Got up early this morning and drove up to NYC. It was the first practice with my softball team, the Ball Breakers.
Traffic was a nightmare. Right past the tollbooths coming off of 78 going onto the turnpike extension, there was a huge traffic back-up. It was a parking lot as far as the eye could see. I made a quick turn and headed onto the NJTPK North bound for the Lincoln Tunnel instead of the Holland. I hate the Lincoln Tunnel. It's always a hassle, and this time, of course, was no exception. And since I'm not familiar with getting onto the FDR from Midtown, it took some doing, but it went alright. I was only ten minutes late. Good thing I gave myself two solid hours to get there or it would have been a huge problem.
Great great great to see all those guys again. We have some new Ball Breakers this year. Last year's crop of new players was... ...um... not so successful. With two notable exceptions. Last year, we had two cops and one firefighter. This year, it seems we'll have three firefighters and one cop. (The other cop has now become a New York City public school teacher and is happy as a clam. (Clams are happy? About what exactly?) So firefighter Ball Breakers will outnumber police officer Ball Breakers in the 2007 Season.
(There are members of the uniform services who are straight, right? Although you sure couldn't tell from the Ball Breakers.)
Practice went great. We started with fielding (got some work to do there), and then worked on our batting (got some work to do there, too).
Things I must remember...
Fielding:
1. Be aggressive, go after every ball;
2. Get under the ball;
3. Open up my glove;
4. Hit my cut-off man;
5. For a grounder, put my body in the path of the ball.
Batting:
1. Stand so the meat of the bat is centered over the plate;
2. Plant my back foot;
3. Keep my right shoulder and elbow up;
4. Swing right across my chest, nice and level;
5. Keep my eye on the ball because you hit what you're looking at.
I've gotta find some batting cages near me! I found a place down outside of Philadelphia, but they want $60/hour. Which is absolutely ridiculous. I mean, for that money, I'd want an actual pitcher, catcher and coach to work with, not just a machine spitting balls out at me. Deeeee-ammm.
There was a dire moment during practice. Two seasons ago, our manager had his leg broken badly by a total asshole on a team of total assholes. Completely unnecessarily. We protested to the league and got the guy suspended for a few games, a decision we all disagreed with. It was a nightmare, almost ending our manager's softball career. (And now, of course, we have to hear him talk about it Every. Chance. He. Gets. (We Ball Breakers delight in giving each other a hard time, so I generally refer to this tragedy as "the bad toe stubbing incident.")
Anyway, our manager was pitching during batting practice, and caught a line drive right on his shin. On his good leg. He dropped to the ground, and there was this moment of "no way" as we gathered around him. It turned out it wasn't a bad hit: no lasting damage, just painful and he'll have quite the goose-egg on his shin.
And that will probably be the last time he leaves his shin guards in the car.
Then, we headed back to Ty's on Christopher Street, our sponsor, and I had me a good dose of hangin' with the Ball Breakers. Sweet. We cought up. We picked on each other mercilessly, nothing being sacred. (Except the job of our first baseman, who even though it involved him digging through Anna Nicole Smith's garbage down in Bermuda or wherever in hopes of finding one of Danielynn's diapers so his boss could run her own DNA testing... is off limits! Which drives me crazy.)
And there was pizza. I love pizza.
One by one, Ball Breakers headed off home. Before I faced nightmare traffic going home, I decided to fortify myself with a nice triple-venti-two-pump-vanilla-latté from the new Starbucks at 10th and Hudson. This is a great development. (Once again I rhetorically ask, "How many Starbucks do we need?" to which I answer, "At least one more! That one!") Now I won't have to hike all the way to 7th and Christopher to get an iced latté before I head to the piers to smoke a cigar in warmer weather. And given the foot traffic, a significant proportion of it homosexual men, that Starbucks could very well become My New Hang in NYC.
On the way home, traffic was much worse than even I anticipated. Personally, I don't see too much wrong with the medians on the Casciano Memorial Bridge, but I guess those must have been some serious hairline cracks in the median to warrant backing up traffic for ten miles on a Saturday night; or else North Jersey is rife with corruption or something, and that couldn't be the case, right?
And the season starts.
Sweet.
And tomorrow morning, I get to sing my all time favorite hymn, "All Glory, Laud, and Honor" while walking through Doylestown holding a palm in my hands.
Could things get better?
(Yeah. I would really have loved to meet up with Bruiser while I was up in NYC, but that was not to happen. Darn it. But I'll bide my time and keep hope alive there. And life seems to offer its little compensations.)
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Benefits Of Blogging
Oh My Lord And Taylor! Lolita has some serious fans!
This restores my faith in humanity on a number of fronts:
1. There are people walking around on this planet who are capable of all but boundless kindness and generosity;
2. People like Lolita who do so much good in the world are sometimes rewarded for that;
3. I might get to ride in a Ferrari!
I'm reminded of when I put out the call here on SingleTails to request that readers send my father a card for his 80th birthday a few years ago. And the cards came pouring in from all over the country. My goal was for him to receive 80 cards, one for every year he's been alive. He received eighty-two. He was pretty blown away by that, and he still has all those cards. (Although I was vague on the details of who these cards were coming from. I simply told him, "Friends of mine.")
This restores my faith in humanity on a number of fronts:
1. There are people walking around on this planet who are capable of all but boundless kindness and generosity;
2. People like Lolita who do so much good in the world are sometimes rewarded for that;
3. I might get to ride in a Ferrari!
I'm reminded of when I put out the call here on SingleTails to request that readers send my father a card for his 80th birthday a few years ago. And the cards came pouring in from all over the country. My goal was for him to receive 80 cards, one for every year he's been alive. He received eighty-two. He was pretty blown away by that, and he still has all those cards. (Although I was vague on the details of who these cards were coming from. I simply told him, "Friends of mine.")
Friday, March 30, 2007
Pain And Blood
This morning, I started out my day at the gym. Great workout! I'm usually not there in the mornings, when it seems I'm a good twenty years below the median age, but it was nice. I didn't have to wait for any of the weights or stations I needed. Not even the cable machines. I got an early start because the Baron drove up to spend the day with me here in Bucks County.
So cool. The Baron and I hung out in Doylestown for awhile, talking and talking and talking. Once again, the Baron commiserated and had kind words and thoughtful insights as I ran through a story he's heard more than once before: I meet a guy, hit it off, it seems to be a mutual thing, but then before I know it, I seem to be the only one riding the train. What is up with that? Is it my breath? Do I have an enemy who is constantly taping a sign on my back that says "Get Out Fast!" on my back? Perhaps there's been something in the news that I missed about a guy with a chain tattooed from his right ankle to left wrist who is coincidently wanted by the Federal authorities for identity theft or eviscerating kittens or something? What? Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only gay man on the planet who read and took to heart all that 18th Century English poetry ("Thy coyness lady were no crime if we had world enough and time, but at my back I always hear, Times wing'd charriots drawing near...").
WhatEVER.
The weather was beautiful today, the Baron was in a rare good mood. After spending the afternoon in Doylestown, we headed up 611 to Plumsteadville. I had to buy a rake at the hardware store there. (If you drive by the Ol' Homestead, you'll see just how badly I had to buy a rake.) And once again, I had that experience that's so much a part of being my father's son. The first time I went to a lumber yard, I was flabbergasted to discover that for not a lot of money, you could buy... say... an eight foot long two-by-four. My father, e'er the miser, was big on saving every scrap of wood. (This actually worked in my favor when I used to build treehouses.) The loss of a nine inch plank was for him an unimaginable disaster. So I assumed that the price of wood was about the same as the equivalent weight of saffron. When I learned that for $2.50, you could buy just about any board in the yard. The rake that we have, and that we've always had, probably since my father bought it in the 1950s, has had fewer and fewer teeth (tines?) over the years. During my raking years in adolescence, about half of them were still in place. These days, I'd say there were six, and they're not even grouped together. I was planning on spending not more than $40 on a new rake at the hardware store today.
Whaddyaknow, a rake cost me $6.50. And I even upgraded from bamboo to steel.
And of course, the Baron and I had a delightful time stalking the teenagers working in the hardware store. We did some grocery shopping so I could get the fixin's for a nice minestrone soup four our Friday-night-in-Lent supper tonight, picked up a prescription for my father, and had some pizza. The Baron suggested we take a drive down to New Hope. And so we did. The Delaware River is high, and the sun was beautiful as it reddened the western sky. We visited a couple of the tchotchka shops that drive the economy in that town, and I decided to drop in on my tattoo guy. And there he was, standing outside his shop by the canal, greeting me warmly. I mentioned in passing that I still had to come by for the touch-ups. A look of concern crossed his face... "What? Anything wrong?" No, no, no, I reassured, just the lines get a little thin in a few places. So Tattoo Guy got out his appointment book and scheduled me for two sessions, the first one on Thursday, May 3rd.
I'm trying to think about where exactly I've noticed those thin lines... One on the top of my thigh (won't be too bad), one on my shin bone (Yow!), one on my collar bone (Double Yow!). I just had this image of myself, the shaving, that sound of the needle, the scrunched up face Tattoo Guy makes when he's working, the pain, the blood.
Again? So soon? Does it need to be Perfect?
Yeah. Well. I'll just think Spartan thoughts.
And maybe--hope against hope--something will come through for me in the Romance Department and I'll be able to drag somebody along with me to offer moral support. Or at least call afterwards.
So cool. The Baron and I hung out in Doylestown for awhile, talking and talking and talking. Once again, the Baron commiserated and had kind words and thoughtful insights as I ran through a story he's heard more than once before: I meet a guy, hit it off, it seems to be a mutual thing, but then before I know it, I seem to be the only one riding the train. What is up with that? Is it my breath? Do I have an enemy who is constantly taping a sign on my back that says "Get Out Fast!" on my back? Perhaps there's been something in the news that I missed about a guy with a chain tattooed from his right ankle to left wrist who is coincidently wanted by the Federal authorities for identity theft or eviscerating kittens or something? What? Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only gay man on the planet who read and took to heart all that 18th Century English poetry ("Thy coyness lady were no crime if we had world enough and time, but at my back I always hear, Times wing'd charriots drawing near...").
WhatEVER.
The weather was beautiful today, the Baron was in a rare good mood. After spending the afternoon in Doylestown, we headed up 611 to Plumsteadville. I had to buy a rake at the hardware store there. (If you drive by the Ol' Homestead, you'll see just how badly I had to buy a rake.) And once again, I had that experience that's so much a part of being my father's son. The first time I went to a lumber yard, I was flabbergasted to discover that for not a lot of money, you could buy... say... an eight foot long two-by-four. My father, e'er the miser, was big on saving every scrap of wood. (This actually worked in my favor when I used to build treehouses.) The loss of a nine inch plank was for him an unimaginable disaster. So I assumed that the price of wood was about the same as the equivalent weight of saffron. When I learned that for $2.50, you could buy just about any board in the yard. The rake that we have, and that we've always had, probably since my father bought it in the 1950s, has had fewer and fewer teeth (tines?) over the years. During my raking years in adolescence, about half of them were still in place. These days, I'd say there were six, and they're not even grouped together. I was planning on spending not more than $40 on a new rake at the hardware store today.
Whaddyaknow, a rake cost me $6.50. And I even upgraded from bamboo to steel.
And of course, the Baron and I had a delightful time stalking the teenagers working in the hardware store. We did some grocery shopping so I could get the fixin's for a nice minestrone soup four our Friday-night-in-Lent supper tonight, picked up a prescription for my father, and had some pizza. The Baron suggested we take a drive down to New Hope. And so we did. The Delaware River is high, and the sun was beautiful as it reddened the western sky. We visited a couple of the tchotchka shops that drive the economy in that town, and I decided to drop in on my tattoo guy. And there he was, standing outside his shop by the canal, greeting me warmly. I mentioned in passing that I still had to come by for the touch-ups. A look of concern crossed his face... "What? Anything wrong?" No, no, no, I reassured, just the lines get a little thin in a few places. So Tattoo Guy got out his appointment book and scheduled me for two sessions, the first one on Thursday, May 3rd.
I'm trying to think about where exactly I've noticed those thin lines... One on the top of my thigh (won't be too bad), one on my shin bone (Yow!), one on my collar bone (Double Yow!). I just had this image of myself, the shaving, that sound of the needle, the scrunched up face Tattoo Guy makes when he's working, the pain, the blood.
Again? So soon? Does it need to be Perfect?
Yeah. Well. I'll just think Spartan thoughts.
And maybe--hope against hope--something will come through for me in the Romance Department and I'll be able to drag somebody along with me to offer moral support. Or at least call afterwards.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Vote For The Worst!
I have never been an American Idol fan. Most of the repertoire is the worst kind of pop music, and that singing-around-the-notes thing gets on my nerves. The hosts and the judges aren't especially entertaining. And the idea of America voting for "The Best"... That's kinda how we ended up electing George W. Bush back in 2004, right? So there's something wrong about that.
But I'm loving the whole Vote For The Worst phenomenon. That is truly making me feel good about life. I hope the phenomenon spreads... talent shows, science fairs, the Whitney Biennial... no contest should be immune! Whenever the ultimate decision is to be decided by an "applause-o-meter," I'll know what to do.
And just imagine the results if the VFTW phenomenon would seep into the psyches of our contest-obsessed brothers and sisters in leather in San Francisco! The whole "Hi! I'm proud to be Mr. Leather 1700 Block Of Noe Street For 2007! And from now until my step-down speech..." thing. I'm for the guy who wears a caftan in the jockstrap competition, whose fantasy involves a dramatic reading of Julia Child preparing monk fish, and who is clearly in the throes of meth-induced paranoid hallucinations during the question-and-answer segment! If we're gonna persist in the delusion that these guys "represent" us in some way and are to be held up as "role models," then let's see what we can do to make it a tad more interesting, huh?
But I'm loving the whole Vote For The Worst phenomenon. That is truly making me feel good about life. I hope the phenomenon spreads... talent shows, science fairs, the Whitney Biennial... no contest should be immune! Whenever the ultimate decision is to be decided by an "applause-o-meter," I'll know what to do.
And just imagine the results if the VFTW phenomenon would seep into the psyches of our contest-obsessed brothers and sisters in leather in San Francisco! The whole "Hi! I'm proud to be Mr. Leather 1700 Block Of Noe Street For 2007! And from now until my step-down speech..." thing. I'm for the guy who wears a caftan in the jockstrap competition, whose fantasy involves a dramatic reading of Julia Child preparing monk fish, and who is clearly in the throes of meth-induced paranoid hallucinations during the question-and-answer segment! If we're gonna persist in the delusion that these guys "represent" us in some way and are to be held up as "role models," then let's see what we can do to make it a tad more interesting, huh?
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
I Want Your Sex
...says girlfag.
In the final days of Question Month, she sends me one: "How do you define sex?"
And that's an easy one. For me, sex is pentrative intercourse.
As I've pointed out before here, I agree with our former President that blowjobs are not sex. It's foreplay, but not sex.
And I don't consider SM to be sex either. It can be sexual, and it can include sex, but if SM is sex, than boxing is sex, and extreme sports are sex, and riding a really good rollercoaster is sex. And they aren't. All those things involve adrenaline, endorphins, intimacy, and exhilaration. (When they're good, anyway.) And so can sex. But if we're doing an Thomistic defining of terms thing, then it's best to keep things simple.
In the final days of Question Month, she sends me one: "How do you define sex?"
And that's an easy one. For me, sex is pentrative intercourse.
As I've pointed out before here, I agree with our former President that blowjobs are not sex. It's foreplay, but not sex.
And I don't consider SM to be sex either. It can be sexual, and it can include sex, but if SM is sex, than boxing is sex, and extreme sports are sex, and riding a really good rollercoaster is sex. And they aren't. All those things involve adrenaline, endorphins, intimacy, and exhilaration. (When they're good, anyway.) And so can sex. But if we're doing an Thomistic defining of terms thing, then it's best to keep things simple.
Cruelty To Animals
Today, Wednesday, March 28th, I mercilessly tortured my dog. I was heartless and unrelenting. I used the most diabolical of all weapons: soap and warm water.
That's how he'd tell it anyway. From my perspective, I was just giving him a bath. It's a beautiful day for it. The weather is sunny and warm. And he's starting to blow out his winter coat, as testified to by the blanket of dog fur that rings my room and most other places in the house.
He hates water. I removed his collar and picked him up, and it wasn't until I deposited him in the shower stall and climbed in with him that he knew something was really Really REALLY wrong. Throughout, he makes these whiny little whimpers that I refer to as his "little mouse noises." I'd say I turned a deaf ear to his pleading, but that wouldn't quite be accurate. I find it almost unbearably cute.
After I soaked, soaped, and rinsed him, I did the same for me. "See! Dad likes getting all clean! It's not so bad!"
Faithful Companion was not reassured by this.
Once the door of the shower stall slid open in it's tracks, he was out of there like a shot.
But then came the part he really likes: the toweling off! (Dogs love getting toweled off! At least my dog does.
Now, his noises are vastly different, all playful growls and yelps of joy.
I put some clothes on and we headed out onto the porch for some brushing and combing. The real brushing and combing will come later. When his wooly undercoat, loosened by the bath, will turn my little brown-eyed boy into a cottonball factory with four legs and a tail.
Maybe tomorrow or the next day, I'll take him over to the dog park in Montgomeryville and show him off.
That's how he'd tell it anyway. From my perspective, I was just giving him a bath. It's a beautiful day for it. The weather is sunny and warm. And he's starting to blow out his winter coat, as testified to by the blanket of dog fur that rings my room and most other places in the house.
He hates water. I removed his collar and picked him up, and it wasn't until I deposited him in the shower stall and climbed in with him that he knew something was really Really REALLY wrong. Throughout, he makes these whiny little whimpers that I refer to as his "little mouse noises." I'd say I turned a deaf ear to his pleading, but that wouldn't quite be accurate. I find it almost unbearably cute.
After I soaked, soaped, and rinsed him, I did the same for me. "See! Dad likes getting all clean! It's not so bad!"
Faithful Companion was not reassured by this.
Once the door of the shower stall slid open in it's tracks, he was out of there like a shot.
But then came the part he really likes: the toweling off! (Dogs love getting toweled off! At least my dog does.
Now, his noises are vastly different, all playful growls and yelps of joy.
I put some clothes on and we headed out onto the porch for some brushing and combing. The real brushing and combing will come later. When his wooly undercoat, loosened by the bath, will turn my little brown-eyed boy into a cottonball factory with four legs and a tail.
Maybe tomorrow or the next day, I'll take him over to the dog park in Montgomeryville and show him off.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Worth Watching
Just saw Find Me Guilty And loved it. Really nice piece of cinema.
I got it, of course, because it stars Vin "Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss" Diesel. that was about it. Same as when I begged you all to go out to see The Pacifier? I want this man to have a long career in front of the camera. If he insists on turning down my offer of realizing his destiny as my slave, I want to see him doing his acting thing now and then.
But anyway, don't miss Find Me Guilty. Vin does a really good job with the acting, and the picture demands a lot of him. Once again, we get to see Vin wearing handcuffs. And slammed up against the bars of his cell. And he looks sooooo sweet with his face all beat up in one scene. But alas, he keeps his clothes on.
So find me guilty! Of being a Vin "Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss" Diesel!
I got it, of course, because it stars Vin "Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss" Diesel. that was about it. Same as when I begged you all to go out to see The Pacifier? I want this man to have a long career in front of the camera. If he insists on turning down my offer of realizing his destiny as my slave, I want to see him doing his acting thing now and then.
But anyway, don't miss Find Me Guilty. Vin does a really good job with the acting, and the picture demands a lot of him. Once again, we get to see Vin wearing handcuffs. And slammed up against the bars of his cell. And he looks sooooo sweet with his face all beat up in one scene. But alas, he keeps his clothes on.
So find me guilty! Of being a Vin "Chained At My Feet, Soaked In My Piss" Diesel!
There's The Pitch...
Oh cool! It's a new weblog I found. It's written by a guy named Pat Neshek, who's a baseball card collector. And, he's a pitcher for the Minnesota Twins!
That is pretty fascinating. I mean, among the baseball cards he collects are his. In his 'blog, he's writing all about spring training down in Florida, trying to hone his change-up. I don't know of any other ball players who have blogs. If I find more, or if it becomes a "thing," then I'll never leave the house again.
I love baseball. So much. Damn I love baseball.
And softball, too! This Saturday will be the first practice for the Ball Breakers. I said that I wouldn't be able to make it, since it's Holy Saturday. And that night will be the Easter Vigil at church. (For non-Episcopalians who might be reading this--and what the heck is holding you back?--it's sort of the Oscars, World Series, and Venice Biennial combined of church. But I'm having second thoughts... Maybe there will be enough time to get back here, change, get something for dinner for my dad before heading off with my bell. (Yeah, we bring bells to ring.)
Softball and the Easter Vigil within a twelve hour period. That would be pretty powerful.
That is pretty fascinating. I mean, among the baseball cards he collects are his. In his 'blog, he's writing all about spring training down in Florida, trying to hone his change-up. I don't know of any other ball players who have blogs. If I find more, or if it becomes a "thing," then I'll never leave the house again.
I love baseball. So much. Damn I love baseball.
And softball, too! This Saturday will be the first practice for the Ball Breakers. I said that I wouldn't be able to make it, since it's Holy Saturday. And that night will be the Easter Vigil at church. (For non-Episcopalians who might be reading this--and what the heck is holding you back?--it's sort of the Oscars, World Series, and Venice Biennial combined of church. But I'm having second thoughts... Maybe there will be enough time to get back here, change, get something for dinner for my dad before heading off with my bell. (Yeah, we bring bells to ring.)
Softball and the Easter Vigil within a twelve hour period. That would be pretty powerful.
Sure As Sherpa
Despite the fact that my previous attempts to influence popular culture in one way or another (trying to introduce the word "Daft," which means, roughly, "idiotic" in Scotland as a complementary term along the lines of "Phat" and "Stoopid"; trying to get flagging a white hankie to mean that you're on the lookout for comfort sex rather than a blowjob or a handjob as it currently signals) haven't worked out so well, here I go again.
Is there perhaps some area in your life where you need the guidance of a geeky expert? You want to buy a new computer, or you have a new high-profile job that requires a spiffy new wardrobe, or you've invited ten people to dinner even though cooking for a crowd of that size isn't something you've taken on before, or you're moving into a new apartment and you don't want it to look like a dorm room the way your last apartment did?
And there's all these reality tv shows where people who are expert in these areas swoop down into the lives of folks in need. Don't you wish that would happen to you?
Of course you do! We all of us have our deficits.
Then again, if you think about it, there are probably some things that you're totally great at, right?
Throwing an orgy? Can do! Out-of-towner planning a trip to NYC that involves something more than The Drowsy Chaperone and some lame-o over-priced dinners? I'll set you up, Bucko! Interested in supplementing your income by doing some hustling on weekends? Talk to a pro!
As we all know, climbers of Himalayan peaks hire a sherpa, someone who knows the mountain and will be happy to guide you.
There are areas in my life where I could sure use a sherpa. Areas that have nothing to do with climbing Himalayan peaks. And at the same time, I know some stuff about some stuff that would qualify me as a sherpa. (Again, excluding the climbing of Himalayan peaks.)
Now, there already exists a forum whereby people offering services can hook up with people in need of those services. And it's called Craigslist. So what I'm recommending here is a new "term of art." Think about what sherpa services you could offer, and throw some ads up on Craigslist. I hereby declare that the fees involved will not excede $20/hour. And what we're talking here is something less than hiring a consultant, and something more than a bit of friendly advice.
Here are the sherpa services I could offer...
Dating Sherpa What to wear, where to take him, what to talk about, how to find him, how to ask him.
Dungeon Design Sherpa How to create the erotic playspace of your dreams on a budget!
Getting A Dog Sherpa Are you ready to take that step? What kind of responsibility are you taking on? How do you find a good dog? Puppy or adult?
Leather Makeover Sherpa Don't buy chaps off the internet. Just don't do that. We'll head out shopping and I'll set you up. And it'll be fun!
Menu Planning Sherpa What should I make??? I'll help you out! Not to worry! And they'll love it!
Getting In Shape Sherpa Not personal training, just some perspective on finding some physical activity you enjoy. Rule Number One: It's gotta be fun. Rule Number Two: it's gotta make you feel good about yourself.
Cigar Sherpa How to pick one you'll like, where to buy them, how to smoke'em.
20th Century Architecture Appreciation Sherpa You and me, at the museum. I'm the Sister Wendy of Gehry and Meier, Bay-bee!
And at the same time, I'd be keen to find some sherpas...
Elder Care Sherpa Just what are my options for my dad? How would I go about arranging for home care? How does financing assisted living or senior housing work? What happens when my dad requires more help than I can provide?
Personal Finance Sherpa I. Need. Help. Not desparately right now, but that thing that people do called "saving"? How does that work exactly? And a 40.99% APR on credit cards isn't the standard, right?
Owning A boy Sherpa Ummm... Maybe premature, but a guy can dream, right?
Car Maintenance Sherpa How to find a good mechanic, what should I be doing that I'm not, what can I do as opposed to paying someone else to do? Lesbians learn this when they get their membership cards, right?
Landscaping Sherpa After the deer ate all the hosta I planted...
Starbucks Sherpa I go in there, and I just get so confused, I don't know what all the drinks are, and is it okay just to hang out after you get your coffee? And for how long? And do they call it "coffee" at Starbucks?
(Hah! Joke!)
So you get my drift?
What kinds of sherpa services could you offer? And what sherpas would help you out?
Is there perhaps some area in your life where you need the guidance of a geeky expert? You want to buy a new computer, or you have a new high-profile job that requires a spiffy new wardrobe, or you've invited ten people to dinner even though cooking for a crowd of that size isn't something you've taken on before, or you're moving into a new apartment and you don't want it to look like a dorm room the way your last apartment did?
And there's all these reality tv shows where people who are expert in these areas swoop down into the lives of folks in need. Don't you wish that would happen to you?
Of course you do! We all of us have our deficits.
Then again, if you think about it, there are probably some things that you're totally great at, right?
Throwing an orgy? Can do! Out-of-towner planning a trip to NYC that involves something more than The Drowsy Chaperone and some lame-o over-priced dinners? I'll set you up, Bucko! Interested in supplementing your income by doing some hustling on weekends? Talk to a pro!
As we all know, climbers of Himalayan peaks hire a sherpa, someone who knows the mountain and will be happy to guide you.
There are areas in my life where I could sure use a sherpa. Areas that have nothing to do with climbing Himalayan peaks. And at the same time, I know some stuff about some stuff that would qualify me as a sherpa. (Again, excluding the climbing of Himalayan peaks.)
Now, there already exists a forum whereby people offering services can hook up with people in need of those services. And it's called Craigslist. So what I'm recommending here is a new "term of art." Think about what sherpa services you could offer, and throw some ads up on Craigslist. I hereby declare that the fees involved will not excede $20/hour. And what we're talking here is something less than hiring a consultant, and something more than a bit of friendly advice.
Here are the sherpa services I could offer...
Dating Sherpa What to wear, where to take him, what to talk about, how to find him, how to ask him.
Dungeon Design Sherpa How to create the erotic playspace of your dreams on a budget!
Getting A Dog Sherpa Are you ready to take that step? What kind of responsibility are you taking on? How do you find a good dog? Puppy or adult?
Leather Makeover Sherpa Don't buy chaps off the internet. Just don't do that. We'll head out shopping and I'll set you up. And it'll be fun!
Menu Planning Sherpa What should I make??? I'll help you out! Not to worry! And they'll love it!
Getting In Shape Sherpa Not personal training, just some perspective on finding some physical activity you enjoy. Rule Number One: It's gotta be fun. Rule Number Two: it's gotta make you feel good about yourself.
Cigar Sherpa How to pick one you'll like, where to buy them, how to smoke'em.
20th Century Architecture Appreciation Sherpa You and me, at the museum. I'm the Sister Wendy of Gehry and Meier, Bay-bee!
And at the same time, I'd be keen to find some sherpas...
Elder Care Sherpa Just what are my options for my dad? How would I go about arranging for home care? How does financing assisted living or senior housing work? What happens when my dad requires more help than I can provide?
Personal Finance Sherpa I. Need. Help. Not desparately right now, but that thing that people do called "saving"? How does that work exactly? And a 40.99% APR on credit cards isn't the standard, right?
Owning A boy Sherpa Ummm... Maybe premature, but a guy can dream, right?
Car Maintenance Sherpa How to find a good mechanic, what should I be doing that I'm not, what can I do as opposed to paying someone else to do? Lesbians learn this when they get their membership cards, right?
Landscaping Sherpa After the deer ate all the hosta I planted...
Starbucks Sherpa I go in there, and I just get so confused, I don't know what all the drinks are, and is it okay just to hang out after you get your coffee? And for how long? And do they call it "coffee" at Starbucks?
(Hah! Joke!)
So you get my drift?
What kinds of sherpa services could you offer? And what sherpas would help you out?
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Gay Sex In The 70s
On my last trip to Blockbuster Video in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, what should I find in the stacks but Joe Lovett's documentary, Gay Sex In The 70s. I loved turning it over to the teenager behind the counter so she could ring me up. She gave me a sort of inquisitive look, to which I responded with a big smile that announced, "Yes I am."
Back from the MAsT meeting today, I made dinner for my dad and settled in to watch.
When I saw my friend George Catravas in a still early on, I knew I was going to enjoy it.
George was the embodiment of Gay Sex In The 70s for me. Once when I introduced George to a young woman who was a friend of mine, Alexis D___, George said, "Alexis D___... Did you have a father named Alex D___ by any chance?"
Alexis replied that she did.
"What a coincidence!" George responded gleefully, "Your father once balled me royally in the Rambles!"
Alexis took that pretty well, but I was struck by the fact that it didn't occur to George that telling someone you had sex with their father is not like telling someone you kenw him. But from what I know of George, it was much the same thing.
When I was sixteen years old, I was working as a dishwasher at Mother's Restaurant in New Hope, Pennsylvania. I had a cigaret going in an ashtray. One of the waiters, Herbie, ran back to the dishwashing area.
"Drew," he said, "could I get a drag of your cigaret?"
"Sure thing, Herbie," I answered.
He picked it up, raised it to his lips, and then stopped.
"Um, Drew? How's your health? Do you have anything I might catch?"
"Like a cold, Herbie?"
"No, not like a cold."
"Like what? Like Herpes? Herbie! You can't get herpes from a cigaret, can you?"
Herbie explained, briefly, that up in New York, gay men were getting sick. And dying.
This was 1980. There wasn't even a name for it then. Not even GRID, little less AIDS. I was already having sex with men.
Of course, things got weirder. "Don't have sex with anybody from New York, LA, or San Francisco," someone told me at one point. Once I heard, "Don't have sex with young guys."
So my teen years involved things like people going off to New York because they had some mysterious "liver disease," gay men discovering that they were bisexual, John Berra--this hot bear before there were bears--showing us this weird purple bruise he had in his mouth and being dead a week later.
Now, this didn't stop me from having sex. It didn't even slow me down much. It wasn't until after I was out of college, maybe 1987, when I was taking it up the butt in a dirty bookstore (then a recent discovery; anal sex, I mean, not dirty bookstores). He pulled out and said, "Y'know, you shouldn't let people you don't know do that. So much." (People like him.)
Long story short, there was a period of perhaps four months when I was sixteen years old that I was having sex with reckless, joyful abandon. And then, not so much.
Instead, there was sex with rubbers, and activism with reckless, joyful abandon. Heck, I remember when giving a blowjob to someone not wearing a condom was viewed as tantamount to taking a nap with a dry-cleaning bag over your head. When I first moved to New York, many of the bars had backrooms, and interestingly, they also had people employed as "safer sex monitors." I know, I dated one.
To be sure, I and most of the men I have sex with have relaxed a great deal. And I've heard talk that the advent of sero-sorting--an HIV prevention strategy endorsed by the San Francisco Department of Health--there might be something of a renaissance.
And I've sure had some good times. And more to come. I have no cause for complaint.
But still, by circumstances of the year of my birth, I missed out.
The movie, by the way, is worth the watch. And you can get it at your local Blockbuster!
Back from the MAsT meeting today, I made dinner for my dad and settled in to watch.
When I saw my friend George Catravas in a still early on, I knew I was going to enjoy it.
George was the embodiment of Gay Sex In The 70s for me. Once when I introduced George to a young woman who was a friend of mine, Alexis D___, George said, "Alexis D___... Did you have a father named Alex D___ by any chance?"
Alexis replied that she did.
"What a coincidence!" George responded gleefully, "Your father once balled me royally in the Rambles!"
Alexis took that pretty well, but I was struck by the fact that it didn't occur to George that telling someone you had sex with their father is not like telling someone you kenw him. But from what I know of George, it was much the same thing.
When I was sixteen years old, I was working as a dishwasher at Mother's Restaurant in New Hope, Pennsylvania. I had a cigaret going in an ashtray. One of the waiters, Herbie, ran back to the dishwashing area.
"Drew," he said, "could I get a drag of your cigaret?"
"Sure thing, Herbie," I answered.
He picked it up, raised it to his lips, and then stopped.
"Um, Drew? How's your health? Do you have anything I might catch?"
"Like a cold, Herbie?"
"No, not like a cold."
"Like what? Like Herpes? Herbie! You can't get herpes from a cigaret, can you?"
Herbie explained, briefly, that up in New York, gay men were getting sick. And dying.
This was 1980. There wasn't even a name for it then. Not even GRID, little less AIDS. I was already having sex with men.
Of course, things got weirder. "Don't have sex with anybody from New York, LA, or San Francisco," someone told me at one point. Once I heard, "Don't have sex with young guys."
So my teen years involved things like people going off to New York because they had some mysterious "liver disease," gay men discovering that they were bisexual, John Berra--this hot bear before there were bears--showing us this weird purple bruise he had in his mouth and being dead a week later.
Now, this didn't stop me from having sex. It didn't even slow me down much. It wasn't until after I was out of college, maybe 1987, when I was taking it up the butt in a dirty bookstore (then a recent discovery; anal sex, I mean, not dirty bookstores). He pulled out and said, "Y'know, you shouldn't let people you don't know do that. So much." (People like him.)
Long story short, there was a period of perhaps four months when I was sixteen years old that I was having sex with reckless, joyful abandon. And then, not so much.
Instead, there was sex with rubbers, and activism with reckless, joyful abandon. Heck, I remember when giving a blowjob to someone not wearing a condom was viewed as tantamount to taking a nap with a dry-cleaning bag over your head. When I first moved to New York, many of the bars had backrooms, and interestingly, they also had people employed as "safer sex monitors." I know, I dated one.
To be sure, I and most of the men I have sex with have relaxed a great deal. And I've heard talk that the advent of sero-sorting--an HIV prevention strategy endorsed by the San Francisco Department of Health--there might be something of a renaissance.
And I've sure had some good times. And more to come. I have no cause for complaint.
But still, by circumstances of the year of my birth, I missed out.
The movie, by the way, is worth the watch. And you can get it at your local Blockbuster!
Friday, March 23, 2007
What A Difference A Vernal Equinox Makes!
I swear.
Where do I begin?
First off, when I give Faithful Companion his Last Walk Of The Night, my ears are filled with the sound of spring peepers, wee little frogs, probably relatives of the coqui in Puerto Rico, chirping away. So this other cool thing happened. On the recommendation of one of my Starbucks buddies, I sent my resume to this progressive alternative school here in Bucks Co that's looking for someone to do fundraising. They called me and I have an interview on Tuesday. (Yay!)
And then... well, let me give the back story. At the Previous Place of emPloy, during my five month tenure as Executive Director, I wrote this proposal. In fact, I landed there, and pretty quickly developed this new and transformative vision about how the organization could fulfil it's mission more effectively. I was able to put that new vision into words, and also describe how we would go about making that happen, and I sent it off to the Pfizer Foundation. Welllll... Today I learned that the Pfizer Foundation contacted the Previous Place of emPloy and said, "Sounds good to us!" and is gonna bankroll that endeavor to the tune of $100,000 per year for four years.
Did you get all that? I'm there five months, come up with a new vision for the agency, and get them $400,000.
So I'm kinda good at what I do, huh?
And then tonight. I got my dad all squared away with something to eat for dinner, and headed up to NYC. First stop was the ACT UP action planning meeting. I found parking in one of my Top Secret Parking Spots without too much of a problem (don't ask me where, I'll never divulge, because if I did, you'd park there, wouldn't ya?) and headed to the LGBT Community Center. The meeting was on the third floor in the big room where GMSMA used to have their Wednesday night programs. I peeked in, and there were like ten people sitting in a circle.
Not a good sign.
I took a seat out in the hallway on one of those leather ottomans (they don't seem to be holding up too well) and set to work on last Sunday's Times crossword puzzle. Fifteen minutes later, I looked in the door to see if the numbers had swollen any.
And they hadn't.
Okay.
So if I do go to the action next Thursday, it will be as an attendee, not as either a marshall or as someone risking arrest.
I headed to Bennie's Burritos on Greenwich.
Shocking development! I go up to the counter (I went to the takeout place on the north side of Greenwich) and I'm like, "Hi! I'll have a Mission Burrito with black beans and an extra side of guacamole for here please!" And they were like, "What?"
I repeated my order. The same thing I've been ordering from Bennie's Burritos since I landed in NYC seventeen years ago.
Again, they're like, "What?"
I was directed to the menu.
And it was all different!
Now, you order at Bennie's by telling them what you want inside your burrito--grilled chicken, carne (beef) asada, shredded beef, tofu, rice and beans, or spinach--and all burritos are now made with black beans.
What the hell?
How are we supposed to tell if the people ahead of us in line are clueless out-of-towners when they say, "I'd like a burrito, please" and then have to answer the follow-up question, "Black beans or pinto?" What happened to pinto beans? (I never liked nor ordered pinto beans, and neither did anyone else that I'm aware of, but still...)
Anyway, I managed to piece together a burrito order from this new and disorienting menu.
And Bennie's still makes a great burrito. And their guacamole rocks.
After eating, I still had some time to kill, so I headed up to Factory Café on Christopher Street and got myself a nice latté. Sitting in the window, I managed to knock out some more of the crossword. Finally, it was time to head to the Dug Out at Christopher and Weehauken Streets for the co-branded New York boys of Leather and MetroBears party, benefitting Bailey House, a hospice of people living with AIDS. I got in, paid my $5, and worked my way through a clot of bears ("'scuse me, 'scuse me, 'scuse me, 'scuse ME!") to where the boys were clustered at the front of the bar.
And there they all were! Gathered around a sling.
(oooh.)
It turned out that the sling was an additional fundraising strategy: one of the boys would take his place in the sling, and $5 got you six clothespins to put on the boy.
Love that!
boy ray was the first to take a ride. A very hot and very hairy MetroBear had first crack at boy ray, enjoying applying the clothespins and also working ray's butt with a thoughtfully provided flogger. And then there were a few other clothespin applications.
So I decided that even though I'm (ahem) on a fixed income right now, I could afford to part with some of my greenbacks.
But first, I inquired of boy alex, who was serving as Dungeon Master, if I could re-arrange some of the clothespins gracing boy ray.
"Sure thing!" said boy alex.
Cool. Because I know this about clothespins: putting them on is fun; taking them off is Big Fun! Y'see, when they've been on a while, it stops the blood from flowing into that portion of skin. And when they get taken off, the blood starts to flow back there a lot, and it's... uh... an intense sensation when that happens. I leaned in close, and whispered in ray's ear that I had just purchased twelve clothespins. And that I was going to re-position some of the clothespins that were on him.
"Take a deep breath, boy," I said.
When ray took a deep breath, I yanked off the four clothespins on his nipples and was rewarded with a yelp from boy ray.
(My evil plan was working perfectly!)
Then, I put those four clothespins and the six I had purchased in two neat lines in crescent formation along the bottom of ray's pecs. And spent some time gently flicking them and running the tip of my finger along the lines they formed.
boy ray seemed to be enjoying this.
I sure was.
So the heavily tattooed guy was there. A little woozie after a killer week at work. He's had to deal with a sizeable portion of the thousands of men in town for the Black Party (which he has taken to calling the Blech Party (à la Mad Magazine: nice). I couldn't take my eyes off him. I'd be talking to somebody and look up and spot him through the crowd, and totally forget what I was saying. When I was near him, I couldn't take my hands off him. He's got this great, tight heavily inked body. I want to see him naked so bad.
But, alas, as is usually the case among men who do it for me in a big way, I was all kindsa bashful around him.
boy david relieved boy ray in the sling. I totally wanted a piece of boy david--adorable, and such good taste in music--but I didn't think I had the money to invest in more clothespins.
But wait! boy alex was having a snack! Tasty-Cakes! (Tasty-Cakes are from Pennsylvania, and so am I!)
"Uh alex," I nonchalantly asked, "how much for a Tasty-Cake?"
The price was one dollar.
Sold!
I slapped my dollar in alex's hot little hand, and put the end of the Tasty-Cake in boy david's mouth. And then we recreated that controversial Super Bowl ad and ate the Tasty-Cake from both ends.
It was a wonderful moment.
After that, of course, I needed a smoke. So I headed out into the little coral.
Whilst smoking among the bears, I heard my name called. I turned around, and peering at me through the bars were Lolita and the current President of GMSMA.
Whoa! Whoa!! WHOA!!! Way cool!
When I got back inside, Lolita and El Presidente were mingling, working their way through the crowd. You know, the way personages do.
I sidled up to heavily tattooed guy--let's call him Bruiser for now, that fits him pretty well--and pretty soon, Bruiser, and Lolita and I were chatting.
Now maybe it was because I was teasing Lolita about how the New York boys of Leather are soooo fabulous that perhaps Leather Pride Night should be re-branded as "The New York boys of Leather present... Leather Pride Night!", or maybe, "Leather Pride Night! Brought to you by the New York boys of Leather!", that Lolita leaned over to Bruiser and announced, "Y'know, he's got a crush on you."
Aaaaaaaaaaggghhhhhh!!!
I... I... I felt like someone had just yanked four clothespins off my tits!
Bruiser's face lit up.
And then I didn't feel quite so bad.
The three of us continued chatting. About that. About other stuff.
I, of course, couldn't keep my hands off Bruiser. And Bruiser put his arm around me. And we stood there, talking to Lolita, our arms around each other.
And that just felt so good.
So good like I can't believe.
Damn. That felt good.
boy joey took his turn in the sling, and of course, he instantly had a line six deep waiting to have at him. I joked that all those guys were men that joey had slept with in the past week. This was joey: "Yeah. I'll go home with you, but there's something you have to do for me..."
"Nah," said Bruiser, "Not the past week. Last night."
The evening wore on. Bruiser announced that since he had a full day tomorrow, it was time to call it a night.
"It's about time for me to hit the road," I said, "How about I give you a ride home?"
And Bruiser accepted that.
(Yeah. It made me feel good to be leaving with him, hot man that he is.)
Outside, the night was cool and springtime fresh. Bruiser and I walked to my car parked at... Aha! Thought you had me there, huh! We piled in and headed crosstown then uptown to Bruiser's humble abode.
"So, growing up in NYC, did you ever learn to drive?" I asked.
"Yeah," he answered, "when I was fifteen we used to steal cars and go joy-riding."
The little delinquent!
(I could have creamed my leather pants when I heard that. I. Want. Him. Bad.)
Way sooner than I would have liked, I turned down Bruiser's street.
We kissed goodnight, just a peck, and he climbed out of the car.
I felt almost dizzy, watching him walk up the block.
As I passed him, my eyes fixed on him, he turned to see me and smiled.
On the drive home, all the songs coming out of my iPod made me think of Bruiser. And I sang along at the top of my lungs.
Where do I begin?
First off, when I give Faithful Companion his Last Walk Of The Night, my ears are filled with the sound of spring peepers, wee little frogs, probably relatives of the coqui in Puerto Rico, chirping away. So this other cool thing happened. On the recommendation of one of my Starbucks buddies, I sent my resume to this progressive alternative school here in Bucks Co that's looking for someone to do fundraising. They called me and I have an interview on Tuesday. (Yay!)
And then... well, let me give the back story. At the Previous Place of emPloy, during my five month tenure as Executive Director, I wrote this proposal. In fact, I landed there, and pretty quickly developed this new and transformative vision about how the organization could fulfil it's mission more effectively. I was able to put that new vision into words, and also describe how we would go about making that happen, and I sent it off to the Pfizer Foundation. Welllll... Today I learned that the Pfizer Foundation contacted the Previous Place of emPloy and said, "Sounds good to us!" and is gonna bankroll that endeavor to the tune of $100,000 per year for four years.
Did you get all that? I'm there five months, come up with a new vision for the agency, and get them $400,000.
So I'm kinda good at what I do, huh?
And then tonight. I got my dad all squared away with something to eat for dinner, and headed up to NYC. First stop was the ACT UP action planning meeting. I found parking in one of my Top Secret Parking Spots without too much of a problem (don't ask me where, I'll never divulge, because if I did, you'd park there, wouldn't ya?) and headed to the LGBT Community Center. The meeting was on the third floor in the big room where GMSMA used to have their Wednesday night programs. I peeked in, and there were like ten people sitting in a circle.
Not a good sign.
I took a seat out in the hallway on one of those leather ottomans (they don't seem to be holding up too well) and set to work on last Sunday's Times crossword puzzle. Fifteen minutes later, I looked in the door to see if the numbers had swollen any.
And they hadn't.
Okay.
So if I do go to the action next Thursday, it will be as an attendee, not as either a marshall or as someone risking arrest.
I headed to Bennie's Burritos on Greenwich.
Shocking development! I go up to the counter (I went to the takeout place on the north side of Greenwich) and I'm like, "Hi! I'll have a Mission Burrito with black beans and an extra side of guacamole for here please!" And they were like, "What?"
I repeated my order. The same thing I've been ordering from Bennie's Burritos since I landed in NYC seventeen years ago.
Again, they're like, "What?"
I was directed to the menu.
And it was all different!
Now, you order at Bennie's by telling them what you want inside your burrito--grilled chicken, carne (beef) asada, shredded beef, tofu, rice and beans, or spinach--and all burritos are now made with black beans.
What the hell?
How are we supposed to tell if the people ahead of us in line are clueless out-of-towners when they say, "I'd like a burrito, please" and then have to answer the follow-up question, "Black beans or pinto?" What happened to pinto beans? (I never liked nor ordered pinto beans, and neither did anyone else that I'm aware of, but still...)
Anyway, I managed to piece together a burrito order from this new and disorienting menu.
And Bennie's still makes a great burrito. And their guacamole rocks.
After eating, I still had some time to kill, so I headed up to Factory Café on Christopher Street and got myself a nice latté. Sitting in the window, I managed to knock out some more of the crossword. Finally, it was time to head to the Dug Out at Christopher and Weehauken Streets for the co-branded New York boys of Leather and MetroBears party, benefitting Bailey House, a hospice of people living with AIDS. I got in, paid my $5, and worked my way through a clot of bears ("'scuse me, 'scuse me, 'scuse me, 'scuse ME!") to where the boys were clustered at the front of the bar.
And there they all were! Gathered around a sling.
(oooh.)
It turned out that the sling was an additional fundraising strategy: one of the boys would take his place in the sling, and $5 got you six clothespins to put on the boy.
Love that!
boy ray was the first to take a ride. A very hot and very hairy MetroBear had first crack at boy ray, enjoying applying the clothespins and also working ray's butt with a thoughtfully provided flogger. And then there were a few other clothespin applications.
So I decided that even though I'm (ahem) on a fixed income right now, I could afford to part with some of my greenbacks.
But first, I inquired of boy alex, who was serving as Dungeon Master, if I could re-arrange some of the clothespins gracing boy ray.
"Sure thing!" said boy alex.
Cool. Because I know this about clothespins: putting them on is fun; taking them off is Big Fun! Y'see, when they've been on a while, it stops the blood from flowing into that portion of skin. And when they get taken off, the blood starts to flow back there a lot, and it's... uh... an intense sensation when that happens. I leaned in close, and whispered in ray's ear that I had just purchased twelve clothespins. And that I was going to re-position some of the clothespins that were on him.
"Take a deep breath, boy," I said.
When ray took a deep breath, I yanked off the four clothespins on his nipples and was rewarded with a yelp from boy ray.
(My evil plan was working perfectly!)
Then, I put those four clothespins and the six I had purchased in two neat lines in crescent formation along the bottom of ray's pecs. And spent some time gently flicking them and running the tip of my finger along the lines they formed.
boy ray seemed to be enjoying this.
I sure was.
So the heavily tattooed guy was there. A little woozie after a killer week at work. He's had to deal with a sizeable portion of the thousands of men in town for the Black Party (which he has taken to calling the Blech Party (à la Mad Magazine: nice). I couldn't take my eyes off him. I'd be talking to somebody and look up and spot him through the crowd, and totally forget what I was saying. When I was near him, I couldn't take my hands off him. He's got this great, tight heavily inked body. I want to see him naked so bad.
But, alas, as is usually the case among men who do it for me in a big way, I was all kindsa bashful around him.
boy david relieved boy ray in the sling. I totally wanted a piece of boy david--adorable, and such good taste in music--but I didn't think I had the money to invest in more clothespins.
But wait! boy alex was having a snack! Tasty-Cakes! (Tasty-Cakes are from Pennsylvania, and so am I!)
"Uh alex," I nonchalantly asked, "how much for a Tasty-Cake?"
The price was one dollar.
Sold!
I slapped my dollar in alex's hot little hand, and put the end of the Tasty-Cake in boy david's mouth. And then we recreated that controversial Super Bowl ad and ate the Tasty-Cake from both ends.
It was a wonderful moment.
After that, of course, I needed a smoke. So I headed out into the little coral.
Whilst smoking among the bears, I heard my name called. I turned around, and peering at me through the bars were Lolita and the current President of GMSMA.
Whoa! Whoa!! WHOA!!! Way cool!
When I got back inside, Lolita and El Presidente were mingling, working their way through the crowd. You know, the way personages do.
I sidled up to heavily tattooed guy--let's call him Bruiser for now, that fits him pretty well--and pretty soon, Bruiser, and Lolita and I were chatting.
Now maybe it was because I was teasing Lolita about how the New York boys of Leather are soooo fabulous that perhaps Leather Pride Night should be re-branded as "The New York boys of Leather present... Leather Pride Night!", or maybe, "Leather Pride Night! Brought to you by the New York boys of Leather!", that Lolita leaned over to Bruiser and announced, "Y'know, he's got a crush on you."
Aaaaaaaaaaggghhhhhh!!!
I... I... I felt like someone had just yanked four clothespins off my tits!
Bruiser's face lit up.
And then I didn't feel quite so bad.
The three of us continued chatting. About that. About other stuff.
I, of course, couldn't keep my hands off Bruiser. And Bruiser put his arm around me. And we stood there, talking to Lolita, our arms around each other.
And that just felt so good.
So good like I can't believe.
Damn. That felt good.
boy joey took his turn in the sling, and of course, he instantly had a line six deep waiting to have at him. I joked that all those guys were men that joey had slept with in the past week. This was joey: "Yeah. I'll go home with you, but there's something you have to do for me..."
"Nah," said Bruiser, "Not the past week. Last night."
The evening wore on. Bruiser announced that since he had a full day tomorrow, it was time to call it a night.
"It's about time for me to hit the road," I said, "How about I give you a ride home?"
And Bruiser accepted that.
(Yeah. It made me feel good to be leaving with him, hot man that he is.)
Outside, the night was cool and springtime fresh. Bruiser and I walked to my car parked at... Aha! Thought you had me there, huh! We piled in and headed crosstown then uptown to Bruiser's humble abode.
"So, growing up in NYC, did you ever learn to drive?" I asked.
"Yeah," he answered, "when I was fifteen we used to steal cars and go joy-riding."
The little delinquent!
(I could have creamed my leather pants when I heard that. I. Want. Him. Bad.)
Way sooner than I would have liked, I turned down Bruiser's street.
We kissed goodnight, just a peck, and he climbed out of the car.
I felt almost dizzy, watching him walk up the block.
As I passed him, my eyes fixed on him, he turned to see me and smiled.
On the drive home, all the songs coming out of my iPod made me think of Bruiser. And I sang along at the top of my lungs.
Theory Of Flannel
So flannel shirts are pretty much over, right?
Flannel used to be What You Wore With Leather when you went out to the leather bar.
And I love flannel shirts. Every fall I'd go out and buy one or two new ones. When I was a poor college student, starving in a garret, this meant a trip to K-Mart, where I could pick them up for $4.99. Or, in fatter times, pricier fare made by Woolrich. They'd start off the year sort of stiff, but with these beautiful deep, rich, over-saturated colors. Reds, blacks, greens, blues, yellows. In high school, from October to April, I wore a flannel shirt just about every day. Flannel shirt, jeans, boots. Pretty much the uniform. And flannel shirts were in the mix during my punk rock era, too. And when I first moved to NYC, one day I stumbled upon All American Boy on Christopher Street west of Hudson. And there they all were, lined up on hangers, covering an entire wall. It was pretty much Clone-Central. And I was in Flannel Heaven.
The 90s brought the advent of Nirvana and the whole Lumber-Surf look. So once again, it was all about flannel.
But these days, not so much, huh?
Under Armor seems to have replaced flannel.
And I'm fine with that. I was a pioneer in the wearing of form-fitting athletic garments made from miracle fabrics of the 21st Century.
But on a day like today, mild, damp, cool... What I want to be wearing is a nice warm cotton flannel shirt.
So I am.
Flannel used to be What You Wore With Leather when you went out to the leather bar.
And I love flannel shirts. Every fall I'd go out and buy one or two new ones. When I was a poor college student, starving in a garret, this meant a trip to K-Mart, where I could pick them up for $4.99. Or, in fatter times, pricier fare made by Woolrich. They'd start off the year sort of stiff, but with these beautiful deep, rich, over-saturated colors. Reds, blacks, greens, blues, yellows. In high school, from October to April, I wore a flannel shirt just about every day. Flannel shirt, jeans, boots. Pretty much the uniform. And flannel shirts were in the mix during my punk rock era, too. And when I first moved to NYC, one day I stumbled upon All American Boy on Christopher Street west of Hudson. And there they all were, lined up on hangers, covering an entire wall. It was pretty much Clone-Central. And I was in Flannel Heaven.
The 90s brought the advent of Nirvana and the whole Lumber-Surf look. So once again, it was all about flannel.
But these days, not so much, huh?
Under Armor seems to have replaced flannel.
And I'm fine with that. I was a pioneer in the wearing of form-fitting athletic garments made from miracle fabrics of the 21st Century.
But on a day like today, mild, damp, cool... What I want to be wearing is a nice warm cotton flannel shirt.
So I am.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Officer! Stop That Leatherman! He Just Stole My Ass!
So today, in anticipation of my MAsT appearance this Sunday, I dug out my harness and leather jock, both of which were purchased several years ago at Bear Man's Leatherwerks in Fort Lauderdale. The harness, which always nets me some compliments, still looks good. But the jock--which admittedly I don't have much occasion to wear--that was another story.
The leather strap with the snappy things that loops through the O-ring at my hip bone was about five inches away from my hip bone. I was expecting it to be a little tight, but not like this. Luckily, it's adjustable. So I did some adjusting. Letting it out all the way, as far as I could go, and withherculean some effort, I managed to get it on.
When I checked out the package in front of the mirror, something I've suspected was clearly confirmed: baby's got back. I've got something of a booty going on.
Now, I've always thought I had a pretty flat ass. Even back in the days when I was squatting six plates at the gym, lying on my stomach it sort of resembled an Indian burial mound. And same thing standing up. There was no crescent shaped crease. And in admiring the asses of others, I've always found that crescent shaped crease pretty beguiling. I think that's what is often referred to as a "bubble butt."
I knew my waist size had increased. Since junior high school up until a few months ago, I bought pants with a thirty-two inch waist. But, starting a few months ago, while I worked at my Previous Place of emPloy and wasn't able to go to the gym, my pants with 32 inch waists that were previously snug became unwearable. I just bought a new pair of Carhartts with a 34 inch waist. (I like'em to hang a little bit, because as we all know, ass-crack is the new cleavage.)
Not that I minded! A beer-gut beats six pack abs every time in my book, and I sure wouldn't mind that development on me.
But I didn't quite put it together that the increase in girth could be attributable to what's going down around back.
And then, bedecked in my harness and leather jock, I looked in the mirror today. And, my heart pounding, I turned around and took in the view from the rear.
And there it was!
A shelf! On me!
For real!
Now, I'm going to be 43 this year. (Age, not waist.) Isn't this the age when things are supposed to go in the other direction? Where did that come from? How long will it stay around?
A guy I used to hang out with in NYC once observed upon spying a particularly fine example of masculine callipygian pulchritude, "Look at the ass on him! He must have stolen it from a fifteen year old Black girl!"
Now I wouldn't put myself in the same class as your average fifteen year old Black girl, but I do get the sensation that I'm walking around with somebody else's ass.
Not that I mind.
The leather strap with the snappy things that loops through the O-ring at my hip bone was about five inches away from my hip bone. I was expecting it to be a little tight, but not like this. Luckily, it's adjustable. So I did some adjusting. Letting it out all the way, as far as I could go, and with
When I checked out the package in front of the mirror, something I've suspected was clearly confirmed: baby's got back. I've got something of a booty going on.
Now, I've always thought I had a pretty flat ass. Even back in the days when I was squatting six plates at the gym, lying on my stomach it sort of resembled an Indian burial mound. And same thing standing up. There was no crescent shaped crease. And in admiring the asses of others, I've always found that crescent shaped crease pretty beguiling. I think that's what is often referred to as a "bubble butt."
I knew my waist size had increased. Since junior high school up until a few months ago, I bought pants with a thirty-two inch waist. But, starting a few months ago, while I worked at my Previous Place of emPloy and wasn't able to go to the gym, my pants with 32 inch waists that were previously snug became unwearable. I just bought a new pair of Carhartts with a 34 inch waist. (I like'em to hang a little bit, because as we all know, ass-crack is the new cleavage.)
Not that I minded! A beer-gut beats six pack abs every time in my book, and I sure wouldn't mind that development on me.
But I didn't quite put it together that the increase in girth could be attributable to what's going down around back.
And then, bedecked in my harness and leather jock, I looked in the mirror today. And, my heart pounding, I turned around and took in the view from the rear.
And there it was!
A shelf! On me!
For real!
Now, I'm going to be 43 this year. (Age, not waist.) Isn't this the age when things are supposed to go in the other direction? Where did that come from? How long will it stay around?
A guy I used to hang out with in NYC once observed upon spying a particularly fine example of masculine callipygian pulchritude, "Look at the ass on him! He must have stolen it from a fifteen year old Black girl!"
Now I wouldn't put myself in the same class as your average fifteen year old Black girl, but I do get the sensation that I'm walking around with somebody else's ass.
Not that I mind.
Plug It Again, Sam
Don't forget youse guys... This Sunday, in NYC, from 3pm to 6pm, I'm doing a presentation for Masters And slaves Together/NYC at the LGBT Community Center.
And I'll be doing the presentation wearing only boots and a jock strap. Although maybe a harness, too.
Here's the program announcement from MAsT...
Masters And slaves Together:NYC
Sunday, March 25, 2007
3 to 6 pm at The Center, 208 W. 13th St., Manhattan
Men only
$5 donation (or whatever you can afford)
EVERYDAY HEROES
How Masters/Tops and bottoms/slaves Become Who We Are
Joseph Campbell is best known for his analysis of world mythologies in terms of an archetypal "hero's journey," in which an everyday person undergoes a series of extraordinary experiences that enable him to be someone others can look up to and be inspired by. The early "Star Wars" movies, for instance, drew heavily on this archetype.
Drew Kramer (singletails.blogspot.com) likes cigars, hot tubs, chains, minimalism, church, leather, cooking, softball, and whipping men until they bleed. He is a member of GMSMA and an Associate Member of the Chicago Hellfire Club and the New York boys of Leather. He thinks that many of our careers in s/m and Mastery/slavery can be understood spiritually through the archetype of the hero's journey. How do ordinary kinky guys become the kind of exemplary leathermen that others seek out and look up to? What makes a Master worthy of loyal, self-sacrificing, obedient service? What makes a slave worth taking control of and responsibility for? How do we become who we want to be?
What is the relation between spirituality and s/m anyway? Do you compartmentalize them in your own life, or does one enhance and intertwine with the other? As you get deeper into s/m or Mastery/slavery, do you find yourself growing spiritually as well? And just what do we mean by that?
Drew has been thinking and writing about these questions for several years while pursuing his own journey of becoming a whipping/bondage master as well as a cherished boy. At our meeting, he'll share some of his answers, and he's interested in hearing yours. In addition, he'll strip down to jockstrap and boots to show off the spectacular tattoo of a chain that wraps around his whole body -- and stay that way throughout, unless we have another cold snap.
Don't miss this very special MAsT presentation!
And I'll be doing the presentation wearing only boots and a jock strap. Although maybe a harness, too.
Here's the program announcement from MAsT...
Masters And slaves Together:NYC
Sunday, March 25, 2007
3 to 6 pm at The Center, 208 W. 13th St., Manhattan
Men only
$5 donation (or whatever you can afford)
EVERYDAY HEROES
How Masters/Tops and bottoms/slaves Become Who We Are
Joseph Campbell is best known for his analysis of world mythologies in terms of an archetypal "hero's journey," in which an everyday person undergoes a series of extraordinary experiences that enable him to be someone others can look up to and be inspired by. The early "Star Wars" movies, for instance, drew heavily on this archetype.
Drew Kramer (singletails.blogspot.com) likes cigars, hot tubs, chains, minimalism, church, leather, cooking, softball, and whipping men until they bleed. He is a member of GMSMA and an Associate Member of the Chicago Hellfire Club and the New York boys of Leather. He thinks that many of our careers in s/m and Mastery/slavery can be understood spiritually through the archetype of the hero's journey. How do ordinary kinky guys become the kind of exemplary leathermen that others seek out and look up to? What makes a Master worthy of loyal, self-sacrificing, obedient service? What makes a slave worth taking control of and responsibility for? How do we become who we want to be?
What is the relation between spirituality and s/m anyway? Do you compartmentalize them in your own life, or does one enhance and intertwine with the other? As you get deeper into s/m or Mastery/slavery, do you find yourself growing spiritually as well? And just what do we mean by that?
Drew has been thinking and writing about these questions for several years while pursuing his own journey of becoming a whipping/bondage master as well as a cherished boy. At our meeting, he'll share some of his answers, and he's interested in hearing yours. In addition, he'll strip down to jockstrap and boots to show off the spectacular tattoo of a chain that wraps around his whole body -- and stay that way throughout, unless we have another cold snap.
Don't miss this very special MAsT presentation!
Bill Richardson For President
Not Hillary. Not Obama.
I like Bill Richardson.
Why?
Bill Richardson has wide-ranging, diverse experience in government. He basically served as Bill Clinton's international problem solver. And he's a Governor, rather than a Senator, skilled at moving forward a legislative agenda.
Bill Richardson can win. Against whatever Republican gets the nomination. He's a grown-up, and has that not-to-be discounted Down Home quality that made W. so irresistable. (New Mexico made the bolo the official State neckwear.) Plus, he's Hispanic. And all of the rumblings about immigration before the 2006 elections would seem to indicate that Latino is the new Gay: the Karl Rove's of the world tried to get out the vote by demonizing undocumented immigrants, perhaps feeling that the threat of Gay Marriage was subject to the Law of Diminishing Returns as far as getting the folks in Dubuque or wherever all exercised and off to the polls. But in the wake of that, Latino voters across the country are mobilized. (He's vowed to tear down the wall going up on our Southern border.) And, he's the Governor of a Western state, and if the Democrats want to get the electoral votes, they need all the Blue States, plus to pick up a few states from the Old Confederacy and from the West.
Finally, I like the guy. When General Peter Pace proclaimed"I might be your top military commander, but I'm also a total moron and a buffoon" that he liked Don't Ask, Don't Tell because homosexuality was immoral, when asked to comment, Hillary got all "blah-blah-blah" and evasive, and so did Obama! (In Hillary's case, it was more "blah-blah-blah give me your money, Gays!") Richardson, on the other hand, issued a statement immediately saying it's not immoral to be Gay and that Don't Ask, Don't Tell is detestable. And New Mexico is a pretty amazing place, politically speaking. The Department of Health there has made sure, to the best of their abilities, that syringe exchhange is available throughout the state. that's a pet issue of mine, of course, but if New Mexico is doing such a good job with that hot button issue, that's impressive.
And I'm gonna send him money. In this day and age, Presidential politics is all about money and the raising thereof. Alas, Richardson's only hope that the arc of disillusionment with Hillary and Obama begins to descend soon enough for him to get some traction. That will allow the New Mexico governor to pick up some of the talented fund raisers and politicos who have signed on to their campaigns.
I like Bill Richardson.
Why?
Bill Richardson has wide-ranging, diverse experience in government. He basically served as Bill Clinton's international problem solver. And he's a Governor, rather than a Senator, skilled at moving forward a legislative agenda.
Bill Richardson can win. Against whatever Republican gets the nomination. He's a grown-up, and has that not-to-be discounted Down Home quality that made W. so irresistable. (New Mexico made the bolo the official State neckwear.) Plus, he's Hispanic. And all of the rumblings about immigration before the 2006 elections would seem to indicate that Latino is the new Gay: the Karl Rove's of the world tried to get out the vote by demonizing undocumented immigrants, perhaps feeling that the threat of Gay Marriage was subject to the Law of Diminishing Returns as far as getting the folks in Dubuque or wherever all exercised and off to the polls. But in the wake of that, Latino voters across the country are mobilized. (He's vowed to tear down the wall going up on our Southern border.) And, he's the Governor of a Western state, and if the Democrats want to get the electoral votes, they need all the Blue States, plus to pick up a few states from the Old Confederacy and from the West.
Finally, I like the guy. When General Peter Pace proclaimed
And I'm gonna send him money. In this day and age, Presidential politics is all about money and the raising thereof. Alas, Richardson's only hope that the arc of disillusionment with Hillary and Obama begins to descend soon enough for him to get some traction. That will allow the New Mexico governor to pick up some of the talented fund raisers and politicos who have signed on to their campaigns.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Taking My Carharrts To Good Will
...and replacing them with Balls Out Jeans.
[Credit where credit is due goes to The Ashton Cruz Zoo. (Who has more than his balls out in the pic accompanying his weblog.]
[Credit where credit is due goes to The Ashton Cruz Zoo. (Who has more than his balls out in the pic accompanying his weblog.]
Azis As Is
Okay... Think of a big, blond Bulgarian Bear.
Got the picture in your head?
Okay. Now imagine that big, blond Bulgarian Bear singing Chalga, the hypnotic dervishy folk music of that country.
But wait! Isn't Chalga usually sung by women?
It is, except when it's being sung by Azis.
Check it out: this guy rocks! Or Chalgas as the case may be.
Credit where credit is due: Joe. My. God. turned me on to this whole deal.
Got the picture in your head?
Okay. Now imagine that big, blond Bulgarian Bear singing Chalga, the hypnotic dervishy folk music of that country.
But wait! Isn't Chalga usually sung by women?
It is, except when it's being sung by Azis.
Check it out: this guy rocks! Or Chalgas as the case may be.
Credit where credit is due: Joe. My. God. turned me on to this whole deal.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Heterosexuality Is Pleasurable.
From the Land Beyond Brilliant comes this: The Daily Show's Take on Gay Reparative Therapy
(We're playing right into Sumner Redstone's hands here, but it's just too good.)
(We're playing right into Sumner Redstone's hands here, but it's just too good.)
What Kind Of Blogger Am I?
Who wants ta know?
So I took this little quiz, and here's the result...
I guess I'm of two minds about that. On the one hand, "Uh... I guess." I mean, I don't think of myself as a pundit. To some degree I have a point of view. I think of myself more as an essayist in what I'm doing here, sort of a leather-wearin', man-whippin' Joan Didion. But on the other hand, "Me??? A Pundit? Oh Snap!
So you see what I mean?
So I took this little quiz, and here's the result...
| You Are a Pundit Blogger! |
 Your blog is smart, insightful, and always a quality read. Truly appreciated by many, surpassed by only a few |
I guess I'm of two minds about that. On the one hand, "Uh... I guess." I mean, I don't think of myself as a pundit. To some degree I have a point of view. I think of myself more as an essayist in what I'm doing here, sort of a leather-wearin', man-whippin' Joan Didion. But on the other hand, "Me??? A Pundit? Oh Snap!
So you see what I mean?
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