drove over to pick me up after work.
I asked where he wanted to go for dinner and he said, "I made something for us. I got some salmon."
*gasp*
He made me dinner.
I'm the guy who always cooks dinner. Nobody ever cooks dinner for me.
But I followed him to his own humble abode in nearby Lansdale, and together we sat down to his Really Good Salmon.
A handsome man making me dinner. It's a Christmas wish come true. And it's still November.
Friday, November 23, 2007
The Menu
What did I cook?
altarboyk wants to know!
It was fairly standard Thanksgiving fare. Turkey, stuffing, my stepmother's baked pineapple. But there were two notable dishes.
First there was the succotash. Back in August, I froze some sweet corn that was off the stalk and into a pot of boiling water within an hour, so it's sweet as sugar. I used one of three bags, and combined it with carrots, celery, finely chopped onion, and peas. I sauteed it really slowly over medium-low heat until the vegetables were just tender. It was really sensational, and a great counterpoint to the turkey and stuffing.
But then there were my yams.
Yams cooked in butter with some honey. They were softening up nicely when I had an idea. I had these prunes I found in the cupboard and thought that would be a nice addition to the yams. So I chopped them up and dropped them in the pot.
No no no no no.
The prunes seemed to dissolve completely. But they did lend their color to the yams. So what I was left with was soupy, gloppy stuff of a certain shade of brown. I'm not even going to teell you What It Looked Just Like, but it doesn't take much imagination. And once that thought crossed my mind, I decided it would do better to grace the compost heap than my table. So this was the Thanksgiving Without Yams.
And that was about it.
Oh. Other than to mention that I took off the wings and put them in a stock pot simmering slowly, along with some carrots, celery, onions, thyme, and bay leaves. My stock was phenomenal. And I made some great gravy with it.
altarboyk wants to know!
It was fairly standard Thanksgiving fare. Turkey, stuffing, my stepmother's baked pineapple. But there were two notable dishes.
First there was the succotash. Back in August, I froze some sweet corn that was off the stalk and into a pot of boiling water within an hour, so it's sweet as sugar. I used one of three bags, and combined it with carrots, celery, finely chopped onion, and peas. I sauteed it really slowly over medium-low heat until the vegetables were just tender. It was really sensational, and a great counterpoint to the turkey and stuffing.
But then there were my yams.
Yams cooked in butter with some honey. They were softening up nicely when I had an idea. I had these prunes I found in the cupboard and thought that would be a nice addition to the yams. So I chopped them up and dropped them in the pot.
No no no no no.
The prunes seemed to dissolve completely. But they did lend their color to the yams. So what I was left with was soupy, gloppy stuff of a certain shade of brown. I'm not even going to teell you What It Looked Just Like, but it doesn't take much imagination. And once that thought crossed my mind, I decided it would do better to grace the compost heap than my table. So this was the Thanksgiving Without Yams.
And that was about it.
Oh. Other than to mention that I took off the wings and put them in a stock pot simmering slowly, along with some carrots, celery, onions, thyme, and bay leaves. My stock was phenomenal. And I made some great gravy with it.
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