Spent a nice day with Brother and Brother's Wife. We had lunch at a great Vegan (as in no meat, no fish, no dairy, no eggs; not cuisine of Las Vegas) restaurant at 6th and Waverly called Gobo. Then, we headed out to Brighton Beach via the Belt Parkway to commune with all things Russian. It was fun. I ordered for us in Russian at the Cafe where we stopped for yet another meal. Then, back into the city. We drove around for a bit, and then ended up at Zen Palette on Union Square for yet another Vegan meal.

This Vegan thing has not been kind to my bowels. I pooped something like six times today. Maybe it will clean me out or something, and I'll once again be in the happy land of firm, regular bowel movements. Maybe.

Brother actually used the phrase Prodigal Son to refer to me. And he also warned me against letting our father take advantage of me. Apparently, he has an expectation that things will be done for him at this point. That actually could almost be okay with me, if it meant that I didn't have to pay rent, but rather that my father would ohhh... pick up my car payments or something.

Sadly, I briefly talked to my father today. He's been scanning the help wanted ads in the local papers. He was very excited to report that there are a lot of ads for 'Administrative Assistants.' He said something like, "that's the kind of work you do, right?" I responded that that was the kind of work that girls recently graduated from high school do.

I had another realization today. I'm going to have to move. What I mean is, in order to get to Bucks County, I'm going to have to transport all of what I lovingly refer to as 'my stuff' there. What an ordeal. I actually know a really good mover. But, alas, I think to get me from Jersey City to Bucks County they're gonna charge through the nose. I wonder if I could possibly get them just to load up the van, and see if my brother or my Dad can arrange for some guys to unload the van once I drive down there. Hmmm. That would mean I would need someone to follow me down, driving either the van or my jeep. (Any takers?)

Perhaps ambivalence about all this is setting in. But, I remembered that in Bucks County, all of the hot men seem to be straight. And I don't have a 'thing' for straight men. But most of the gay men in Bucks County are attired in International Male catalog attire and look like they couldn't lift a bowling ball. That may have changed. I hope that changed. From their website, it looks like there's nothing in the way of Bear events at The Cartwheel or the Raven.

Hmmm. Should I join the Raven Pool? Hmmm. Y'see, there's this hotel called the Raven. The bar in the hotel is pretty much a homo bar. and it's usually where I go when I go out. Out front, they have this pool. My sister used to take me there. It's quite the scene. In its heyday, every summer they would hire a recent high school graduate (usually one who played football) to cook hamburgers and hotdogs. And starting on Memorial Day, a sort of contest ensued to see who would bust his cherry and how long it would take for that to happen. That may seem like it's confirming all of the right wing extremists ideas about homosexuals recruiting, but consider this: what sort of hunky recent high school graduate takes a job flipping burgers at a gay bar wearing only a Speedo? Anyway, that could be an amusing diversion.

So, it seems that I won't be hanging with Brother and Brother's Wife all week. Alas, I will be seeing them on Thursday night. A friend of theirs who is a jazz enthusiast is coming into town, and the plan is to go to the Blue Note. I'm going along. I hate jazz. Well, I enjoy Coltrane and Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis and such, but just the standards. Listening to some obscure combo play music without words for five uninterupted hours, doing that improv thing, which to me means playing the same thing over and over and over again, only with different instruments, is just unbelievably tedious. And there's that whole afficionado thing, the pursuit of unbelievably rare recordings. Luckily, it's a work night, and I'll have to excuse myself around midnight.

Mostly what I don't like about jazz is the elevation of the musician. In my experience, musicians tend to be cut from the same cloth. They are gifted with an ability to play an instrument well. But somehow, they come to the fallacious conclusion that they themselves are exceptional people, and should be regarded as such. No. No. That is not the case. The alignment of your jaw enables you to play the trumpet. You're genetically inherited ear and dexterity enable you to play the violin. You have a great voice. That's all. You're just like the rest of us, putting your shoes on one foot at a time. And thinking otherwise is a good recipe for assholism.

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