Man.

Made it to the gym and had a fairly good workout. When Chelsea muscleboys twice my size play eye hockey with me while I'm lifting, I figure I must be doing something right.

Next stop after the gym was the Factory Cafe on Christopher Street. Now, I have lately noticed some changes at Factory. A week ago I was in and there was this... this... guy who was sort of directing things. Then, yesterday when I had my meeting with Brawler, all the funky thriftshop tables and chairs had been replaced with tables and chairs out of a high school cafeteria. And there seemed to be a new cast of characters working there. Tonight, my worst fears have been confirmed by one of the few remaining familiar faces behind the counter. Factory Cafe, fondly referred to by me and others as 'the office,' where I could get my mail delivered, has changed hands. The new management is straight, and all of the people who have been fixing my lattes and sandwiches these past many months have left. He's making them wear these goofy aprons. It's a bad thing.

And that was sort of a portent of more bad things. I ran into a guy I know. We were talking and he mentioned that of late he's been having a tough time with things. I asked what was up, and immediately regretted it, because I knew what the answer would be. Sure enough, he tested positive a couple of weeks ago. He went through a bad and self-destructive period when he was having a problems awhile ago, and this, it seems, is the result.

I never quite know how to respond under these circumstances. I did my best to offer words of encouragement.

I grew up in a krankhaus of sorts. Most of my memories of my second mother, Ruby, who was Scots, are of her being sick. After several years, she died of cancer. I took care of my grandfather when he was ill at the end of his life when I was a teenager. My sister's illness was terrible for everyone involved, slowly robbing her of life and joy. My response to illness is to do things. And there's no end to what I won't do. I've cleaned shitty sheets, emptied urinals, wiped away pus, dialed 911, administered medication, and most of this before my eighteenth birthday.

But here's the thing. I never know what to say. When people I know are in the hospital, I will do whatever I can to avoid going and visiting. Because there's nothing to do. It's all about talking. And under those circumstances, I just don't know what to say. When my friend George Catravas was in the hospital, I had no problems visiting him. A sinus infection he had somehow backed up into his brain. So he was there but not there, in sort of a weird panic attack, unable to communicate. I would go and just spend time with him, massaging him, making sure that his tapes of Maria Callas were playing in his hospital room. When folks from work at my old job were in the hospital, I managed not to go, though. That would involve talking.

I'm a good talker. I had a ball in Moscow largely because as a Russian for directions and you end up very quickly talking about theology, poetry, or geopolitics. Love that. Small talk just aggravates me. I'd rather be quiet.

Anyway, I'll probably switch into case management mode next time I see my friend who got the bad news, making sure he has a good doctor, discussing what services are available, listening. That sounds like it would be talking, but actually it's doing.

And praying for him. That's something I can do as well.

Anyway. Off to bed. This might be the last I blog between now and Wednesday night. I probably won't have time before I head to my parents' house tomorrow night, and Point Pleasant is pretty much an internet free zone.

Tomorrow Great Adventure. Tuesday doing a garden for my step-mother. It's supposed to be sunny on Tuesday, which is great. I'll be able to get things in the ground. Man it will be great to get my hands in the dirt again.

'Night for now.

And even though you don't know the guy, say a prayer for him. He's a sweet man.

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