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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ciao for now.

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

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

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


-----------------------------------------------------------------

Wow.

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

------------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

Hopefully, I'll have better luck tonight.

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

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

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

--------------------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

We now return to our story, already in progress.

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

I am sore confused.

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

============================================

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

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

__________________________________________________________________

I could get seriously crushed out on this hot man.

-----------------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So okay, Kramer! Get your sorry act together.

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

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

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

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


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