Shorts Shrift

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

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

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

I was running and running all day long.

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

I wore shorts.

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

Uh huh.

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

Apparently, there was this total Proletarian Uprising.

Involving shorts.

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

And there was a question on that point.

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

And a lively discussion ensued.

Al Gore may have been mentioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My fashion statement was perceived as being a political statement.

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

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

Well since you put it that way.

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

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

So no more shorts.

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

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

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

ALCS

Did you see that game???

Amazing. Beautiful.

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

And these guys going up against the Red Hot Rockies?

This is gonna be the best World Series in years.

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

Fugue Of Sorts

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

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

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

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

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

Trifecta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Yeah. I'm crying again.)

Okay.

Change of plans.

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

For one thing, no way could I miss that.

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

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

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

(Oh. Wait. We covered that already.)

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


So that's all good, right?

But wait. There's more!

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

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

And he was thrilled about that.

So get this.

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

Oh, schwing.

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

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

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

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

Adventures Of The DILF Patrol!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The beating continues.

Until he breaks.

Bellowing, sobbing, begging.

Still I'm paddling his ass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!

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

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

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

He was perfect.

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

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

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

I kept my eyes glued there.

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

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

A clear winner for DILF Of The Day.

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

"Good," I said.

"Did you sell much?"

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

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

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

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


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

Ho Ho Ho

Okay. Even I...

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

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

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

Right.

But it's eighty-five degrees outside.

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

I know, I know, I know.

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

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

I don't bring this up to the Baron.

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

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

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

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

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

Just Do What I Tell You Without Question Always

Cool!

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

Ah... Joni Mitchell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, they weren't cool to the idea.

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

"Joni Mitchell!"

"What?"

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

There was a pause.

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

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

Well.

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

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

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

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

Bonk! ...Owwww!

If your bathroom is looking a little sad and tired, maybe a brand new toilet seat would help!

Why not stop in to your local Ho(t)me(n) Depot and pick out a new one?

In the Kitchens and Baths Department, you'll find an entire aisle devoted to toilets and toilet seats, and a sales associate looking spiffy is his or her orange apron will help you pick out a new one. There you'll find a wide selection, arranged like Vermeer sketches, displayed by hanging them vertically.

I refer to that particular aisle at the Ho(t)me(n) Depot where I work as Terlet Verld. Part of my responsibilities as a Sales Associate is to pay attention to frontage, making sure that all the merchandise is right up at the edge of the shelf. At the toilet seat display in Terlet Verld, this means that the boxes containing that particular seat are stacked neatly just behind the displayed seat on the shelf. This can be a little awkward as it means lifting up the toilet seat and holding it straight out from the bolts with one hand while stacking with the other hand.

As I do this, I'm always smiling to myself, imagining a not unlikely scenario... What if I were to lose my grip on the seat while fronting and it would swing down and bonk me in the head, à la The Three Stooges. Then later in the day, say when I'm ordering a latte at Starbucks, someone says to me, "Oh gosh! How did you get that nasty bump on your head?"

And I'd reply, "I got bonked in the head by a toilet seat."

That Time Of Year Again

There's a chill in the air (and yeah, for the past two day's the thermometer has brushed up against 90° here), the leaves are turning color, Starbucks is again offering Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

But how do you know it's really Fall?

Tonight I made the first Meatloaf and Scalloped Potatoes of the season.

(The scalloped potatoes didn't set up very well. I think I used too much bechamel sauce. But the meatloaf was one of my best ever. I think the trick there was using twice as much breadcrumbs as I usually do.)

Bustin' Ass

*Phew!*

It's after midnight, and I just got home. The past two days, I've been working for Hard Labor Ready. And I pulled a pretty good gig. Yesterday, I showed up down there in Willow Grove at about 10:30 a.m. And they had work for me. I was partnered with these two guys, Leon and Leroy, and we were dispatched to... a Ho(t)me(n) Depot!

In the Kitchens and Baths Department no less!

Y'see, among the cabinets we sell are these all-ready-to-take-home-in-a-box jobs. By the standards of Wuperior Soodcraft, they're absolute crap: 1/4" backs, held together with staples and dowels. At my Ho(t)me(n) Depot, they're all down an aisle tucked away behind appliances where no one ever goes. The Hard Labor Ready client was a contractor who has a job with the manufacturer of those crappy cabinets. Apparently they are universally disdained by Ho(t)me(n) Depot staff, and as at our store, they're all crammed onto the racks haphazardly. So this guy travels the country--literally--going from Ho(t)me(n) Depot to Ho(t)me(n) Depot, tidying up the crappy cabinets aisle in each store he visits.

Yesterday we worked at a store in Bensalem, PA. When I was a senior in high school, there was this really hot blond kid who transferred in who had moved up from Bensalem. Bensalem is in The Lower End Of The County. I live in Upper Bucks County, which used to be The Land Of The Dog In The Back Of The Pickup Truck, but is now all about McMansions. Horses have replaced Holsteins in what was previously serious dairy farm country. But the character of Lower Bucks remains relatively unchanged. U.S. Steel used to be down there in Fairless Hills, and Lower Bucks was all about steelworkers and the children of steelworkers. We were farmers and hicks and they were hard drinking Irish and Italian factory workers. So this blond kid from high school, being from Bensalem, was sort of exotic, and thus I thought he was smokin' hot. So working for a day in the Ho(t)me(n) Depot in Bensalem brought with it the frisson of Seeing How The Other Half Lives, so to speak.

And yeah, the men were hot.

And down in Bensalem, the crappy cabinets aisle got a lot more traffic than at my store. Which brought about a realization: even people who don't have a lot of money deserve kitchens that look good, and a nice look can be achieved with crappy cabinets for not a lot of money.

In the future, I'm gonna pay a little bit more attention to the crappy cabinets aisle at my store.

So the work was really hard. We'd take all the cabinets--some of them weighing a lot--off the steel racks, re-arrange the shelves on the racks--think of working with a giant heavy gauge steel Erector Set--and then put all the cabinets back in a more rational arrangement. We got there at 1:30, and we weren't finished until almost ten.

And today, I got up and did it again.

Leroy carried over from the first day with me, but Leon was a No Show, so instead, we went out with Jim, a man who looked like he was carrying some heavy burden, and Johnny, who explained the wreckage of his finances brought about by child support to us on the drive down.

Today, we started off at a Ho(t)me(n) Depot in South Philadelphia at 22nd and Oregon Avenue.

Total Hot Guido Ville. Loved it.

Guys would stop me as I was heading out to fetch stuff from the truck or something and say, "Yo! So's that ink you got, Boss, that totally fukken kills."

I was in heaven.

Lot's of Man Banking went down.

We finished up at the South Philly store around 3 p.m., and then headed up to the opposite corner of Philadelphia to the Ho(t)me(n) Depot on Castor Avenue off Aramingo. (Hearing how the locals pronounce "Aramingo" is a hoot, but doesn't represent well in print.)

Driving there up Aramingo Avenue, we passed through Kensington (Irish) and into Port Richmond (Polish). Philadelphia is like that. Even on Manhunt and such, whereas in other citites, guys might express a preference for "Black or Latino Guys" or the occasional "Middle Eastern Guys step to the front of the line (Again: you have a line? Who the hell are you?)," in Philadelphia, it's not unusual for manhunters to specify Irish, Italian, Polish, Welsh, Sicilian, and to self-identify along those lines, too. Not a lot of melting that goes on in that pot.

Being an undifferentiated mutt myself, I usually have to explain that my people are from Schuykill County ("the Coal Regions"), and that usually does the trick when someone is trying to pin me down.

Again, amongst men buying construction materials who favor sopresanta or kielbasa, much Man Banking ensued.

And oh man did we bust our asses.

And that great thing happened. That thing where you bond with the men you're working closely with, when everybody is giving it all they got, getting the job done. I got to know the guy who hired us some, and Jim and Leroy, too. (Johnny inexplicably headed for the bus after we finished up at the South Philly store, and in his absence we decided that he was Afraid Of A Little Hard Work, which is about the lowest form of life.

At 10 p.m., as Ho(t)me(n) Depot was closing, we stood on the sidewalk outside, sweaty and smelling ripe, our eyes gleaming, catching a smoke while contractor guy filled out our paperwork.

Since it turned out that I could slightly re-arrange my drive home to drop Jim and Leroy at their respective front doors, I decided to be a Good Guy and do that. And felt good about that all the way home. And I still do.

What the hell.

Hard Labor Ready pays me minimum wage. After taxes are taken out, I'm bringing home slightly less than $6/hour. It's hard, back-breaking work. Getting out of bed tomorrow morning will be a challenge.

Why am I having such a good time doing this?

What's wrong with me?

Working working working and almost no money to show for it. But life is sweet. Life is good.

The Baron opines that this will all be great material for my novel. But it doesn't feel like that. It feels real. It feels like life. It feels like my life.

And my life is pretty good.

Such Is Life

Whew.

Ho(t)me(n) Depot, back to back to back to back. Eight hour shifts.

At Wuperior Soodcraft, not infrequently, my days would be spent sorting sheets of 4'x8' 3/4" plywood. Like All Day Long. After eight hours of that, I would emerge sweaty, happy, and envigorated. After eight hours on the floor at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, I'm happy, and plain old exhausted.

I think the difference is that in dealing what is euphemistically referred to as "The Public," you've always got to be "On." You've got to bring all the energy to the interaction. You're hanging on every word like Detective Bobby Goren interviewing his chief suspect. You're trying to squeeze as much information as you can, conveying it in the simplest way. And that wears you out.

But just the same, everyday I come out with a smile on my face.

I like work.

And, of course, there are the fringe benefits.

And by fringe benefits, I am referring, of course, to scoping DILFs. (You've heard of MILFs? Well DILFs are what float my boat.)

As I hoped, Ho(t)me(n) Depot provides plenty o' opportunities for Man Banking.

I should explain Man Banking.

Y'see, given the current sorry state of my sex life, with the exception of three occasions, I'm the only one in the room for all of my orgasms. So I've raised Man Banking to an art form. Here's how it goes down. There at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, some smokin' hot DILF wanders into the bathroom vanities aisle. Before I approach, I study him carefully, taking in the his butt, admire the line of his jaw, that half smile, his guns, the package, ink... I move on to thinking how he'd look with his hands bound behind his back, duct tape (available in Aisle 24!) over his mouth, sweat glistening his forehead...

Say cheese! Take a (mental) picture.

And file that picture away for safe keeping, banking it, as it were.

And later, after I climb into bed, I make a withdrawl from the Man Bank.

Followed by a deposit onto my furry chest.

What can I say. You do what you gotta do.

(Another day at Ho(t)me(n) Depot tomorrow. Then doing Hard Labor Ready on Tuesday and Wednesday. Filled out an application at the Steel Mill, but no word yet.)

Best. Hard. Labor. Ready. Gig. Ever.

Now I get it!

This is why God lead me to Hard Labor Ready.

It sure didn't start out to be a good day. I had 1/16th of a tank of gas and six dollars. Not enough gas to get me down to Hard Labor Ready to make money to get gas. What to do?

I counted out my quarter collection--I stockpile quarters for when I'm in dire straits, sort of a rainy day fund, and I did it reluctantly because I think there's much worse weather to come--and took fifty dollars in quarters to the bank to cash in. Of course the bank made this as difficult and humiliating as possible, making me count out all my quarters. But I left with fifty-six bucks in my pocket. And headed down to Hard Labor Ready. After getting gas.

Because I was getting to Hard Labor Ready so late in the day (10 a.m.), there was the possibility that I wouldn't get work. Or worse, I'd be doing yardwork for a frugal lesbian house flipper. But after waiting around their offices for a little over an hour (they were watching The View at deafening decibels), a call came in. Sharon called me over and gave me a gypsy's warning: you'll get really dirty.

The thought in my head was, "Oh cool!" but the words that came out of my mouth were, "No problem. I have a washing machine." The place, called "Metlab," made me smile. Imagine the doubletakes! "Yeah, I work in a metlab." I drove over there, parked my car, and entered. The guy who greeted me seemed nice, and told me that the employee parking lot was down the street, so he'd meet me around the back of the building. I moved my car, got out, and headed for the huge bay door.

And stopped dead in my tracks.

Inside, it was dark and sooty. Flames were shooting out of blast furnaces. Mercury lights shown through air thick with oily smoke...

This was a steel mill! I was going to work in a steel mill!

In my talk about movies in the post below, I neglected to mention in the list of movies I saw during the Eighties one of my all time favorites: Four Friends. It had a profound effect on me indeed. The protagonist (is it a protagonist when you're talking about a movie, or just "the lead?") is a guy who wants to be a writer, and he's in love with a girl who believes she's the reincarnation of Isadora Duncan, and he feels he loses his way in life after a horrifying tragedy, but he finds himself again by going back home to Indiana and working in the steel mill where his father works. Since I saw Four Friends--something like eight times--a steel mill has always seemed to me to be a crucible of manhood and self-knowledge.

Okay. So what were they going to have me do? Sort scrap metal? Sweep up?

Uh uh.

I was partnered with a guy named Phil who, it turns out, was also a Hard Labor Ready alum. In fact, he first came to MetLab (which is short for "Metal Lab," it turns out) as a Hard Labor Ready assignment. Phil explained to me the work we would be doing. The job was to harden eight inches on the end of these ten foot long quarter inch five inches in diameter--in other words, huge steel pipes. The way you harden steel is by raising the temperature to kindling (where it's glowing bright orange and about 1600° F.) and then cool it down really quickly by dunking it in water, called "quenching" it. We were heating these three hundred and ten pound pipes using electromagnetic induction. Together, we would lift the pipes onto a rack, position them in copper coils, and Phil showed me how to keep the watts and amps in the ideal range. Then, after sufficient time (about twenty minutes), we'd heave the pipe up and dunk the end in the quench bath.

I. Was. Working. In. A. Steel. Mill.

Oh man.

Phil was a great guy to work with, a really handsome Black guy who loved Classic Rock. Like, really loved Classic Rock. He had a radio tuned to the Classic Rock station, and was singing along very loudly to Aerosmith, AC/DC and the like while we worked. After the pipe was quenched, we'd set up the next pipe, and Phil would take the pipe we just did by forklift off into the mill to be tested for hardness, leaving me to work the machine we were using alone.

I loved every minute of it.

Truly.

At three o'clock, the shift changed, and I saw a passel of steelworkers pass by me, some of them enjoying their after work cigars.

I shit you not.

But the best part came when I had to go take a piss. Phil gave me directions to find the bathroom.

Wow.

It was in a lockerroom, decades old, painted institutional green, and grimy and filthy. Against the back wall were shower stalls, with only transparent liners hanging from the rods. It occured to me that the steel workers who passed getting off shift were wearing nice street clothes and had cleaned themselves up some. Obviously, I hadn't timed my pee break very well.

There were a couple of toilet stalls, but the best part was the urinal. It was a circular steel pissoir kind of thing, reminding me of a contraption I once saw as a whisky sour fountain at a wedding. It was situated in a separate room from the lockerroom with the shower stalls, and in the urinal room was a door standing open to another part of the mill. Since the pissoir fountain was only three feet high, I whipped it out and pissed in plain view of anyone who happened to be passing by. Although no one was.

In other words, the men's room in the steel mill would make the best porn movie set of any place I've ever seen in my life.

Hell, forget porn, I want to have sex in that bathroom. With a steelworker, both of us smoking cigars.

I wonder if at any point down through the years steelworkers smoking cigars have had sex in that bathroom?

What a waste if not!

I met the owner of the mill, and the head foreman. I think I made a good impression on both of them. Given Phil's experience, I'm hoping that I'll get more work at this steel mill. Like, a lot. During the dinner break at 7 p.m., I ate a sandwich from the local 7-11, sitting just outside the bay on a pile of steel, watching a beautiful crescent moon rise in the evening sky.

Damn it was perfect.

I finally got off work AT THE STEEL MILL at 9 p.m. I left reluctantly, smiling all the way home.

Of course, I had to stop at Starbucks to get a latte to serve as fuel for my drive to work tomorrow morning. After I ordered my latte, I had to pee again so I headed for the men's room at the Starbucks. I opened the door, turned on the light, and found myself looking at my own reflection. My clothes and my face were covered in black soot.

You know, like I had been WORKING IN A STEEL MILL ALL DAY. Which, of course, I had been.

I looked so fukken hot I gave myself a hardon.

At The Movies

I never see movies anymore. The last two movies I saw were 300 and before that, Brokeback Mountain.

I used to live for movies. Back when I was in high school, the theater in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, which was The theater in Doylestown, closed down, and re-opened briefly as an art house, showing independents. This was back in the Eighties, the golden age of independent film. And I saw them all. The Year Of Living Dangerously, Breathless with Richard Gere, Blood Simple, Death Trap, Plein Lune Au Dessus Paris, My Dinner With Andre... Amazing stuff.

In college, the there was a college in the same town as my little Catholic liberal arts college that had a pretty ambitious film program, and showed classics on Tuesday nights for two bucks. So I was introduced to Film Noire, experimental Super 8 stuff, documentaries, developed a whole film vocabulary. There was a time when my only idea of what a date was would have been going to see a movie and then talking about it afterwards. Anybody who couldn't talk about film wasn't worth a second date.

And I was always up on movies. Every Friday night, I used to see whatever looked good. I used to say that for me, just the repetition of slightly altered images on celluloid projected on a screen creating the illusion of motion was enough to delight me; plot, characters, cinematograpy... that was all gravy.

But then, about the time I hit my fortieth trip around the sun, things changed.

I came to sense that I had only finite reserves of something, some nameless thing, some élan vital. And that each movie I saw diminished that in some small way. There was something that had to be rationed, doled out little by little or it would too soon be used up.

Or maybe it has something to do with the thought that I'm a minimalist.

Nowadays, when I do see a movie, it's a big deal. Brokeback Mountain and 300 were such powerful experiences for me. Each of those movies changed my life, changed me. And perhaps, part of why they were so powerful was because instead of drifting in a sea of cinematic experiences they floated alone, pure and sweet and true and clean.

Which is not a bad way to conduct yourself with some things.

If you lived on a a diet exclusively of chocolate, the occasional truffle would all but go unnoticed. But if you're eating a lot of thin gruel, then that truffle would be explosive.

And we're not talking about self-denial here--which I am Against--but just a more considered way of enjoying life.

So Eastern Promises looks interesting. And I can bone up on my russian.

Not Yesterday. Tomorrow.

Oh MAN my poor old tired body is aching.

Spent the day working for installer guy putting together office furniture over in Broomall, PA. Thank the Lord the stuff wasn't delivered until noon so I didn't have to be there until 12:30. The work wasn't hard particularly, but lots of bending and lifting and such.

So I didn't get to put on my apron and head out on the floor at Ho(t)me(n) Depot. It was a management snafu kinda thing. No big deal.

So tomorrow night, I'm working 6pm to 11pm. And that's when it's gonna go down.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Starting a new job... Always stressful. Always laden with anxiety. But it'll pass. And it'll all come together. And then things will be So. Much. Better.

And guess what? It think I might just be feeling some vague stirrings of my libido lately!

Truth!

And what a welcome development that would be.

My Favorite Color

Today at Ho(t)me(n) Depot, there I was reading through training materials on installing sinks and faucets and such, and in came the Human Resources Manager for the store. She who hired me. In her arms was a bundle. The moment had come: I have earned my apron. On the right side--it should be the left! Closest to my heart!--was my name, written in black magic marker.

Eeeeeeeeeee!

This means that when I go to work tomorrow, I'll report not to the training room, but to the Kitchens and Baths department manager, thereafter to be unleashed onto an unsuspecting world.

"Oh my gosh," I said, trying to contain myself, "Should I kneel?"

"No, no, no reason to kneel," she told me.

"Will there be cake?" I asked.

"Y'know, there ought to be cake," she agreed, "But there's no cake."

But there was a tape measure, a utility knife, a black magic marker, and a blue pen.

These things don't belong to me, mind you, they're just given to me by Ho(t)me(n) Depot to use at work.

Not like I'm not nervous. To quiet my nerves, I've been running over What-I'll-Say-To-Customer-Who-Wants-To-Buy-A-New-Toilet-For-Powder-Room-He-Added-To-His-New-Finished-Basement and Things-To-Say-To-Help-People-Wondering-Whether-To-Go-With-A-Gas-Or-Electric-Stove-Top (which is Not. What. You'd. Think.) and such.

It's been a long time since I've been a Productive Member of Society. It sure will feel good. Ah, work. Such good stuff there. Opportunities to shine. Chances to be The Man. Being the Go To Guy.

And oh yeah. The Go To Gay Guy.

Last night, I worked until close. After I clocked out, I was heading towards the door, and a woman asked me if I was the "New Guy" in Kitchens and Baths. I confirmed that I was. We talked for a bit. And I broke in... "Have we met somewhere?"

I asked where she grew up, and she said "Near Doylestown."

I asked where she went to high school, and she said, "Central Bucks East."

Bingo.

(That fly-paper mind of mine.)

"You sat in front of me in Current World Problems in Tenth Grade!"

And we were off to the races.

So then, with that certain gleam in her eyes (that gleam that I don't get from guys), she asked, "So are you married?"

No. Not married.

Dating anybody? In a relationship?

Nope. Not in a relationship.

Are you gay?

Yes. I. Am.

So doubtless the word is out.

And I totally don't mind that.

So I'm the gay guy in the orange apron.

And orange, as we know, is my favorite color.

The only downside to working at Ho(t)me(n) Depot would be that all of my favorite shirts are orange. And I can't wear orange to work. Which ain't so bad. Standing in my closet and looking around, all you see is orange and what my sister once called "any color as long as mud comes in that." So the downside isn't much of a downside, since if I'm wearing it and it's not orange, then it goes with orange.

*sigh*

Starting tomorrow...

Working Up A Sweat

Time to update you on the rollicking hijinx of your favorite homo day laborer!

Yesterday I got up early and headed down to Hard Labor Ready.

Not early enough apprently. The place was just about deserted when I got there; the assignments had come in and the laborers went out. I was antsy because I had exactly six dollars to my name. But happily, a call came in. But unhappily, it was someone wanting help with yard work. My least favorite.

I was partnered with a guy named Randy, and for a change we went in his Jeep Liberty instead of my Jeep Liberty.

The Hard Labor Ready turned out to be a single woman, in her forties, wearing comfortable clothes, who owned two dogs, who owned power tools, and who had her strawberry blond hair cut short and parted on the side. I'm not sayin' I'm just sayin'. But the possibility that I was working a member of the tribe sure made the yard work more tolerable. And, as is often the case, I jumped into the work with gusto. Ms. Yardwork had just moved from Montana. She had bought the home planning to fix it up--herself--and resell it, an effort that had payed off for her in Montana and before that in Maine and before that in Oregon. (I knew about Maine and Oregon being Poles of the Lesbian World, but I wasn't aware of Montana.) Thus far, she had ripped up the decades old carpet inside, and cleared trees and brush from around the house. At one point, I was cutting up oak saplings to three foot lengths, bundling them, and binding them with twine. I smile to myself, thinking that bundles of sticks were referred to as "faggots." I decided to keep these thoughts to myself.

The downside of working for a person rather than a company is that a company has usually already budgeted you for an eight hour day, so if you get everything done in less time, they still put eight hours down on your job sheet. Homeowners tend to be keenly aware that they're paying for your services by the hour and time it down to the minute. And such was the case with Yardwork Woman. She had Randy and I drop our tools at the four hour mark exactly. And so four hours was just what I got paid for. (Which works out to me getting twenty-six bucks.)

This morning, I left the house at 6:15, when it was still dark. I was helping out Installer Guy, whom I met through a Hard Labor Ready assignment but who gave me the opportunity to work for him directly. The job was way down in South Jersey. I was closer to Atlantic City than I was from home.

And it got weird.

It's for a company that deals in rare minerals. Very rare minerals apparently. And so most of their facilities are a metal free zone. Really! Because magnesium or whatever goes for $3000 an ounce, they take every precaution to make sure that no one is taking out any. So after we were cleared through the first security gate, we emptied our pockets into lockers before we headed through the second security gate. I was pretty scrupulous, but scrupulosity was encouraged.

The work was reconfiguring cubicles in one of the labs. The whole place was built from cinderblock. The windows we passed gave views only to foundry looking places filled with men wearing haz mat suits. None of them looked out on the sunshine. And speaking of wardrobe options, the folks that worked there all wore these identical gray uniforms. At first I thought they were dickies, but I noticed they were much better cut. And they seemed starched. And they were accessorized by cinching thick black belts and black boots. (The hems of the pants were tucked into the black boots.) The entire effect--passing all these youngish men in the hall dressed in these militaristic yet proletarian uniforms reminded me (a lot) of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. We were working in one of the laboratories (lah-BORE-ah-tor-ees). Behind glass partitions, easter egg colored liquids bubbled in flasks and beakers. So cool! To one side were cubicles, and re-arranging them was our mission.

The work went fairly well, and after a few hours, we were finished. I helped Installer Guy pack up his tools, loaded them all onto a cart, and we headed on our way.

Which meant, of course, not leaving the building before it was assured that we had no metal on us whatsoever. Installer Guy went first. He took off his shoes, held out his arms, and submitted to one of those airport-security style go-overs with what seemed to be a verrry sensitive metal detector. (Each of the rivets on his jeans gave a signal and was accounted for. The security guy frowned deeply every time he hit another rivet.)

Oh hell.

I realized that I had emptied my pockets, but I was still wearing the big honking stainless steel cock ring that I always wear everywhere I go and which I haven't taken off in months.

Hoping that Installer Guy and security guy would be would be intent on what they were doing, I turned my back, unbuttoned my fly, dug out my three piece set, and wrenched off the cockring.

Don't try that at home.

Ever.

Ever!

I chucked it into the little bin with my wallet and the little key to the locker into which I had emptied my pockets.

Security guy was done with Installer Guy and was ready to turn his magnetic attention to me. First off, he put my plastic bin.

"Uh oh," he commented.

The bin came out of the metal detector, he picked up my cockring and held it up, like Hercule Poirot would treat a murder weapon.

"What the hell is this?" he asked.

"It's jewelry," I answered.

He was dumbfounded. "Jewelry? What kind of jewelry is this? How do you wear it?"

I steeled myself: "Umm... The genitals."

His eyes widened, probably from two flashes of recognition following in quick succession: first, just what I was talking about, and second, that he was holding it in his hand.

He recovered well.

I wondered if he'd hit some alarm button and all the youngish men in grey uniforms and black boots would come storming in to carry me off to the isolation chamber. Or the Re-education Camp. Or whatever. But it was over, and somehow I had passed.

After that, the once over with the metal detector was a cakewalk, although I think that security guy coould have found a chunk of Rhodium in my pocket the size of a Snickers bar and let it go. I sure breathed a sigh of relief.

Luckily, they didn't carefully examine every tool in Installer Guy's toolbags, but Installer Guy told me he wasn't always so lucky.

All told, going through security took over an hour.

But finally we were on our own.

On the way home, I was fairly jovial. Installer Guy would put a check in the mail to me, and tomorrow, Friday, I get my first paycheck from Ho(t)me(n) Depot.

Somewhere off to the West, tonight is the first night of Inferno. The men have unpacked, had the first dinner, and the dungeons are open. But knowing that I have money coming in dulls the sting of that.

In Case You're Wondering...

Taking advantage of my day off, I decided to mow the lawn.

Before I headed out, I had an idea. Without too much trouble, I inserted a butt plug.

And guess what?

A tractor makes a great vibrator!

A Reader Writes

"what exactly does "Feh" mean? I feel rather dumb to even ask"

Not so! A good question!

I was once told that living in New York City conferred upon you the perks of being honorarily Jewish and honorarily puerto rican. If, that is, you weren't already. And in the context of the whitebread world I currently inhabit, I've certainly found some truth in that.

And I think that's where "Feh" comes from. A very useful term, and because of its yiddish origins, it can sound both homey and exotic at the same time. And Feh doesn't stand alone. There's a whole family of ejaculations (the correct grammatical term) along those line.

So here is the Only Guide You'll Ever Need To Feh And Its Siblings...

"Eh." An expression of indifference to the options presented. Akin to, "Mesa mesa," or "N'import pas à moi," or "six of one, half dozen the other."

"Heh." "I find that wryly amusing." Reading accounts of all of the Family Values votin' Republicans swept up in scandals lately causes me to utter "Heh" in response.

"Geh." Deriding as useless, but with overtones of disgust. Like when you'd like cheddar cheese to grate on top of your chili, remember you have some in the fridge, but discover a small, grey-green fuzzy brick in the deli drawer.

"Beh" "Not like I care, but what you're saying is bullshit." Probably a derivation of the briticisms "Bah" and "Bosh."

"Meh." "WhatEVER." Similar to "Eh," but also expressing impatience. As in, "Meh. Don't bother me with questions like that."

"Feh." Useless for my purposes. Easy to remember as it shares the first phonic syllable with "feckless." Again, with overtones of frustration.

Okay. Got all that?

Pop quiz!

Indicate the appropriate response to each of the following. Answers can be found below.

1. "We shouldn't give up on the idea of establishing a toehold for democracy in Iraq that could spread throughout the Middle East."

2. "Let's stop for lunch. Wendy's or Burger King?"

3. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I was throwing up in the bathroom just now."

4. "I'll sell you the whole Girls Gone Wild video collection for just $50!"

5. "Sorry to interrupt you while you're watching Game Five of the World Series, but what would you guess Sandy Duncan is doing right now?"

6. "When asked what he considered to be his greatest achievement while in office, the outgoing Attorney General answered, 'I can't recall.'"











Answers

1. Beh 2. Eh 3. Geh 4. Feh 5. Meh 6. Heh

Angelic Visitation On State Street!

I was headed to Starbucks.

Coming into Doylestown from the South, I always hang a right onto Ashland, then take Pine up to State Street. That way, I don't have to wait forEVER to make a left turn at State and Main Streets. On Pine, I passed my church, and as I came up the hill to State Street, I saw them.

Crossing Oakland were these two men. Brushcuts, bushy facial hair, built bodies, wearing flannel shirts, Carhartts, boots (Wesco's even?), and chain wallets.

I was on the verge of letting out a Woof! when a Jack Russel Terrier beat me to it, letting out a chorus of yaps, as Jack Russel Terriers are often wont to do. (See "Breeds Of Dogs I Will Not Own Ever"). The two men crossed the street and headed west on State Street, so for a bit, we were in tandem, them walking on the sidewalk, me driving in the street.

A bit of eye hockey ensued.

I had to move with traffic, and caught the light, found a parking space, headed to Starbucks, and soon enough I was ensconced in my seat enjoying a cigar.

And feeling vaguely unsettled.

Something beyond the surprise of seeing two hot musclebears in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, an event akin to some god spending time among mortals in a homeric epic.

Then it kind of hit me.

In the not too distant past, that was me. There I was, back in March, at the Barracks in Palm Springs. Big, bald, built, leathered up, swimming through a pool of flirtacious attention.

I used to be that guy.

Used to be.

The disconnection I've been feeling lately has grown and grown. When was the last time I wore my leather? Or had cause to do so? Will I ever again? This is the Year I Didn't Go To Inferno. No money obviously, so I contacted them and got my deposit back. Strangely, I'm not mopey at all about that. I just don't feel up to it.

Nowadays, I lead a quiet life. I rarely visit the internet haunts that used to consume hours of my day. I get up early, enjoying the stillness of dawn, head off to either Ho(t)me(n) Depot or some day labor gig with Hard Labor Ready. Hit Starbucks on the way home, make dinner for my dad, watch a little television, and I'm in bed by eleven most nights. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But not only did I used to be that, I used to simultaneously aspire to be that.

In the world that I once called home, role models abounded. I want a relationship like Walt and Robert have! Tony is about my build, if I worked at it at the gym, I could have a body like that. I wonder if I'll ever be a whipsman with the skill and renown of Andrew or Joel? I'd love to have a pair of thigh-high Wesco's like that; I wonder how much they cost? Fred has such an awesome playroom... I wonder if I could build something like that.

It's all a game, but one that I used to play well, and was always trying like hell to play better.

So this vaguely unsettling feeling stayed with me, and yesterday, when I got into church and dropped to my knees before the service started, I was keenly aware of it.

"Who am I? Any answers?"

Yahweh was silent on the issue.

Or not.

Not quite a game, I realized. More of a role. The role of a lifetime, but a role nonetheless. For years and years, I would see other men playing that role, and when the time came, I took my place among them, having studied the part carefully, albeit unwittingly. Once you know the arc of the scene, the business involved the various everybody-on-stage-for-the-Grande Finale parts (MAL, Inferno, Folsom Street East), it all comes pretty easy. And at times, I felt myself to be a Star; my intentions fused with those of the audience and my fellow players: we were all one. And it was glorious.

Now, I'm doing improv.

"Okay. Here's the deal. You have four dollars to your name. You were sent by Hard Labor Ready down to the Franklin Mills Mall to clean up a construction site where they're winding down after remodeling a new store. You're partnered in this with a kid about nineteen years old who's pretty sullen and brand new to the world of day labor. He keeps disappearing on you, leaving you to take out the trash and push the broom on your own. You're hoping that even though you got there at 10 a.m., the foreman will sign on your paperwork that you've been there eight hours because you really need that money. Hell, you've got less than a quarter of a tank of gas in your jeep. Annnnnd... Action!

It is improv. Making it up as I go along. Doing my best to bring all of my training to bear on each brand spanking new experience. No costumes; just the jeans and tshirt I happened to be wearing.

And of course, the cardinal rule of doing improv--the only rule, in fact--is Stay In The Moment.

And I'm doing a pretty good job with that.

Ah, The Moment.

I always argued with that kernal of buddhist wisdom. Really? Don't the future and the past count for anything? They're really just illusion? Some aspects of my past and future were sweet as the peach I just ate. (The peaches are amazing this year.)

And, don't get to thinking that I'm denigrating leatherfolk by all this talk about it being a role or just so much theater. As M. Jean-Paul Sartre reminds us, ultimately, everything is reducible to absurdity. Just because it's a role doesn't mean that we can't catch glimpses of eternity from the proscenium. Quite the reverse. The love is real.

And one day, one day, this hiatus of mine, this season of summer stock way out here in East Bumfugger, will draw to a close. And I'll be back in the footlights. I think that I've got a good Lear and a decent Richard III in me still.

Those two hot musclebears on State Street in Doylestown, Pennsylvania... Sent by God. Heavenly messengers. Emissaries from that Golden Kingdom I used to call home. A City On A Hill, waiting to welcome me back again.

I, Colossal Dork

Thus far in my Ho(t)me(n) Depot career, it's been all about web based training. Me, sitting in front of a PC in the training room of the store. Hour after hour of how their order system works, and whirlpool baths (love them!) and such. Today was all about baths. Sinks, vanities, showers, tubs, toilets, linen cabinets, medicine cabinets.

And at this point, I'm chafing at the bit. I can't wait to get out on the floor and sell stuff.

So today, after eight hours of web based training, what did I do?

I got in my car and drove to the nearest Ho(t)me(n) Depot. (I thought if I pulled this at my own store it might get a wee bit embarrassing.)

And what did I do? I wandered through the Kitchen and Bath department.

I am going to be so useful there. No small amount of the merchandise was filthy. The reveals around the doors and drawerfronts of the cabinets are all way off. And whaddyaknow? A lesbian couple was left to their own devices to pick out stuff to renovate their bathroom! Outrageous! Ho(t)me(n) Depot maintains their competitive edge over our competitors by providing excellent, knowledgeable customer service, but I'm sorry to say that excellent customer service didn't seem to be in evidence at this other Ho(t)me(n) Depot store. All those conversations in my head, helping folks navigate the particulars of buying a new toilet (round bowl or oval? traditional two-piece or contemporary one-piece? gravity flush or pressure flush?), extolling the virtues of American Standard Lifetime Whirlpools (they don't take up much more room than a conventional soaker bathtub!), and, of course, making dreams come true (provided that people other than myself spend time coming up with cogent answers to questions like, "What would my dream bathroom look like?").

Yes, there I was, happily and excitedly strolling through the aisles of the Kitchens and Baths department of this other Ho(t)me(n) Depot, dreaming of the day (coming soon!) when I'll be donning my orange apron and joining the fray.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Oh man. I'm a dork.

During my high school years, we were, by and large, a blasé and apathetic lot, all but devoid of School Spirit, despite the best efforts of coaches and administrators. We couldn't care less about how our basketball team did or that they were only two games away from the State finals or whatever. But there were a few among us, chronological throwbacks of sorts, who would bellow down the stairwells "We are totally going to BEAT WEST!!!" while we scuttled between classes. (I went to Central Bucks High School East, and our Big Rivals were Central Bucks High School East.) Generally, these calls down the stairway intended to cheer us on to Victory were greeted by a chorus of responses of "Shut the hell up, you Dork."

Dorks, of course, were those who didn't quite understand what the rest of us knew too well: it was just school, so what's the big deal?

There were a number of oddballs in the group of kids I hung out with--in fact, we banded together because we were oddballs--but we drew the line at dorks.

No dorks.

Well, I was just swimming in Ho(t)me(n) Depot dorkiness. I was in Dork Seventh Heaven.

After all, it's just a job.

Ho(t)me(n) Depot is just another corporation, making their money with mark-ups, driving local independent hardware stores out of business when they open up one of their Big Boxes...

But at this point, I have totally drank the Kool-Aid. In fact, my belly is swollen with Kool-Aid. I love Ho(t)me(n) Depot. I want to be a great Ho(t)me(n) Depot Sales Associate. I AM GOING TO TOTALLY ROCK KITCHENS AND BATHS!!!

I am a colossal Dork.