Published!
The current president of GMSMA requested that I pose in the buff to show off my ink for that august organization's publication, Newslink.
Let's see a show of hands... How many of you thought for one second that I'd say no?
Ergo, if'n you are a member of GMSMA, more photos of me in the buff are gracing your mailbox about now.
If'n, sadly, you're not, you'll just have to track down a member to get a look at them. However, I can reprint here the text of the piece I wrote to accompany the photos. (Which, by the way, made the cover. My second Newslink cover.)
So, without further ado, I give you Tattoo Journey.
I was in college when I saw the movie La Bamba, in which Lou Diamond Phillips portrayed Richie Valens, who died in the same plane crash that ended the life of Buddy Holly. One scene in the movie that jumped out at me was when Richie/Lou wakes up after a tequila fueled night in Mexico to discover that he now has a tattoo on his right arm.
I knew right then and there I was going to get a tattoo.
Something about that seemed profoundly masculine, accepting whatever life throws at you with grace and forebearance, taking it, sucking it up. Those were qualities that the boy I was hoped the man I would become would have.
This was before tattoos hit big. None of my friends had tattoos. No movie stars had tattoos. Madonna didn’t have any tattoos. Professional athletes didn’t have tattoos. When I told people about wanting to have a tattoo, I was cautioned that it would “hold me back.” (“Before we offer you a corporate vice-presidency, Mr. Kramer, we need you to take off your shirt so we can examine your arms and torso.”)
A couple of years later, I decided enough time had gone by. I would be inked. Tattooing was still illegal in New York City, so I took a train down to Philadelphia. The plan was that I’d go out, get drunk, stumble into a tattoo parlor, stand in line with sailors and marines, and get my first tattoo. It didn’t go as planned. I found out that when the bars closed, so did the tattoo parlors. And so the deed was done not on a beery, bleary Saturday night, but on a clear and sober Sunday morning. I went in, picked a design off the wall, and an hour later walked out with my first tattoo. It was the head of a wolf, over a legend reading “Stand Alone.” The design had read “Lone Wolf,” but I thought this was a little hackneyed.
I knew then there would be more. But it took me almost fifteen years to come up with a design I could commit to. My cherry had been busted, and the next time around, I wanted it to be meaningful.
I would daydream about what images had meaning for me. For the most part, they spoke to me of things and people I love. My sister, whips, welding, words like ‘Conviction.’ And this lead me to think about love. Sweet sweet love. So much more than hearts and roses. When you open your heart to love, at the same time, you’re binding yourself to the heartache that will inevitably follow. Fervent passion grows cold. Frail creatures that we are, we break our vows and promises. Your beloved will surely sicken and die. Your heart will be broken, and the more you love, the more painful it will be. But the important thing is to make sure your heart does not grow cold. When love knocks on your door, be ready to open it and welcome love across your threshold. Especially when it’s crazy, passionate, stupid, inconvenient, and you fear it will overwhelm you completely.
At some point, I thought about Jacob Marley. In Dickens’ Christmas Carol, he was Ebenezer Scrooge’s equally miserly partner, who appears in spectral form to warn Scrooge to change his ways. In the afterlife, he is weighed down with chains, explaining that they were forged, link by link, by his stinginess in when he walked the earth.
Chains have different associations for me. After whipping, my favorite scene to do is chain bondage. I’m all thumbs with rope. The results are laughable. But something wonderful happens when I lay my chains on a man. I have over two hundred pounds at this point, and I patiently work to put them all on the helpless, struggling man who has submitted to me. There is a romance to steel chain that I just don’t find in rope.
So it would be chains. Chains of love. If love binds us all together, let those bonds be of eternal steel.
Once I found an artist to do the work--no mean feat--the journey began. I would sit in my jeep, take a few deep breaths, steel myself with a latté from the local Starbucks, and head to the studio of Joe Rose, the only tattoo artist I had met who got truly excited when he I explained what I was after. Inevitably, Joe would make me wait. Walk-ins were his bread and butter, and he couldn’t turn them away. So I’d chain smoke to calm my nerves while he inked Chinese characters onto teenagers.
The work took about fifteen sessions, stretching from May through December. During this time, I broke my ankle playing softball, whipped two wonderful men, was declared Employee of the Month at the woodshop where I work, visited San Francisco for the first time, and turned forty. Whatever was happening to me, I would come, bear whatever portion of my flesh we would be working on, and put everything else aside.
And it hurt. Oh man, did it hurt. I wanted to start at my right ankle, and end at my left wrist, but I gave Joe discretion in how we got there. If there was a sensitive part of my body that he missed, I can’t guess what it would be. My shin bone, kneecap, inner thigh, pelvis, spine, rib cage, collar bone, armpit, elbow... I started to wonder what was going on. Was the man a sadist? (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m a sadist myself.)
One night, I just couldn’t get it together. I wasn’t processing the pain. It was agony. I didn’t know if I could take it. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. I was howling away, holding back the tears.
Joe let up on the needle. He put his hand on my chest, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah I’m okay,” I answered, but not very convincingly.
Joe smiled. “You know what? You’re earning it.”
And then he went back to work.
But then and there, it all made sense to me. I was earning it. The best things in life come hard. Often at the cost of some of your blood. But a man takes it. No complaints. No whining. Just suck it up. Because you’re earning it.
And now, the journey is over. A scene that endured for eight months.
I’m really happy with the results. I’ll strip and show it off at the least provocation. And the best part is, I earned it.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Want
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
Want
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
...feeling weak... ...strength almost gone... ...can't resist... ...a meme
Here's a cool one from ThorNYC. It's listing ten things that I've done that you probably haven't. So here goes.
1. Savored the sublime pleasures of the Sandunovskii Banya in the heart of Moscow.
2. Stayed up all night watching a nine-hour-long CHiPS marathon on cable.
3. Crafted legislation that secured a basic level of care for New Yorkers living with HIV/AIDS and steered it to passage by the New York City Council and saw to it that Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani was forced to sign it into law.
4. Did the Wild Thing in the middle of a parking lot in dowtown Milwaukee.
5. Wore your deceased stepmother's panties to her funeral.
6. Had a really enjoyable date with a serial killer.
7. Went swimming on the Jersey shore in November and March.
8. Had all the African-American women on your block declare that yours were the best biscuits they've ever tasted.
9. Talked a priest into wearing nothing but a sarong for three days.
10. Had the privilege of owning a dog as sweet and wonderful as mine.
There. And so much more to come.
Here's a cool one from ThorNYC. It's listing ten things that I've done that you probably haven't. So here goes.
1. Savored the sublime pleasures of the Sandunovskii Banya in the heart of Moscow.
2. Stayed up all night watching a nine-hour-long CHiPS marathon on cable.
3. Crafted legislation that secured a basic level of care for New Yorkers living with HIV/AIDS and steered it to passage by the New York City Council and saw to it that Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani was forced to sign it into law.
4. Did the Wild Thing in the middle of a parking lot in dowtown Milwaukee.
5. Wore your deceased stepmother's panties to her funeral.
6. Had a really enjoyable date with a serial killer.
7. Went swimming on the Jersey shore in November and March.
8. Had all the African-American women on your block declare that yours were the best biscuits they've ever tasted.
9. Talked a priest into wearing nothing but a sarong for three days.
10. Had the privilege of owning a dog as sweet and wonderful as mine.
There. And so much more to come.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Peevish
Am I ever. I'll tell the world I'm peevish.
For one thing, I drove my stepmother's white Ford Taurus to work today. It's just so mortifying being behind the wheel of that car. Like walking into a business meeting wearing a bathing suit. (Oh. Wait. No. I've done that. And I totally pulled it off.) And of course, this is the car that left me stranded at the side of a highway on Christmas Eve with an 87 year old woman as my only passenger. That car. I hate that car.
And, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, I transferred none of my gear from the jeep to the Taurus. So, I didn't have a Luna Bar ("Complete Nutrition for Women... and me!") to eat at our 9:30 break, I didn't have a book to read when I got to Starbucks, and I didn't have my gym stuff with me so I could go and get out some of this frustration.
And, of course, the battery died on this car. When I stopped for gas. So luckily the sweet pup attendant gave me a jump.
Then there was Starbucks.
A very bad thing has happened at Starbucks. I suddenly realized at work today that I am dealing with yet another Psychic Vampire.
Wuzzat?
The phrase comes from Anton Lavey's Satanic Bible. I never read it, but my college roommate did. And he passed on to me the concept. Here's how they work...
You: Hey! How's it going?
PV: (mournfully, but with a brave smile) Y'know, things are pretty terrible right now?
You: Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that! What's going on?
And the litany begins. Work, relationships, health, money, whatever. And you listen. You commiserate. You give a hug.
But here's the thing. Every interaction you have with a PS, it's always the same story. And that's a story of woe. And they're all about, "gosh thank you so much for listening to all this, it really means so much to me." And you get to feel good about yourself for a little while. You were there for him or her. You're a good friend.
Y'see, psychic vampires feed on the better parts of your nature. Your empathy. Your compassion. And they will drain you dry. For them, it's all about the attention. It's the way they get people to notice them.
And yet another one has latched onto me. I guess I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. I thought the woman was just flirting with me. And so I let it be known that I was a homo. But then, she pounced. She "mentions" in a kind of off hand way, that her husband left her. That she has cancer. That she left a well paying job to pursue being an artist and it's not working out.
So now, I think I'm going to be subjected to her every blessed time I go to Starbucks.
Thank the Lord I had the foresight to Let It Be Known that I am absorbed in my book, and please don't disturb me while I'm reading.
Even The est Guy (annoying in his own right, saying things like, "Well why have you chosen to be peevish today?") knows enough not to interrupt while I'm engrossed.
But puh-leeeeze, God, c'mon... Don't take away my Starbucks.
This problem, I hope, will vanish with warm weather. When I'll be able to sit on the porch, chatting with the other blue collar guys, and smoking cigars. (Cigar smoke is to psychic vampires as garlic is to the Dracula kind.)
And, I'll hopefully have my jeep in good running order by that time, too.
Till then, I'm peevish.
Am I ever. I'll tell the world I'm peevish.
For one thing, I drove my stepmother's white Ford Taurus to work today. It's just so mortifying being behind the wheel of that car. Like walking into a business meeting wearing a bathing suit. (Oh. Wait. No. I've done that. And I totally pulled it off.) And of course, this is the car that left me stranded at the side of a highway on Christmas Eve with an 87 year old woman as my only passenger. That car. I hate that car.
And, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, I transferred none of my gear from the jeep to the Taurus. So, I didn't have a Luna Bar ("Complete Nutrition for Women... and me!") to eat at our 9:30 break, I didn't have a book to read when I got to Starbucks, and I didn't have my gym stuff with me so I could go and get out some of this frustration.
And, of course, the battery died on this car. When I stopped for gas. So luckily the sweet pup attendant gave me a jump.
Then there was Starbucks.
A very bad thing has happened at Starbucks. I suddenly realized at work today that I am dealing with yet another Psychic Vampire.
Wuzzat?
The phrase comes from Anton Lavey's Satanic Bible. I never read it, but my college roommate did. And he passed on to me the concept. Here's how they work...
You: Hey! How's it going?
PV: (mournfully, but with a brave smile) Y'know, things are pretty terrible right now?
You: Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that! What's going on?
And the litany begins. Work, relationships, health, money, whatever. And you listen. You commiserate. You give a hug.
But here's the thing. Every interaction you have with a PS, it's always the same story. And that's a story of woe. And they're all about, "gosh thank you so much for listening to all this, it really means so much to me." And you get to feel good about yourself for a little while. You were there for him or her. You're a good friend.
Y'see, psychic vampires feed on the better parts of your nature. Your empathy. Your compassion. And they will drain you dry. For them, it's all about the attention. It's the way they get people to notice them.
And yet another one has latched onto me. I guess I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. I thought the woman was just flirting with me. And so I let it be known that I was a homo. But then, she pounced. She "mentions" in a kind of off hand way, that her husband left her. That she has cancer. That she left a well paying job to pursue being an artist and it's not working out.
So now, I think I'm going to be subjected to her every blessed time I go to Starbucks.
Thank the Lord I had the foresight to Let It Be Known that I am absorbed in my book, and please don't disturb me while I'm reading.
Even The est Guy (annoying in his own right, saying things like, "Well why have you chosen to be peevish today?") knows enough not to interrupt while I'm engrossed.
But puh-leeeeze, God, c'mon... Don't take away my Starbucks.
This problem, I hope, will vanish with warm weather. When I'll be able to sit on the porch, chatting with the other blue collar guys, and smoking cigars. (Cigar smoke is to psychic vampires as garlic is to the Dracula kind.)
And, I'll hopefully have my jeep in good running order by that time, too.
Till then, I'm peevish.
Monday, February 28, 2005
No 'Reaster Update
I just heard this on the television: "Light snow is falling across the Delaware Valley. We'll have live coverage on Action News."
Live coverage of falling snow? As opposed to, y'know... LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW???!!!
If I wasn't such an upbeat guy, I'd be in a pretty black mood right now.
I just heard this on the television: "Light snow is falling across the Delaware Valley. We'll have live coverage on Action News."
Live coverage of falling snow? As opposed to, y'know... LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW???!!!
If I wasn't such an upbeat guy, I'd be in a pretty black mood right now.
No 'Reaster
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
No 'Reaster
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Uh oh.
So last night, when I arrived back from my adventure in West Viginia, my father was in a state. There is a Noreaster moving up the cost. Twelve to fifteen inches of snow. Blizzard conditions.
"There is no way you're going to work tomorrow. Because even if you manage to get there, you won't get home."
"But Dad..."
"No buts. Look at what they're saying on the news."
And, of course, the news was a noreaster is moving up the coast, and we're going to get twelve to fifteen inches of snow, and it's going to be the worst storm we've seen.
So I relented. I called work and lift a message saying that because of the bad weather (and my father), I wouldn't be in to work today. This was around midnight.
I went to bed, didn't set the alarm clock. When I woke up at 9 am, the first thing I did was look out the window. Expecting to see the front yard looking like a snow globe, I got a sinking feeling when there was not even a flurry.
Uh oh.
While I was drinking my tea, I perused the news and Weather Underground on the web. The storm looks like it's swinging south of us here in Beautiful Bucks County, and what storm there is was just light snow.
If we're not blanketed by noon, I'm going to feel awful.
My father, annoyingly, thinks this is no big deal. "So you take a day off work. That's a problem?"
"Dad... remember when you were working? If you were to call up you boss and say, 'Y'know, I'm not coming to work today, I'd like a day off, so I'm just going to stay home,' how do you think they'd take that news?"
That got me exactly nowhere.
My father is basically glad I'm home today. That's all. I can burn the trash, bring in wood...
Ah well. I need to make some phone calls to my insurance company anyway, right?
I mean, from the perspective of Wuperior Soodcraft, it's not the end of the world if I'm not at work. But I want to be 'The Guy They Can Rely On.' And i'm feeling like I didn't live up to that.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
West Virginia: Wild And Wonderful
The plan was that I was going to climb a mountain.
This was back in November. In honor of my fortieth birthday. Climb a mountain. That seemed like a good fortieth birthday thing to do. And on Worldleathermen, I ran across a guy who was a rock guide. We planned a weekend, but it had to be postponed. And this weekend was the first time we could make it happen.
So yesterday morning, I loaded up the jeep (including Faithful Companion) and headed towards West Virginia.
As you all know, I love a long road trip. Nothing clears the mind like several hours of unrelieved turnpike. And this trip involved 350 miles of that. Each way. Out the Pennsylvania Turnpike, south on I-81, West on I-70, south on I-68, west on 219 until it turned into Route 32, then a right onto Lanesville Road.
The trip was beautiful. When I was crossing the Susquehanna river, I saw a bald eagle, riding an updraft.
I remembered that among Native Americans, eagles were considered to be messengers of the Great Spirit. This was gonna be good. And then there were the knobs and hollers of Western Maryland and West Virginia. Such an incredible landscape. And I'd never seen it covered in snow before.
And speaking of the snow...
Okay. My directions read "look for the driveway on the left" when I turned off Lanesville Road. I passed three driveways on the right, but nothing on the left, so I just kept heading up the hill. The really steep hill. When I was just about at the top, suddenly, my jeep started going backwards. Even though I was in Drive. And with my foot on the gas pedal. Hitting the brake did nothing. Luckily the emergency brake managed to get me to a stop. But what the fuck do I do know?
Unnerstan, this narrow, icy road. No guardrail. Just a steep drop-off over the embankment. I decided to try for the last switchback so I could turn around. Once down at the foot of the hill, I'd give a call to the rock guide and have him come get me. Or something. Slowly, slowly--except when I went into a skid, I managed to back down to the switchback. I turned around, and slowly, slowly headed down the hill.
And things were going fine. Until I lost traction, went into a skid, and went right off the road. Toward the steep embankment side.
Oh hell.
I got clambered out and fetched Faithful Companion from the back. It looked like something out of a cartoon. My jeep was at about a forty five degree angle. The front left tire was down over the embankment, the rear right tire was about three feet off the ground. There was a wee little sapling stopping my jeep from heading down that ol' steep embankment. I grabbed my backpack and headed down the hill.
At this point, I realized that my directions must have been wrong. And sure enough, there was a driveway on the other side of the road fitting the description. And there to greet me at the door was my rock guide. (Let's call him 'Rocky,' shall we?)
Rocky greeted me warmly, and I explained my situation. So we needed a tow truck. Rocky called the local guys at Dave's Service Station. We headed back up the hill, and there was the tow truck to meet us. Those nice West Virginia good ol' boys greeted us and assessed the situation. The decided that they'd have to position their tow truck below my jeep on the hill, and loop the tow rope through a winch anchored to a locust tree. So they needed to back the tow truck past my jeep.
"Careful," I chimed in, "that road is really icy. It's easy to lose traction."
The tow truck, in reverse, went into a skid. Luckily, it stopped before it went over the embankment. Unluckily, it stopped because it collided with my jeep. And the think sticking out of the back that the tow rope comes off of? That big steel girder thing? That went right through my back window.
With a loud, sickening 'Pop.'
And my jeep went another four feet or so down the hill.
Oh. And I forgot. It wasn't the wee little sapling that stopped my jeep. There was a culvert (a steel pipe) sticking out of the embankment that caught my frame by about three-eighth of an inch. Now, the culvert had caught my rear axel.
Long (very long, sorry 'bout that, but I hope it was exciting, what with the near death of me and Faithful Companion all...) story short. They got the tow truck into position, they managed to haul my jeep back onto the road, and one of the good ol' boys was kind enough to drive my jeep back down to Rocky's driveway. At the bottom of the hill.
Oh man.
Y'know, I've always prided myself on keeping a cool head in a crisis. It's not the end of the world. That kinda thing. And I sure stood the test on Saturday night.
And Rocky was great. Dinner was ready. And he treated me to a nice massage.
This morning. Wherefore the mountain?
Well, y'know, that mountain will still be there. I had sort of had my life-endangering adventure for the weekend.
So Rocky made me breakfast, and we talked. And talked and talked and talked. Rocky is a pretty amazing guy.
Even though he's a lawyer! He kind of ditched a corporate job for being a rock guide. And I've never met a lawyer quite like him. There he was, quoting verse after verse of poetry. All of which merits repeating. But I'll hold it tight with this. It's Alfred Lord Tennyson's Ulysses. In the setting of the poem, Ulysses is returned to Ithaca's craggy shores. His journeys are ended. He's back home...
t little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads- you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Oh yeah.
Sweet.
So now, Faithful Companion and I are home once again. Not in Ithaca. But in Carversville. Ready for another journey.
The plan was that I was going to climb a mountain.
This was back in November. In honor of my fortieth birthday. Climb a mountain. That seemed like a good fortieth birthday thing to do. And on Worldleathermen, I ran across a guy who was a rock guide. We planned a weekend, but it had to be postponed. And this weekend was the first time we could make it happen.
So yesterday morning, I loaded up the jeep (including Faithful Companion) and headed towards West Virginia.
As you all know, I love a long road trip. Nothing clears the mind like several hours of unrelieved turnpike. And this trip involved 350 miles of that. Each way. Out the Pennsylvania Turnpike, south on I-81, West on I-70, south on I-68, west on 219 until it turned into Route 32, then a right onto Lanesville Road.
The trip was beautiful. When I was crossing the Susquehanna river, I saw a bald eagle, riding an updraft.
I remembered that among Native Americans, eagles were considered to be messengers of the Great Spirit. This was gonna be good. And then there were the knobs and hollers of Western Maryland and West Virginia. Such an incredible landscape. And I'd never seen it covered in snow before.
And speaking of the snow...
Okay. My directions read "look for the driveway on the left" when I turned off Lanesville Road. I passed three driveways on the right, but nothing on the left, so I just kept heading up the hill. The really steep hill. When I was just about at the top, suddenly, my jeep started going backwards. Even though I was in Drive. And with my foot on the gas pedal. Hitting the brake did nothing. Luckily the emergency brake managed to get me to a stop. But what the fuck do I do know?
Unnerstan, this narrow, icy road. No guardrail. Just a steep drop-off over the embankment. I decided to try for the last switchback so I could turn around. Once down at the foot of the hill, I'd give a call to the rock guide and have him come get me. Or something. Slowly, slowly--except when I went into a skid, I managed to back down to the switchback. I turned around, and slowly, slowly headed down the hill.
And things were going fine. Until I lost traction, went into a skid, and went right off the road. Toward the steep embankment side.
Oh hell.
I got clambered out and fetched Faithful Companion from the back. It looked like something out of a cartoon. My jeep was at about a forty five degree angle. The front left tire was down over the embankment, the rear right tire was about three feet off the ground. There was a wee little sapling stopping my jeep from heading down that ol' steep embankment. I grabbed my backpack and headed down the hill.
At this point, I realized that my directions must have been wrong. And sure enough, there was a driveway on the other side of the road fitting the description. And there to greet me at the door was my rock guide. (Let's call him 'Rocky,' shall we?)
Rocky greeted me warmly, and I explained my situation. So we needed a tow truck. Rocky called the local guys at Dave's Service Station. We headed back up the hill, and there was the tow truck to meet us. Those nice West Virginia good ol' boys greeted us and assessed the situation. The decided that they'd have to position their tow truck below my jeep on the hill, and loop the tow rope through a winch anchored to a locust tree. So they needed to back the tow truck past my jeep.
"Careful," I chimed in, "that road is really icy. It's easy to lose traction."
The tow truck, in reverse, went into a skid. Luckily, it stopped before it went over the embankment. Unluckily, it stopped because it collided with my jeep. And the think sticking out of the back that the tow rope comes off of? That big steel girder thing? That went right through my back window.
With a loud, sickening 'Pop.'
And my jeep went another four feet or so down the hill.
Oh. And I forgot. It wasn't the wee little sapling that stopped my jeep. There was a culvert (a steel pipe) sticking out of the embankment that caught my frame by about three-eighth of an inch. Now, the culvert had caught my rear axel.
Long (very long, sorry 'bout that, but I hope it was exciting, what with the near death of me and Faithful Companion all...) story short. They got the tow truck into position, they managed to haul my jeep back onto the road, and one of the good ol' boys was kind enough to drive my jeep back down to Rocky's driveway. At the bottom of the hill.
Oh man.
Y'know, I've always prided myself on keeping a cool head in a crisis. It's not the end of the world. That kinda thing. And I sure stood the test on Saturday night.
And Rocky was great. Dinner was ready. And he treated me to a nice massage.
This morning. Wherefore the mountain?
Well, y'know, that mountain will still be there. I had sort of had my life-endangering adventure for the weekend.
So Rocky made me breakfast, and we talked. And talked and talked and talked. Rocky is a pretty amazing guy.
Even though he's a lawyer! He kind of ditched a corporate job for being a rock guide. And I've never met a lawyer quite like him. There he was, quoting verse after verse of poetry. All of which merits repeating. But I'll hold it tight with this. It's Alfred Lord Tennyson's Ulysses. In the setting of the poem, Ulysses is returned to Ithaca's craggy shores. His journeys are ended. He's back home...
t little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads- you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Oh yeah.
Sweet.
So now, Faithful Companion and I are home once again. Not in Ithaca. But in Carversville. Ready for another journey.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Me And Dad
I've been getting sort of peevish with my father lately. Nothing big. Just keep thinking it would be nice to hear 'thank you' once in a while.
But tonight...
While we were eating dinner (my amazing meatloaf and scalloped potatoes), we had the tv on. This commercial came on. Maybe you've seen it. It involves Gladys Knight playing rugby. I'm a total sucker for athletic accomplishment, no matter how contrived and manipulative, and when Gladys takes the ball across the goal line... Well, let's just say that I teared up.
Okay. That's goofy. I know.
But anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I notice my father noticing me getting teary eyed.
And then... my father got teary eyed. He had to wipe his eyes with his napkin.
And so, I got even more teary eyed because my father got teary eyed.
Being the kind of men that we are (I am so much my father's son), I got up and put my plate in the dishwasher and my father added pepper to his dinner. And, y'know, neither of us acknowledged anything.
But I will always always cherish that moment.
The old guy loves me. He does.
I've been getting sort of peevish with my father lately. Nothing big. Just keep thinking it would be nice to hear 'thank you' once in a while.
But tonight...
While we were eating dinner (my amazing meatloaf and scalloped potatoes), we had the tv on. This commercial came on. Maybe you've seen it. It involves Gladys Knight playing rugby. I'm a total sucker for athletic accomplishment, no matter how contrived and manipulative, and when Gladys takes the ball across the goal line... Well, let's just say that I teared up.
Okay. That's goofy. I know.
But anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I notice my father noticing me getting teary eyed.
And then... my father got teary eyed. He had to wipe his eyes with his napkin.
And so, I got even more teary eyed because my father got teary eyed.
Being the kind of men that we are (I am so much my father's son), I got up and put my plate in the dishwasher and my father added pepper to his dinner. And, y'know, neither of us acknowledged anything.
But I will always always cherish that moment.
The old guy loves me. He does.
Stuck
Dang.
On the one hand, I'm consistently weighing in at 188-189 at the gym. On the other hand, after a steady climb, the needle doesn't seem to be budging. On the other hand, I'm getting some pretty favorable feedback on the state of the corpus. (Why just today, one of the sanding boys basically told me he wanted to be like me. He wants me to show him how to lift. So that's cool.)
But I swear, it's like Fate has decreed that like Moses and the Promised Land, I'll get to see but not cross the line of 190.
And I can't--I just can't--eat any more food. Every time I frickin' turn around I'm putting something in my mouth.
Ah well.
(Deep breath.)
It's not about the destination, it's about the journey. It's about spending time every day being in my body. The kinaesthetic value of stretching and lifting. That's what it's about.
And another interesting thing. I sort of feel that I've jumped up a tax bracket in terms of sexual attraction. Guys that I consider to be hot in that muscular kinda way are voicing the opinion that I'm hot. And finally it seems to be sinking in. Perhaps because I spent the first half of my life as a really skinny kid, I would still mentally take a look over my shoulder to see who they were talking about. I'm not doing that anymore. At least, not much.
But, that doesn't have much bearing on who I do and do not go to for a roll in the sweat-soaked sheets with. It's still all about the connection. And some other odd, quirky things. Odd, quirky things that I often find to be irresistable...
So, y'know... Go figure!
Dang.
On the one hand, I'm consistently weighing in at 188-189 at the gym. On the other hand, after a steady climb, the needle doesn't seem to be budging. On the other hand, I'm getting some pretty favorable feedback on the state of the corpus. (Why just today, one of the sanding boys basically told me he wanted to be like me. He wants me to show him how to lift. So that's cool.)
But I swear, it's like Fate has decreed that like Moses and the Promised Land, I'll get to see but not cross the line of 190.
And I can't--I just can't--eat any more food. Every time I frickin' turn around I'm putting something in my mouth.
Ah well.
(Deep breath.)
It's not about the destination, it's about the journey. It's about spending time every day being in my body. The kinaesthetic value of stretching and lifting. That's what it's about.
And another interesting thing. I sort of feel that I've jumped up a tax bracket in terms of sexual attraction. Guys that I consider to be hot in that muscular kinda way are voicing the opinion that I'm hot. And finally it seems to be sinking in. Perhaps because I spent the first half of my life as a really skinny kid, I would still mentally take a look over my shoulder to see who they were talking about. I'm not doing that anymore. At least, not much.
But, that doesn't have much bearing on who I do and do not go to for a roll in the sweat-soaked sheets with. It's still all about the connection. And some other odd, quirky things. Odd, quirky things that I often find to be irresistable...
- Neck Folds When men with shaved or close cropped hair have, at the napes of their necks, those folds of subcutaneous fat... well, my knees go week.
- Disproportionately Large Heads Omigod. This drives me nuts. Absolutely nuts. Always.
- Underbites *sigh*
- Fat Calves Like honey dew melons? I'm putty in your hands.
- Scars
- Exceptional Noses If I think you're hot when we meet, it's probably because of your nose.
- Befuddlement I always find this soooo winning on a man. Especially if you screw up your face when you're befuddled.
- Watch Caps Y'know, like longshoremen wear. Keep it on when we're having sex, okay?
- Commando! Neither briefs nor boxers, thanks!
- Enthusiasm Bordering On Impulse Control Disorder Just about regardless of the object. Singing along to the piped in music in the supermarket with joyful abandon? I do that, too!
- Weatherbeaten Exteriors When men have that years-in-the-sun look? Skin like tanned leather? All I can think about is there must be a nice meaty cock to go with it.
- Pig Eyes Those eyes that are sort of squinty and fleshy? Yessssss...
- Shiny Heads I aspire to this, but so far, no one has let me in on The Secret Formula.
- Hairy Hands This... this... guy... he works at the Block Buster in Doylestown...
- Old Clothes Especially with blotches of paint in interesting colors.
- Owners of Rescue Dogs And this sure has gotten me into trouble.
- Anti-Connoisseurship There was this guy I used to see at the LURE, and have subsequently gotten to know, and the thing I thought was hottest about him was that he drank Budweiser in a can.
- Being Handy Take out the wrench and fix my leaky fauced, and you can do anything with that wrench you want to.
- Bruce Springsteen Fans That scene in High Fidelity where John Cusack consults with the Boss about his woman problems? I was like touching myself.
- Orange As scarlet is to the bull, so is a man wearing orange to my penis.
- Trucks If the late Charles Nelson Reilly had propositioned me from the cab of his big black Dodge Ram Pickup truck, then I'd be his longtime companion today.
So, y'know... Go figure!
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Solomonic Wisdom In The Woodshop!
Okay. So at work today, one of the sandinista boys comes up to me and says, "Dutch, what do you think? If a guy is able to go down on himself, I say that's basically masturbation. But [sick boy] and [Old Timer] say that for a guy to do that, even to his own dick, it's gay. It's crossing the line. What do you say?"
I thought for a moment.
Well, if I could get a blow job any time I wanted... well, I probably wouldn't leave my house much at all. I agree it's 'crossing the line,' but guess what? Hello, line! Goodbye, line!"
Sandinista boy: "I'm with you, Dutch! Give me an indian outfit and make me a Village Person!"
Recruit recruit recruit!
Okay. So at work today, one of the sandinista boys comes up to me and says, "Dutch, what do you think? If a guy is able to go down on himself, I say that's basically masturbation. But [sick boy] and [Old Timer] say that for a guy to do that, even to his own dick, it's gay. It's crossing the line. What do you say?"
I thought for a moment.
Well, if I could get a blow job any time I wanted... well, I probably wouldn't leave my house much at all. I agree it's 'crossing the line,' but guess what? Hello, line! Goodbye, line!"
Sandinista boy: "I'm with you, Dutch! Give me an indian outfit and make me a Village Person!"
Recruit recruit recruit!
Monday, February 14, 2005
Run, Don't Walk!
This is verrry important.
It seems that Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel has made a heartwarming family comedy. It's called The Pacifier. He plays a Navy Seal and... oh like it matters.
Here's the skinny. Given the fact that I absolutely cannot get enough images of this man loaded into my gray matter, I am intent on prolonging the career of Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel for as long as possible.
Therefore, it is your bounden duty as a SingleTails reader--even the most casual reader--to go out an plunk down whatever they ask so you can perpetuate that. Even if you don't actually sit through this heartwarming family comedy (not my cup of tea either), I want Vin to do Major Box Office. I want to live in a world where people struggle to remember what movies Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise appeared in. This is really really REALLY important.
I mean Criminy. He's perfect. And I just know he's a major bottom. And a total pig. It's so obvious.
Anyway. You get my point, right?
Go see The Pacifier.
This is verrry important.
It seems that Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel has made a heartwarming family comedy. It's called The Pacifier. He plays a Navy Seal and... oh like it matters.
Here's the skinny. Given the fact that I absolutely cannot get enough images of this man loaded into my gray matter, I am intent on prolonging the career of Vin "Chained At My Feet Soaked In My Piss" Diesel for as long as possible.
Therefore, it is your bounden duty as a SingleTails reader--even the most casual reader--to go out an plunk down whatever they ask so you can perpetuate that. Even if you don't actually sit through this heartwarming family comedy (not my cup of tea either), I want Vin to do Major Box Office. I want to live in a world where people struggle to remember what movies Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise appeared in. This is really really REALLY important.
I mean Criminy. He's perfect. And I just know he's a major bottom. And a total pig. It's so obvious.
Anyway. You get my point, right?
Go see The Pacifier.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
At The Gates
My Sir is in NYC this weekend, so as sure as heck I'm loading up the jeep to head up to the Gotham. And... and... quite the busy weekend planned! At 2 pm, there will be the first meeting of the year of my softball team, the Ball Breakers! (Please God, let the Big Apple Softball League come to their senses and knock us down to the D Division where we belong, and not put us through another season in the C Division!) Then, at 5 pm, I'm do for a photo shoot. I've been asked to do a centerfold for Newslink, the publication put out by GMSMA. And tomorrow, before I head home, I hope that Sir and I will be able to make our way up to Central Park to take in Cristo and Jeanne-Claude's Gates.
I've been waiting for the Gates most of my adult life. I've been a huge fan of Cristo's. And the idea of Central Park coming to life in the dead of winter... How cool is that?
And, they're orange. Well, "Saffron," but that's orange.
And orange is my favorite color. I painted an entire needle exchange orange.
When I was Executive Director of the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center in NYC, I contended with the relocation of our operation. And appointed myself In Charge of the design committee. As in, I was making all the design decisions. Unilaterally. And if anyone disagreed with it, they had to lump it.
The big decision I made was what color to paint the whole thing. There I was, meeting with our architects, going through paint chips. And I hit upon a Pratt and Lambert color, Salsa. It was this vibrant orange. A deep orange. Beautiful. My architects suggested it could be nice for an accent wall, or brim somewhere. They were a wee bit taken aback when I said that I wanted to paint the whole blessed thing Salsa. "That might be a little overpowering..."
It was a contentious staff meeting, too. Nobody was down with it. "People come here to relax!" That kind of thing. But not Richard. Richard got it. "Fabulous!" he said, "Orange is a healing color."
Orange is a healing color.
It so is.
And, in the hankie code, Orange is also the color used to flag "Anything Anytime Anywhere." The flag of Pig Nation is Orange, Bay-beee!
So I go now to be healed.
My Sir is in NYC this weekend, so as sure as heck I'm loading up the jeep to head up to the Gotham. And... and... quite the busy weekend planned! At 2 pm, there will be the first meeting of the year of my softball team, the Ball Breakers! (Please God, let the Big Apple Softball League come to their senses and knock us down to the D Division where we belong, and not put us through another season in the C Division!) Then, at 5 pm, I'm do for a photo shoot. I've been asked to do a centerfold for Newslink, the publication put out by GMSMA. And tomorrow, before I head home, I hope that Sir and I will be able to make our way up to Central Park to take in Cristo and Jeanne-Claude's Gates.
I've been waiting for the Gates most of my adult life. I've been a huge fan of Cristo's. And the idea of Central Park coming to life in the dead of winter... How cool is that?
And, they're orange. Well, "Saffron," but that's orange.
And orange is my favorite color. I painted an entire needle exchange orange.
When I was Executive Director of the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center in NYC, I contended with the relocation of our operation. And appointed myself In Charge of the design committee. As in, I was making all the design decisions. Unilaterally. And if anyone disagreed with it, they had to lump it.
The big decision I made was what color to paint the whole thing. There I was, meeting with our architects, going through paint chips. And I hit upon a Pratt and Lambert color, Salsa. It was this vibrant orange. A deep orange. Beautiful. My architects suggested it could be nice for an accent wall, or brim somewhere. They were a wee bit taken aback when I said that I wanted to paint the whole blessed thing Salsa. "That might be a little overpowering..."
It was a contentious staff meeting, too. Nobody was down with it. "People come here to relax!" That kind of thing. But not Richard. Richard got it. "Fabulous!" he said, "Orange is a healing color."
Orange is a healing color.
It so is.
And, in the hankie code, Orange is also the color used to flag "Anything Anytime Anywhere." The flag of Pig Nation is Orange, Bay-beee!
So I go now to be healed.
Can't Resist A Meme!
YOUR SENIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL
[What year was it?]
"Pot is great! Sex is free! We're the Class of '83!"
[What were your three favorite bands?]
The Pretenders, Bruce Springsteen, the B-52s
[What was your favorite outfit?]
Jeans and a tshirt
[What was up with your hair?]
I used to do this thing where I'd bend over and comb my hair when it was wet until it was dry...
The higher the hair, the closer to God!
[Who were your best friends?]
Dave, John, Stephanie, Margie, Ray...
[What did you do after school?]
I worked at Mother's Restaurant, in New Hope, Pennsylvania! And didn't do homework at all.
[Did you take the bus?]
Yes.
[Who did you have a crush on?]
Every guy who crossed my field of vision provoked extended bouts of compulsive masturbation
[Did you fight with your parents?]
Not fight really. Just sniped. We were all about sniping.
[Who did you have a celebrity crush on?]
Richard Gere, Don Johnson, Liberty Devito,
[Did you smoke cigarettes?]
Marlboro reds
[Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?]
When I went to school (I cut something like seventy days), I probably did.
[Did you have a 'clique']
Yes! And it was really fun! We were all failures who didn't fit in, total square pegs, and we banded together and had a hell of a lot more fun than anybody else! While they were off at the Mall, we were spinning labyrinthine webs of lies to our parents that would allow us to run off to NYC for the weekend and such.
[Did you have "The Max" like Zach Kelly and Slater?]
I have no idea what this refers to.
[Admit it, were you popular?]
I prompted more in the way of fear, concern, and sympathy than luminous appeal.
[Who did you want to be just like?]
My make-believe boyfriend, Rudy! He was a loner. He rode around the country on his Harley. He had tattoos.
Hey... Wait a minute...
[What did you want to be when you grew up?]
Away from there. *ahem* And 'there' would be 'here.'
[Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now?]
Dead or in prison.
YOUR SENIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL
[What year was it?]
"Pot is great! Sex is free! We're the Class of '83!"
[What were your three favorite bands?]
The Pretenders, Bruce Springsteen, the B-52s
[What was your favorite outfit?]
Jeans and a tshirt
[What was up with your hair?]
I used to do this thing where I'd bend over and comb my hair when it was wet until it was dry...
The higher the hair, the closer to God!
[Who were your best friends?]
Dave, John, Stephanie, Margie, Ray...
[What did you do after school?]
I worked at Mother's Restaurant, in New Hope, Pennsylvania! And didn't do homework at all.
[Did you take the bus?]
Yes.
[Who did you have a crush on?]
Every guy who crossed my field of vision provoked extended bouts of compulsive masturbation
[Did you fight with your parents?]
Not fight really. Just sniped. We were all about sniping.
[Who did you have a celebrity crush on?]
Richard Gere, Don Johnson, Liberty Devito,
[Did you smoke cigarettes?]
Marlboro reds
[Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day because you were too nervous to find your locker?]
When I went to school (I cut something like seventy days), I probably did.
[Did you have a 'clique']
Yes! And it was really fun! We were all failures who didn't fit in, total square pegs, and we banded together and had a hell of a lot more fun than anybody else! While they were off at the Mall, we were spinning labyrinthine webs of lies to our parents that would allow us to run off to NYC for the weekend and such.
[Did you have "The Max" like Zach Kelly and Slater?]
I have no idea what this refers to.
[Admit it, were you popular?]
I prompted more in the way of fear, concern, and sympathy than luminous appeal.
[Who did you want to be just like?]
My make-believe boyfriend, Rudy! He was a loner. He rode around the country on his Harley. He had tattoos.
Hey... Wait a minute...
[What did you want to be when you grew up?]
Away from there. *ahem* And 'there' would be 'here.'
[Where did you think you'd be at the age you are now?]
Dead or in prison.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Hearts
So I come out of Starbuck's in Doylestown.
Right across the street is this place called The Paper Unicorn. It's a card store.
Now, card stores make me wince. Store-bought sentiments for Hallmark holidays.
But something came over me.
It's Valentine's Day on Monday! Valentine's Day! Love day! And I am blessed with so much love. Hallmark holiday or no, and even though I'm a day late and a dollar short (as usual), I decided I couldn't let Valentine's Day go by. I had some cards to send.
Now, I didn't find the cards I wanted. The Aztec art exhibit is still very much with me. And what I wanted was hearts. Think "Mexican Tattoos." Hearts with knives through them, dripping blood. Gray's Anatomy hearts, pierced by Cupid's arrow, again dripping blood.
Cuz that's the kinda love we're talking about.
Man love. Rough and raw and sweat-soaked. Testosterone fueled. Dangerous love. What if your boyfriend sees my whip marks? What if your parole officer finds out you left the state? You're sure you're eighteen, right? Passionate love. Sleepless nights and longing and yearning. Clenched teeth. Curled toes. Makin' lotsa noise. Wild love. "Seed me, you mutherfucking PIG!"
Funny thing. They had no cards like that!
But I did the best that I could.
As Chryssie Hyndes said, "When love walks in the room, everybody stand up!"
Now all I have to do is find the werewithal to mail the buggers.
So I come out of Starbuck's in Doylestown.
Right across the street is this place called The Paper Unicorn. It's a card store.
Now, card stores make me wince. Store-bought sentiments for Hallmark holidays.
But something came over me.
It's Valentine's Day on Monday! Valentine's Day! Love day! And I am blessed with so much love. Hallmark holiday or no, and even though I'm a day late and a dollar short (as usual), I decided I couldn't let Valentine's Day go by. I had some cards to send.
Now, I didn't find the cards I wanted. The Aztec art exhibit is still very much with me. And what I wanted was hearts. Think "Mexican Tattoos." Hearts with knives through them, dripping blood. Gray's Anatomy hearts, pierced by Cupid's arrow, again dripping blood.
Cuz that's the kinda love we're talking about.
Man love. Rough and raw and sweat-soaked. Testosterone fueled. Dangerous love. What if your boyfriend sees my whip marks? What if your parole officer finds out you left the state? You're sure you're eighteen, right? Passionate love. Sleepless nights and longing and yearning. Clenched teeth. Curled toes. Makin' lotsa noise. Wild love. "Seed me, you mutherfucking PIG!"
Funny thing. They had no cards like that!
But I did the best that I could.
As Chryssie Hyndes said, "When love walks in the room, everybody stand up!"
Now all I have to do is find the werewithal to mail the buggers.
A Step Back
I almost didn't go to the gym tonight!
I did, but it was hairy there for a minute. After work today, there was a long, sweet drool nap in one of the comfy chairs by the fire at Starbuck's. Listening to Russian Sacred music, reading James Hillman's The Soul Code. By the time I managed to finish a section (all of four pages), it was six fifteen. And as I'm heading to my car... well, that's another post.
Anyway, it was almost seven p.m. before I got going to the gym. Egads. And I thought... all those thoughts...
...You won't be able to go Saturday or Sunday, so might as well make it three days instead of just two.
...It's already pretty late. You'd better get home.
...Like one day is gonna make a difference?
...With your intestinal troubles, you won't be accomplishing anything anyway.
But, luckily, this image flashed in my mind. Me doing my wacko stretching routine.
People at my gym avoid eye contact after they've seen me at it. I, of course, love that. It's pretty out there. But I just love it. It's all these moves--some of which I remember from Yoga, some of which I picked up over the years from trainers or seeing someone else do it--and then there's the really out there ones that I plain invented.
But that was enough. Off I went.
And stretching was great. Barring illness or injury, I want to be able to do this stretching for my whole life. It just feels so good. And, if I keep it up, I will be able to do it for my whole life, as it will keep me limber.
Tonight was shoulders and triceps. I love working my back. As a whipsman, I appreciate a well muscled back. When you're confronted with protruding shoulder blades, or a vast pillowy expanse... what do you do with that? What do you aim for? But that wonderful topography of a muscled back. That is so sweet.
And biceps. My biceps workout rocked tonight. I start out with doing the speed rack. That's a routine where you start with heavy dumbells and do a quick set of ten, then, without pausing, drop the weight by five pounds, and do another set of ten, no pause, less weight, another set of ten. Eventually, there you are, struggling and straining to do bicep curls with a pair of twenty pould dumbells that feel like they might as well weigh 120 pounds. Usually, my starting off point is thirty pounds. But tonight, I started at forty. And the first set felt pretty good. But next up was thirty-five. And that's heavy. And then the thirties. And they're heavy. By the time I got down to the manageable twenty-fives, I was shot. It was a struggle.
And then came the twenties. I have never, ever worked so hard to squeeze out a set of ten bicep curls with twenty pound dumbells as I did tonight. Two more routines with biceps, and then I hit the showers.
In the locker room, I peeled off my shirt, and I was pretty awed by what I beheld in the mirror. Yowza! I may only weigh 187.2 pounds, but it's a gooood 187.2 pounds.
I will never be big. I will never overhear Chelsea boys on Eighth Avenue say "Damn! Look at the guns on him!" as I pass by.
But I do alright.
It's all about the journey, not the destination.
I almost didn't go to the gym tonight!
I did, but it was hairy there for a minute. After work today, there was a long, sweet drool nap in one of the comfy chairs by the fire at Starbuck's. Listening to Russian Sacred music, reading James Hillman's The Soul Code. By the time I managed to finish a section (all of four pages), it was six fifteen. And as I'm heading to my car... well, that's another post.
Anyway, it was almost seven p.m. before I got going to the gym. Egads. And I thought... all those thoughts...
...You won't be able to go Saturday or Sunday, so might as well make it three days instead of just two.
...It's already pretty late. You'd better get home.
...Like one day is gonna make a difference?
...With your intestinal troubles, you won't be accomplishing anything anyway.
But, luckily, this image flashed in my mind. Me doing my wacko stretching routine.
People at my gym avoid eye contact after they've seen me at it. I, of course, love that. It's pretty out there. But I just love it. It's all these moves--some of which I remember from Yoga, some of which I picked up over the years from trainers or seeing someone else do it--and then there's the really out there ones that I plain invented.
But that was enough. Off I went.
And stretching was great. Barring illness or injury, I want to be able to do this stretching for my whole life. It just feels so good. And, if I keep it up, I will be able to do it for my whole life, as it will keep me limber.
Tonight was shoulders and triceps. I love working my back. As a whipsman, I appreciate a well muscled back. When you're confronted with protruding shoulder blades, or a vast pillowy expanse... what do you do with that? What do you aim for? But that wonderful topography of a muscled back. That is so sweet.
And biceps. My biceps workout rocked tonight. I start out with doing the speed rack. That's a routine where you start with heavy dumbells and do a quick set of ten, then, without pausing, drop the weight by five pounds, and do another set of ten, no pause, less weight, another set of ten. Eventually, there you are, struggling and straining to do bicep curls with a pair of twenty pould dumbells that feel like they might as well weigh 120 pounds. Usually, my starting off point is thirty pounds. But tonight, I started at forty. And the first set felt pretty good. But next up was thirty-five. And that's heavy. And then the thirties. And they're heavy. By the time I got down to the manageable twenty-fives, I was shot. It was a struggle.
And then came the twenties. I have never, ever worked so hard to squeeze out a set of ten bicep curls with twenty pound dumbells as I did tonight. Two more routines with biceps, and then I hit the showers.
In the locker room, I peeled off my shirt, and I was pretty awed by what I beheld in the mirror. Yowza! I may only weigh 187.2 pounds, but it's a gooood 187.2 pounds.
I will never be big. I will never overhear Chelsea boys on Eighth Avenue say "Damn! Look at the guns on him!" as I pass by.
But I do alright.
It's all about the journey, not the destination.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
See... This Is How It Starts
Ahhh. Home safe and sound.
So after stopping to get gas, which came after the gym (chest and triceps!), which came after work, I headed to the supermarket to get stuff for dinner. Because I drink a lot of water at the gym, it's guaranteed that I'll be needing to pee when I hit the market. At theStupidFresh SuperFresh in Doylestown, this is not a problem. They have well appointed and convenient restrooms. But tonight, I had to go to the Clemen's Market in Plumsteadville. Now regular readers of SingleTails will recall that Clemen's Market is the nexus of woofy men. They're always there in force. But, alas, the restrooms at Clemen's leave much to be desired. You have to go through swinging doors labeled 'Employees Only' and 'Hairnets Required Beyond This Point', past these shelves of outdated merchandise, down around the corner behind the meat department cutting room, and enter the grungy men's room. And I did this in a hurry as I had to go really bad.
So I unzip and whip it out, and... uh oh.
For the past few days, I've been having intestinal problems. And that seemed to hit a low point just then. When I did the big muscle release, I shit my pants. Quite unexpectedly, I assure you. Cutting off the flow of piss, I sort of danced from the urinal into the stall to clean up.
I know.... Eeeeeeew!!!
It was runny. Although not an unpleasant shade of ochre.
Oh hell.
I debated just making a graceful exit without getting anything. But we really needed something for dinner. Inspecting in front of the mirror, I saw that indeed, I had a big wet spot on the seat of my pants. I was wearing loose cargo pants, so I did my best to arrange things so that my pants were bunched over my butt, and the telltale wetspot was concealed (mostly) in the folds.
I grabbed what was easiest, hot dogs and saurkraut, and made for the checkout line.
And sure enough, there was a woofy guy in front of me, and then another woofy guy got in line behind me. I did my best to act non-chalant.
I paid for my stuff and made for the door.
Once outside in the arctic chill, I felt a draft where I shouldn't. Looking down, I realized that my fly was wide open. And since I had my pants bunched up in the back, we're talkin' wide open. As in, arrestable.
I headed for my Jeep in the parking lot. Woofy guy, who was only getting a gallon of milk, was right behind me. And, it turned out, parked right next to me. At this point, I'm in a state of 'almost there-almost there-almost there...'
"Hey buddy," Woofy guy says to me, your gas cap is open.
And so it was. I had left the little door over the gas cap open when I stopped on the way.
"Thanks!" I called, closing it.
And I just had this... this... image of myself. Mr. Shitty Pants. Mr. Wide Open Fly. Mr. Leave Your Gas Cap Off. Buying hot dogs and saurkrauts.
Not, I guess, one of my finer moments.
And you thought I was such hot stuff, huh?
Ahhh. Home safe and sound.
So after stopping to get gas, which came after the gym (chest and triceps!), which came after work, I headed to the supermarket to get stuff for dinner. Because I drink a lot of water at the gym, it's guaranteed that I'll be needing to pee when I hit the market. At the
So I unzip and whip it out, and... uh oh.
For the past few days, I've been having intestinal problems. And that seemed to hit a low point just then. When I did the big muscle release, I shit my pants. Quite unexpectedly, I assure you. Cutting off the flow of piss, I sort of danced from the urinal into the stall to clean up.
I know.... Eeeeeeew!!!
It was runny. Although not an unpleasant shade of ochre.
Oh hell.
I debated just making a graceful exit without getting anything. But we really needed something for dinner. Inspecting in front of the mirror, I saw that indeed, I had a big wet spot on the seat of my pants. I was wearing loose cargo pants, so I did my best to arrange things so that my pants were bunched over my butt, and the telltale wetspot was concealed (mostly) in the folds.
I grabbed what was easiest, hot dogs and saurkraut, and made for the checkout line.
And sure enough, there was a woofy guy in front of me, and then another woofy guy got in line behind me. I did my best to act non-chalant.
I paid for my stuff and made for the door.
Once outside in the arctic chill, I felt a draft where I shouldn't. Looking down, I realized that my fly was wide open. And since I had my pants bunched up in the back, we're talkin' wide open. As in, arrestable.
I headed for my Jeep in the parking lot. Woofy guy, who was only getting a gallon of milk, was right behind me. And, it turned out, parked right next to me. At this point, I'm in a state of 'almost there-almost there-almost there...'
"Hey buddy," Woofy guy says to me, your gas cap is open.
And so it was. I had left the little door over the gas cap open when I stopped on the way.
"Thanks!" I called, closing it.
And I just had this... this... image of myself. Mr. Shitty Pants. Mr. Wide Open Fly. Mr. Leave Your Gas Cap Off. Buying hot dogs and saurkrauts.
Not, I guess, one of my finer moments.
And you thought I was such hot stuff, huh?
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
How I Gained Six Pounds In Eight Weeks!
Oh man.
So I've been good about getting to the gym. Better than I've been since moving out here to the hinterlands. Thanks in no small part to encouragement from my Sir.
Big suggested that I I do high reps and lower weights. And I had a whole new mindset. I decided that I'd only do the stuff I liked. None of the stuff that I didn't like. And I decided to make time for stretching. My kind of stretching. Drawing on my decades old experience of doing yoga, and some Pilades stuff I got from a trainer I worked with at one of my New York gyms, it's basically some time I spend feeling at home in my body.
And then I plunge into the weights. Slowly, over time, I've upped the amounts that I was lifting. And it still felt really good. Not like something I had to do, but something I wanted to do.
And I've been paying close attention to what I eat. Making sure I get enough protein.
And I had an idea. I dropped the amount of weights I was doing, but kept up on the amount I was eating. That's sure to put on the pounds, right?
When I started, my weight was 183. And I've added weight. Last week, I hopped on the scale, and I'd made it all the way up to 189.7.
That three tenths of a pound really pissed me off. I couldn't have 190? I've been doing everything I can for the past two months, and I couldn't get to 190? What is up with that?
So I'm sort of pissed off. Why can't I break 190? What am I doing wrong? What could I be doing instead? It's almost like it's ordained that I can't weigh 190.
*sigh*
So I'm open to suggestions.
Oh. "Juice" is not a suggestion. I've toyed with the idea plenty. But it makes your testicles shrink. Down to nothing. And mine are the sixe of apricots, and I like them like that.
But I'm all ears.
Oh man.
So I've been good about getting to the gym. Better than I've been since moving out here to the hinterlands. Thanks in no small part to encouragement from my Sir.
Big suggested that I I do high reps and lower weights. And I had a whole new mindset. I decided that I'd only do the stuff I liked. None of the stuff that I didn't like. And I decided to make time for stretching. My kind of stretching. Drawing on my decades old experience of doing yoga, and some Pilades stuff I got from a trainer I worked with at one of my New York gyms, it's basically some time I spend feeling at home in my body.
And then I plunge into the weights. Slowly, over time, I've upped the amounts that I was lifting. And it still felt really good. Not like something I had to do, but something I wanted to do.
And I've been paying close attention to what I eat. Making sure I get enough protein.
And I had an idea. I dropped the amount of weights I was doing, but kept up on the amount I was eating. That's sure to put on the pounds, right?
When I started, my weight was 183. And I've added weight. Last week, I hopped on the scale, and I'd made it all the way up to 189.7.
That three tenths of a pound really pissed me off. I couldn't have 190? I've been doing everything I can for the past two months, and I couldn't get to 190? What is up with that?
So I'm sort of pissed off. Why can't I break 190? What am I doing wrong? What could I be doing instead? It's almost like it's ordained that I can't weigh 190.
*sigh*
So I'm open to suggestions.
Oh. "Juice" is not a suggestion. I've toyed with the idea plenty. But it makes your testicles shrink. Down to nothing. And mine are the sixe of apricots, and I like them like that.
But I'm all ears.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Aztec Gold
Whazzis? I come back from sebatical and post once a week?
Sorry 'bout that.
Been... ...distracted lately. My Sunday night edge play guy from MAL had to make a trip to NYC. And was up for a whipping. From me. His first.
Imagine! It's not Delta or Inferno, it's not MAL, it's just a Saturday in February, and I get to whip a man! Unbelievable good fortune there, huh?
So on Saturday, I headed up to NYC. A bulging toybag in the back of the jeep. I found my way to his hotel, got all my gear up to the room, and we picked up where we left off three weeks ago. Verrrry deep stuff. As the sun was setting and the lights were coming up on the Chrysler Building outside the window of Room 1503, I put my restraints on his wrists, and got busy.
The warm up flogging seemed soooo... besides the point. Like inviting someone over for dinner and serving Campbell's Soup. It went quickly. When I started in with the whip, things quickly became amazing. Just joyous. He was lustful. There's no other word for it. Just lustful. He kept backing up. It drove him nuts when I would crack the whip just over the skin of his back. He wanted connection.
Often in a whipping scene, particularly when the man you're whipping is a first timer, you are supplying all the energy. You're throwing the whip, keeping your focus, maintaining the rhythm, but also coaching, comforting, encouraging. But I swear, this man was blazing with power. Radiant. And every time I connected, the power would just surge.
I stopped short of drawing blood. For varied reasons, some of which I can't guess at. I wanted to leave him wanting more. I wanted to leave me wanting more. I didn't want it to be complete. There was a fear there. Once you conquer Everest, what's left to you?
Luckily, the analogy is a bad one. It's not mountaineering we're talking about, it's whipping men, and every man has his own special gift to give, and every whipping scene has it's own special gifts from the gods to bestow as well.
But still. The energy there was almost too much. A wolf never eats his fill. If he does that, he'll might be too sluggish when the next lame doe wanders across his path.
We hit the Eagle that night. Not much different there. Then back to Room 1503 for bed.
This guy needs a nom-de-blog, No? And I've thought of one. The Necessary Man. Not quite sure why that's fitting, but it is.
Huh. Lots of Mystery this past weekend. Lots of Mystery. Let the Mystery be.
The next day, Sunday, we hit Starbucks and got ourselves some lunch at the Boathouse in Central Park. And then we went to the Guggenheim.
The Gugg' is having an exhibit of Aztec Art.
Run. Don't walk.
It's just extraordinary. Absolutely breathtaking. Wonderful stuff.
Their depictions of the human face have mostly the same expression. The eyes are wide open, and the mouth is gaping. It's fascinating. It could be a look of anguish, or it could be ecstatic rapture. Or, y'know, both.
The Aztecs were a warrior society. Consequently, it was all about male energy. All the gods in their pantheon were male deities. And the only time women were portrayed in the art represented, they were on their knees, hands raised with the palms out, a gesture of supplication.
And then, of course, there is the Ritual. The Ritual. Every year, (in their extraordinary calendar) a warrior was selected. He was brave, he was ferocious in battle, and he was beautiful. For one year, he would live as a god. Every thing he wanted was his. Nothing was denied him. And he was treated as a god. No one could look upon his face and live. His touch was healing. And then, when the year was over, he would climb to the top of a pyramid, and there a priest would cut out his living heart. He would become a god, he would be the sun. Apotheosis.
Tucked away in the exhibit at the Guggenheim is a collection of daggers, the blades made from precious stones. And one of them... well, it was amazing. The blade was made from a sort of pale reddish-brown stone. And the handle. Wow. It was in the shape of a male head, in profile. The mouth open, the face upturned, in an expression either of anguish, or ecstasy, or both.
Necessary Man and I, looking at it, we just knew. That was the knife. That was it.
Imagine. Imagine what it would be like. One year. Your life, your dreams and ambitions and hopes and desires, all met, but in the compressed time of one year. And at the end of the year, well, there's sort of the ultimate snuff scene. You climb the pyramid, step by step by step. And at the Top, you gaze at the sun. Lose yourself in the brilliance. And then, expertly, your heart is removed. And your blood washes down the sides of the pyramid. For all the people. For all the people.
But that year. What would that year be like? What are your wishes, dreams, and desires? I don't doubt that early on in your year, you'd go for all the obvious stuff. I want to have sex with him! I want to hear that piece of music played for me while I bathe in water scented with the most fragrant flowers! I want to gorge myself on chocolate!
But how long before you run through all of the obvious things? Then what? Like Faust, do you come to regret your bargain?
Maybe it becomes about 'I want all the poor to be fed.' Or, 'I want all children to know that they are loved.'
How would you spend those precious 365 days? 364. 363. 362. 361...
Huh.
The Aztecs were onto something.
Whazzis? I come back from sebatical and post once a week?
Sorry 'bout that.
Been... ...distracted lately. My Sunday night edge play guy from MAL had to make a trip to NYC. And was up for a whipping. From me. His first.
Imagine! It's not Delta or Inferno, it's not MAL, it's just a Saturday in February, and I get to whip a man! Unbelievable good fortune there, huh?
So on Saturday, I headed up to NYC. A bulging toybag in the back of the jeep. I found my way to his hotel, got all my gear up to the room, and we picked up where we left off three weeks ago. Verrrry deep stuff. As the sun was setting and the lights were coming up on the Chrysler Building outside the window of Room 1503, I put my restraints on his wrists, and got busy.
The warm up flogging seemed soooo... besides the point. Like inviting someone over for dinner and serving Campbell's Soup. It went quickly. When I started in with the whip, things quickly became amazing. Just joyous. He was lustful. There's no other word for it. Just lustful. He kept backing up. It drove him nuts when I would crack the whip just over the skin of his back. He wanted connection.
Often in a whipping scene, particularly when the man you're whipping is a first timer, you are supplying all the energy. You're throwing the whip, keeping your focus, maintaining the rhythm, but also coaching, comforting, encouraging. But I swear, this man was blazing with power. Radiant. And every time I connected, the power would just surge.
I stopped short of drawing blood. For varied reasons, some of which I can't guess at. I wanted to leave him wanting more. I wanted to leave me wanting more. I didn't want it to be complete. There was a fear there. Once you conquer Everest, what's left to you?
Luckily, the analogy is a bad one. It's not mountaineering we're talking about, it's whipping men, and every man has his own special gift to give, and every whipping scene has it's own special gifts from the gods to bestow as well.
But still. The energy there was almost too much. A wolf never eats his fill. If he does that, he'll might be too sluggish when the next lame doe wanders across his path.
We hit the Eagle that night. Not much different there. Then back to Room 1503 for bed.
This guy needs a nom-de-blog, No? And I've thought of one. The Necessary Man. Not quite sure why that's fitting, but it is.
Huh. Lots of Mystery this past weekend. Lots of Mystery. Let the Mystery be.
The next day, Sunday, we hit Starbucks and got ourselves some lunch at the Boathouse in Central Park. And then we went to the Guggenheim.
The Gugg' is having an exhibit of Aztec Art.
Run. Don't walk.
It's just extraordinary. Absolutely breathtaking. Wonderful stuff.
Their depictions of the human face have mostly the same expression. The eyes are wide open, and the mouth is gaping. It's fascinating. It could be a look of anguish, or it could be ecstatic rapture. Or, y'know, both.
The Aztecs were a warrior society. Consequently, it was all about male energy. All the gods in their pantheon were male deities. And the only time women were portrayed in the art represented, they were on their knees, hands raised with the palms out, a gesture of supplication.
And then, of course, there is the Ritual. The Ritual. Every year, (in their extraordinary calendar) a warrior was selected. He was brave, he was ferocious in battle, and he was beautiful. For one year, he would live as a god. Every thing he wanted was his. Nothing was denied him. And he was treated as a god. No one could look upon his face and live. His touch was healing. And then, when the year was over, he would climb to the top of a pyramid, and there a priest would cut out his living heart. He would become a god, he would be the sun. Apotheosis.
Tucked away in the exhibit at the Guggenheim is a collection of daggers, the blades made from precious stones. And one of them... well, it was amazing. The blade was made from a sort of pale reddish-brown stone. And the handle. Wow. It was in the shape of a male head, in profile. The mouth open, the face upturned, in an expression either of anguish, or ecstasy, or both.
Necessary Man and I, looking at it, we just knew. That was the knife. That was it.
Imagine. Imagine what it would be like. One year. Your life, your dreams and ambitions and hopes and desires, all met, but in the compressed time of one year. And at the end of the year, well, there's sort of the ultimate snuff scene. You climb the pyramid, step by step by step. And at the Top, you gaze at the sun. Lose yourself in the brilliance. And then, expertly, your heart is removed. And your blood washes down the sides of the pyramid. For all the people. For all the people.
But that year. What would that year be like? What are your wishes, dreams, and desires? I don't doubt that early on in your year, you'd go for all the obvious stuff. I want to have sex with him! I want to hear that piece of music played for me while I bathe in water scented with the most fragrant flowers! I want to gorge myself on chocolate!
But how long before you run through all of the obvious things? Then what? Like Faust, do you come to regret your bargain?
Maybe it becomes about 'I want all the poor to be fed.' Or, 'I want all children to know that they are loved.'
How would you spend those precious 365 days? 364. 363. 362. 361...
Huh.
The Aztecs were onto something.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Fly Iggles, Fly!
Look who has Super Bowl Fever...
Or... y'know... not.
Today at work, there was a big to-do on the Super Bowl. (For the sports-impaired, Philadelphia's own Eagles--locally pronounced 'Iggles'--are going up against the New England Patriots this Sunday in the Super Bowl.) There was much wearin' o' the Eagles jerseys, much paintin' o' the faces, much spontaneous cheers. And, the Powers That Be bought us all lunch in a kind of 'tailgate party' thing. Luckily, they didn't make us eat it outside.
Prizes were given out for the 'Best Costume' and the 'Best Decorated Vehicle.'
So I ran out and plopped down my hard-earned cash for the green and white fright wig, right?
Are you out of your mind?
No. What happened was... Well, let's just say that when the man who signs your paychecks asks you to wear a fright wig, you wear the fright wig. Capesce?
But, I have to say that I think the fright wig doesn't look half bad on me. A guy I work with made a reference to Pam Grier, and I knew that it had to become Mine. So I left work wearing it.
Now that must be odd, tooling around Doylestown in a green and white fright wig, huh?
Not a bit. I didn't even stand out in the crowd. Or rather, the sea of green and white. People complemented me on my 'Spirit' and said things like, 'things like that is why we're gonna win!'
What's the big deal? I mean, it's not like the Cubs are in the World Series or something? I mean, this is football, not baseball.
I get football in theory, but it doesn't do a lot for me to watch a game. For one thing, there's all that padding. You can't see what the players look like, until they flash the stills. And then I'm trying to match up the face I just saw with the number... And I can't follow the plays. It just looks like a hive of bees to me. And it used to be a great working class sport, but then it got all kindsa corporate. Like basketball, I just get the idea that those guys are out there for the money. Not the love of the game. Watch a minor league baseball team play sometime. Guys who are making ten thousand or so a year, most of whom have realized that they're probably not going to be called up into the majors any time soon. But they just love the game. So they're giving up career and families and getting out there. That's sweet. That's baseball.
And, the Pats are the odds on favorite to win. New England is something of a football dynasty. They have this innovative, sort of Microsoft-like approach to the game. And it works for them. If the Eagles manage to pull it out, it will be (yet another) nail in the coffin of Rush Limbaugh's credibility, as he was fired as a host of Monday Night Football when he opined that Philadelphia quarterback Donovan McNabb got his job only through affirmative action or something. McNabb is one of the only African-American quarterbacks in the NFL, but contrary to Rush's bloviating, he's proven himself to also be one of the best, if not the best.
(Because of the whole uniforms and padding thing, I have no idea what Donovan McNabb looks like, or if he's woofy.)
But anyway, it's Super Bowl weekend here in the Delaware Valley. I probably won't be tuning in, but I will want to know the final score.
And that could only mean that baseball season is weeks away!
Look who has Super Bowl Fever...
Or... y'know... not.
Today at work, there was a big to-do on the Super Bowl. (For the sports-impaired, Philadelphia's own Eagles--locally pronounced 'Iggles'--are going up against the New England Patriots this Sunday in the Super Bowl.) There was much wearin' o' the Eagles jerseys, much paintin' o' the faces, much spontaneous cheers. And, the Powers That Be bought us all lunch in a kind of 'tailgate party' thing. Luckily, they didn't make us eat it outside.
Prizes were given out for the 'Best Costume' and the 'Best Decorated Vehicle.'
So I ran out and plopped down my hard-earned cash for the green and white fright wig, right?
Are you out of your mind?
No. What happened was... Well, let's just say that when the man who signs your paychecks asks you to wear a fright wig, you wear the fright wig. Capesce?
But, I have to say that I think the fright wig doesn't look half bad on me. A guy I work with made a reference to Pam Grier, and I knew that it had to become Mine. So I left work wearing it.
Now that must be odd, tooling around Doylestown in a green and white fright wig, huh?
Not a bit. I didn't even stand out in the crowd. Or rather, the sea of green and white. People complemented me on my 'Spirit' and said things like, 'things like that is why we're gonna win!'
What's the big deal? I mean, it's not like the Cubs are in the World Series or something? I mean, this is football, not baseball.
I get football in theory, but it doesn't do a lot for me to watch a game. For one thing, there's all that padding. You can't see what the players look like, until they flash the stills. And then I'm trying to match up the face I just saw with the number... And I can't follow the plays. It just looks like a hive of bees to me. And it used to be a great working class sport, but then it got all kindsa corporate. Like basketball, I just get the idea that those guys are out there for the money. Not the love of the game. Watch a minor league baseball team play sometime. Guys who are making ten thousand or so a year, most of whom have realized that they're probably not going to be called up into the majors any time soon. But they just love the game. So they're giving up career and families and getting out there. That's sweet. That's baseball.
And, the Pats are the odds on favorite to win. New England is something of a football dynasty. They have this innovative, sort of Microsoft-like approach to the game. And it works for them. If the Eagles manage to pull it out, it will be (yet another) nail in the coffin of Rush Limbaugh's credibility, as he was fired as a host of Monday Night Football when he opined that Philadelphia quarterback Donovan McNabb got his job only through affirmative action or something. McNabb is one of the only African-American quarterbacks in the NFL, but contrary to Rush's bloviating, he's proven himself to also be one of the best, if not the best.
(Because of the whole uniforms and padding thing, I have no idea what Donovan McNabb looks like, or if he's woofy.)
But anyway, it's Super Bowl weekend here in the Delaware Valley. I probably won't be tuning in, but I will want to know the final score.
And that could only mean that baseball season is weeks away!
Friday, January 28, 2005
Whooooa...
Just finished watching The Experiment.
Amazing movie. Just amazing.
Too good, in fact, to really work as JO fodder. It started out as great JO fodder, but then it just got darker and scarier. When they put the scientist in the cell... well, then I started getting concerned.
Now, if it had come out of Hollywood, Starring Vin Diesel, Gwynneth Paltrow, William H. Macy, and Kevin Spacey, then it would have been perfect JO fodder, all the way through. Hollywood wouldn't know terror like if it strolled up and whacked Hollywood in the nose. But those Germans, goofy people that they are, seem to have quite the handle on terror.
Go rent The Experiment. I found it in the DoylestownLackluster Blockbuster in the "Special Interest" section.
Just finished watching The Experiment.
Amazing movie. Just amazing.
Too good, in fact, to really work as JO fodder. It started out as great JO fodder, but then it just got darker and scarier. When they put the scientist in the cell... well, then I started getting concerned.
Now, if it had come out of Hollywood, Starring Vin Diesel, Gwynneth Paltrow, William H. Macy, and Kevin Spacey, then it would have been perfect JO fodder, all the way through. Hollywood wouldn't know terror like if it strolled up and whacked Hollywood in the nose. But those Germans, goofy people that they are, seem to have quite the handle on terror.
Go rent The Experiment. I found it in the Doylestown
Who Says Lackluster Blockbuster Videos Doesn't Carry Erotica?
Lookit what I picked up!
The Experiment
A drama based on a real experiment carried out in Palo Alto, California where a group of scientists gathered 20 people and had them carry out a psychological experiment for a cash reward. As part of the research project, the recruits were divided up into prisoners and guards. In a controlled penitentiary-like environment, "Prisoners" are incarcerated and ordered to obey the rules, "Guards" are instructed to keep order. They are thrown head-first into a two-week long examination of the effects of assigned roles, power and control. That's what happens to Tarek, Prisoner # 77, an ex-journalist convinced he will emerge with a fascinating story. At first, the prisoners treat their roles with detached humor and playfulness, and the guards treat theirs with nervous unease. But within hours, small conflicts and petty disputes force all twenty men deeper into their assigned roles. As these trivial skirmishes quickly escalate, the guards must explore any possible means to keep the prisoners in line, without the use of force--but once a revolt erupts, tragedy strikes.
On the box, there was a picture of a guy with duct tape over his mouth. Better believe I was plunkin' down my $4.47 for that one.
Next up is...
The Smashing Machine
It's bloody and brutal. It's simple in concept, savage in execution and a definitive test of survival: one ring, two fighters, and no one is pulling any punches. It's no-holds-barred fighting. Once banned in the U.S., the "sport" has taken on mythic proportions abroad, with thousands of bloodthirsty fans flocking to see gladiators like Mark "the smashing machine" Kerr beat each other to a bloody pulp. Kerr grew up aspiring for glory in free style wrestling, but became a legend as the world's top fighter. He's king of the hill in the most brutal sport on earth. But the scars on his body are nothing compared to those he carries inside. Today, to stay on top, Mark will do whatever it takes to gain a winning edge. THE SMASHING MACHINE is a raw and engrossing documentary, a visceral portrait of a man willing to sacrifice his relationships, his health -- and nearly his life -- to stay on top.
Sweeeet.
Last night I watched the second half of Kubrick's last film, Eyes Wide Shut. I kinda had trouble keeping my eyes open. It was like an episode of Seinfeld. Nothing happened. Although unlike Seinfeld, nothing happened again and again and again for two hours. Oh. Except some rooms were lit in blue lights and some rooms were lit in red lights. I tried to figure out what this meant (I have a Bachelor's degree in English!) but I was stumped.
Somehow I think these two will get my juices flowing.
Lookit what I picked up!
The Experiment
A drama based on a real experiment carried out in Palo Alto, California where a group of scientists gathered 20 people and had them carry out a psychological experiment for a cash reward. As part of the research project, the recruits were divided up into prisoners and guards. In a controlled penitentiary-like environment, "Prisoners" are incarcerated and ordered to obey the rules, "Guards" are instructed to keep order. They are thrown head-first into a two-week long examination of the effects of assigned roles, power and control. That's what happens to Tarek, Prisoner # 77, an ex-journalist convinced he will emerge with a fascinating story. At first, the prisoners treat their roles with detached humor and playfulness, and the guards treat theirs with nervous unease. But within hours, small conflicts and petty disputes force all twenty men deeper into their assigned roles. As these trivial skirmishes quickly escalate, the guards must explore any possible means to keep the prisoners in line, without the use of force--but once a revolt erupts, tragedy strikes.
On the box, there was a picture of a guy with duct tape over his mouth. Better believe I was plunkin' down my $4.47 for that one.
Next up is...
The Smashing Machine
It's bloody and brutal. It's simple in concept, savage in execution and a definitive test of survival: one ring, two fighters, and no one is pulling any punches. It's no-holds-barred fighting. Once banned in the U.S., the "sport" has taken on mythic proportions abroad, with thousands of bloodthirsty fans flocking to see gladiators like Mark "the smashing machine" Kerr beat each other to a bloody pulp. Kerr grew up aspiring for glory in free style wrestling, but became a legend as the world's top fighter. He's king of the hill in the most brutal sport on earth. But the scars on his body are nothing compared to those he carries inside. Today, to stay on top, Mark will do whatever it takes to gain a winning edge. THE SMASHING MACHINE is a raw and engrossing documentary, a visceral portrait of a man willing to sacrifice his relationships, his health -- and nearly his life -- to stay on top.
Sweeeet.
Last night I watched the second half of Kubrick's last film, Eyes Wide Shut. I kinda had trouble keeping my eyes open. It was like an episode of Seinfeld. Nothing happened. Although unlike Seinfeld, nothing happened again and again and again for two hours. Oh. Except some rooms were lit in blue lights and some rooms were lit in red lights. I tried to figure out what this meant (I have a Bachelor's degree in English!) but I was stumped.
Somehow I think these two will get my juices flowing.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
But Who Ideas Has And On Similar Drives
This is very cool. Flotsam from the river of internet BDSM. I also received the original German. I'm unsure who (or what) is responsible for the translation, but it's pure poetry. Gives me all kinds of ideas... maybe I'll translate SingleTails into German, then translate it back again.
Does someone feel addressed?
WARRANT OF ARREST: the looked for skinhead (tattoosklave), drives
his nuisance in the region south Germany, in austria and in
Switzerland. (tattoosklave), 1,75m/82kg, with shaved head is, in
skingear to usually find as further camouflages uses (tattoosklave)
an extensive assortment at army uniform. ATTENTION, the convict is
combatready and opposes gladly an arrest - danger of absconding!!!
the looked for is not armed, handcuffs and percussive tools is
rarity. in find-falls is (tattoosklave) to be arrested and for the
remand determined after detailed determination that offense is
(tattoosklave) the execution of sentences to be supplied. does
someone feel addressed? thus I for my part seek to succeed
custodians can and support have nen aufsaessigen skin to determine
and not restrain reliably am always possible everything, but who
ideas has and on something similar drives off can myself times
announce (experience - are not extreme schmerzgoil, so that sm as
an
argument funktioiniert) - has arrest, binds as btm as as top some,
exhaust, (kidnap) (overpower) - to lock up, cell, cage, dungeon,
hole - verhoer, psych. and physical torture, confessions squeeze
off
- punishes, withdrawal, punishing binding, impacts, punishing cell
-
collection of absolute obediently, - knastdrill and armydrill,
obligation routines - degradation, hard labour, stupide activities
- control, forced,.. if someone ideas in addition has or desire
sowas times with me to pull through announces itself is rather
which
for several meets otherwise leaves itself skin to hardly break a
long weekend or like that would be already better. - I look for
actionmaessig only custodians and SKIN! - are in a durable
long-term relationship and wants this also to change - search thus
no 24/7 or like. - thus who has fantasy and rather toward roleplay
as in 0815 sm or ' boring fuck ' is interssiert can times msg'en.
material action desired, in addition, interssiert at goilem idea
exchange.
This is very cool. Flotsam from the river of internet BDSM. I also received the original German. I'm unsure who (or what) is responsible for the translation, but it's pure poetry. Gives me all kinds of ideas... maybe I'll translate SingleTails into German, then translate it back again.
Does someone feel addressed?
WARRANT OF ARREST: the looked for skinhead (tattoosklave), drives
his nuisance in the region south Germany, in austria and in
Switzerland. (tattoosklave), 1,75m/82kg, with shaved head is, in
skingear to usually find as further camouflages uses (tattoosklave)
an extensive assortment at army uniform. ATTENTION, the convict is
combatready and opposes gladly an arrest - danger of absconding!!!
the looked for is not armed, handcuffs and percussive tools is
rarity. in find-falls is (tattoosklave) to be arrested and for the
remand determined after detailed determination that offense is
(tattoosklave) the execution of sentences to be supplied. does
someone feel addressed? thus I for my part seek to succeed
custodians can and support have nen aufsaessigen skin to determine
and not restrain reliably am always possible everything, but who
ideas has and on something similar drives off can myself times
announce (experience - are not extreme schmerzgoil, so that sm as
an
argument funktioiniert) - has arrest, binds as btm as as top some,
exhaust, (kidnap) (overpower) - to lock up, cell, cage, dungeon,
hole - verhoer, psych. and physical torture, confessions squeeze
off
- punishes, withdrawal, punishing binding, impacts, punishing cell
-
collection of absolute obediently, - knastdrill and armydrill,
obligation routines - degradation, hard labour, stupide activities
- control, forced,.. if someone ideas in addition has or desire
sowas times with me to pull through announces itself is rather
which
for several meets otherwise leaves itself skin to hardly break a
long weekend or like that would be already better. - I look for
actionmaessig only custodians and SKIN! - are in a durable
long-term relationship and wants this also to change - search thus
no 24/7 or like. - thus who has fantasy and rather toward roleplay
as in 0815 sm or ' boring fuck ' is interssiert can times msg'en.
material action desired, in addition, interssiert at goilem idea
exchange.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Worked
Oh man. Work is kicking my butt this week. We're working on this job for this hoidy-toidy designer in Connecticut. The desing and finish are pretty dull stuff. But each and every cabinet is crammed with some stupid nonsense thing or other. Every cabinet! It's ridiculous! My partner and I average twenty cabinets a day going through our department. Yesterday, we were able to get through five.
And then there's the weather. It's cold. Today was the first day we saw super-freezing temperatures since I got back from MAL. And it was all of 33. And something always seems to be falling from the sky. Tomorrow's fun precipitation: Snow Showers! All out of movies set in Los Angeles, I'm watching Stanley Kubrick's 'Eyes Wide Shut.' I didn't realize it took place in December. All I keep thinking is 'Tom is under-dressed!' and 'Nicole must be freeeezing in that!' and 'What is he thinking going out without a hat?'
But media is keeping me going. My iPod is in working order again, and I'm reading no less than three books. And these cool movies. And it's a new season of Queer Eye. and I'm cooking up a storm lately. Making some really great stuff. And that's what winter is all about.
Anyway. Time for bed. Got to get a good FIVE AND A HALF HOURS before I work another ten hour day tomorrow.
Oh man. Work is kicking my butt this week. We're working on this job for this hoidy-toidy designer in Connecticut. The desing and finish are pretty dull stuff. But each and every cabinet is crammed with some stupid nonsense thing or other. Every cabinet! It's ridiculous! My partner and I average twenty cabinets a day going through our department. Yesterday, we were able to get through five.
And then there's the weather. It's cold. Today was the first day we saw super-freezing temperatures since I got back from MAL. And it was all of 33. And something always seems to be falling from the sky. Tomorrow's fun precipitation: Snow Showers! All out of movies set in Los Angeles, I'm watching Stanley Kubrick's 'Eyes Wide Shut.' I didn't realize it took place in December. All I keep thinking is 'Tom is under-dressed!' and 'Nicole must be freeeezing in that!' and 'What is he thinking going out without a hat?'
But media is keeping me going. My iPod is in working order again, and I'm reading no less than three books. And these cool movies. And it's a new season of Queer Eye. and I'm cooking up a storm lately. Making some really great stuff. And that's what winter is all about.
Anyway. Time for bed. Got to get a good FIVE AND A HALF HOURS before I work another ten hour day tomorrow.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Clever
Snowbound is going well!
Last night I watched Laurel Canyon (great!) and American Gigolo (I didn't know there was a scene in a leather bar in that movie, and that Richard Gere's character was sexually ambiguous). Tonight will either be Titus ("What's for dinner, honey? I hope it's something the kids like!") or The Salton Sea or Eyes Wide Shut.
Next time I'm snowbound, I should remember how helpful it is watching movies set in LA. More warming than a cheery fire is watching Richard Gere tooling down La Cienega in his merc.
Today I straightened up my room and put in a load of laundry. Whilst unpacking bags from MAL, I came across my handcuffs. I had sort of a Moment with my handcuffs last weekend. I went to toss them in my gear bag, and then wondered how the locking mechanism works. They're really good handcuffs. I bought them from the guys at Stationhouse Leathers, so they're not the cheapo erotica store variety that served us so well back in my ACT UP days. But I've been skooled that you should never use handcuffs that don't have a locking mechanism.
Y'see, if the lock isn't engaged, the handcuffs will get tighter and tighter on the wrist, cutting off circulation. The cheapo erotica store variety have a little lever thing on them, but I didn't remember seeing them on my fancy schmancy Official Law Enforcement Issue pair.
So, there at MAL, I thought they might not have the locking mechanism.
This scene flashed through my mind... I'm putting the cuffs on some hot boy when from across the cigar tent, some guy yells out, "Stop! Those cuffs don't have a locking mechanism! You're risking giving that hot boy nerve damage in his hands! You're an irresponsible Top!"
Well, y'know... Heaven forfend.
So I left my handcuffs in my room.
So today, I interrupted The Straightening Up Of The Room to take a closer look at my handcuffs. I mean, there's gotta be a locking mechanism there, right?
And sure enough, I found it.
There's this little button, flush with the surface of the side of the handcuffs. And on the key, there's a little pin that sticks out the back of the ring. Shur nuff, when the pin pushes the button, the handcuffs lock.
I'll have to practice that operation so I can do it without looking. Then I'll feel all kinds of confident about slapping the cuffs on the proverbial hot boy in the darkened corners of the Bike Stop.
Gosh, aren't handcuffs cool? Once the cuffs are on, there's just no more dispute about who's in control and who's gonna duck his head down as he's loaded into the back of the cruiser. Handcuffs definitely rock.
But only when they come with that crucial locking mechanism.
And now, I'm off to shovel snow.
Snowbound is going well!
Last night I watched Laurel Canyon (great!) and American Gigolo (I didn't know there was a scene in a leather bar in that movie, and that Richard Gere's character was sexually ambiguous). Tonight will either be Titus ("What's for dinner, honey? I hope it's something the kids like!") or The Salton Sea or Eyes Wide Shut.
Next time I'm snowbound, I should remember how helpful it is watching movies set in LA. More warming than a cheery fire is watching Richard Gere tooling down La Cienega in his merc.
Today I straightened up my room and put in a load of laundry. Whilst unpacking bags from MAL, I came across my handcuffs. I had sort of a Moment with my handcuffs last weekend. I went to toss them in my gear bag, and then wondered how the locking mechanism works. They're really good handcuffs. I bought them from the guys at Stationhouse Leathers, so they're not the cheapo erotica store variety that served us so well back in my ACT UP days. But I've been skooled that you should never use handcuffs that don't have a locking mechanism.
Y'see, if the lock isn't engaged, the handcuffs will get tighter and tighter on the wrist, cutting off circulation. The cheapo erotica store variety have a little lever thing on them, but I didn't remember seeing them on my fancy schmancy Official Law Enforcement Issue pair.
So, there at MAL, I thought they might not have the locking mechanism.
This scene flashed through my mind... I'm putting the cuffs on some hot boy when from across the cigar tent, some guy yells out, "Stop! Those cuffs don't have a locking mechanism! You're risking giving that hot boy nerve damage in his hands! You're an irresponsible Top!"
Well, y'know... Heaven forfend.
So I left my handcuffs in my room.
So today, I interrupted The Straightening Up Of The Room to take a closer look at my handcuffs. I mean, there's gotta be a locking mechanism there, right?
And sure enough, I found it.
There's this little button, flush with the surface of the side of the handcuffs. And on the key, there's a little pin that sticks out the back of the ring. Shur nuff, when the pin pushes the button, the handcuffs lock.
I'll have to practice that operation so I can do it without looking. Then I'll feel all kinds of confident about slapping the cuffs on the proverbial hot boy in the darkened corners of the Bike Stop.
Gosh, aren't handcuffs cool? Once the cuffs are on, there's just no more dispute about who's in control and who's gonna duck his head down as he's loaded into the back of the cruiser. Handcuffs definitely rock.
But only when they come with that crucial locking mechanism.
And now, I'm off to shovel snow.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
I'm Back!
The long wait is over. Let's jump right to the FAQs, 'kay?
How's the book?
It's really really good! Is it done yet? No. No, it's not done yet. But I've got some rally good stuff I've written. And, I feel that I've sort of exhausted myself on the subject. There's nothing more I can say. From my standpoint, it's definitive. Complete. Now, I just need to get like a graduate student to type up all my notes. Or... y'know... do that all myself. But I think it's all down hill from here. Thanks for your patience and forbearance in letting me have the time off.
How's work?
Still loving my job. It's so great to be able to lose yourself in what you're doing for eight hours a day. However I'm feeling when I walk in the door, I just start screwing those drawer slides into the cabinets and it all just resolves itself into a pleasant hum of mindful activity.
Here's the Big Funny Moment At Work that you missed. Before the shop shut down for the winter break, my employer, Wuperior Soodcraft, hosted a Christmas Party for all of us.. There was a flyer posted next to the timeclock "inviting" us to come. (Like we had any choice. Missing it would have involved being AWOL from work that day.) So there we all are standing in line to punch out for lunch a few days before. I turn around to my co-workers standing behind me, point to the sign, and say, "Hey guys! Clothing Optional!" Gales of laughter.
Another Big Funny Moment At Work. If'n you want the guys building your new kitchen to think you're an ignoramus, make sure you get the finish 'distressed.' As in, hit with rocks (no, really) and chisels and such so it has a bunch of dents and dings in it. All in an attempt to make your gawdawful McMansion look like the drafty old barn has been in your family for generations rather than thrown up over the course of a weekend the previous winter. So one day, Nightingale is out there pounding on a cabinet with a rock (no, really) the two guys who built the cabinet and the sanders who sanded the cabinet down were watching, their faces showing expressions ranging from disapproval to disgust. I wander over and Nightingale explains to me, "My job today is to distress these cabinets." I offered to help, and I bent down so my face is just inches from the cabinet Nightingale's working on, and I shout, "Daddy drinks because you cry!!!" Gales of laughter ensued.
How's Big?
Currently, my Sir is less than loving being one of San Francisco's top non-profit executives. Having been one of New York City's top non-profit executives, I can commiserate. To get an idea of what he's going through, and what I went through, spend an entire day doing the following: whenever you make eye contact with somebody, ask them to give you $20. The guy at the deli. The woman behind you in line at the ATM. Your domestic partner. Your cat. At the end of the day, when you've fielded all those dry-mouthed-hard-swallow responses, and nobody is picking up when you call anymore, and the fact that you have only 68¢ to show for your efforts and that means you're a bad person, you'll have some idea of what it's like.
I do my utmost to offer my Sir consolation or at least distraction, but at thhe same time, I just have this deep down warm feeling stemming from the fact that I don't have to do that any more.
Back in December, Big and I spent an amazing weekend together. He had an errand to run in the middle of Pennsylvania. As in, out by Williamsport, home of the annual little league world series. I offered to drive. We spent a fun friday night at a kind of hairy hotel in Philadelphia (built over the bus station) (no, really), which included a night at the Bike Stop. Then, we headed up Broad Street to Beautiful Bucks County. I showed my Sir the Starbucks that is the frequent site of my phone calls to him, the building where I work that could be a location shot for The Molly Maguires, and we had a really great dinner at the Raven (no, really). Then, we continued up river, because our lodging for the evening was the reknowned Rainbow Mountain Resort in the heart of the Pocono Mountains.
Oh. My. God.
Unbelievable.
It deserves a trip. At least once. So you can say you did.
The Rainbow Mountain Resort is this sort of this lone gay outpost. The weekend before, they had hosted something their website called a "Bisexual Extravaganza" (I didn't have the stones to ask what that involved). The host was brimming over with salaciousness. The room was itsy bitsy. While the heat kicked on in the room, Big and I headed down to the bar. Earlier that day, on a shopping trip to I. Goldberg's (the place is not to be missed!), I had purchased these rockin' German military tank overalls and a gas mask. Big, who had been wondering what to get me for Christmas ("what do you get for the boy who denies himself nothing?") bought me this really cool looking gun metal gray parka. I briefly considered wearing all three of these for our trip down to thhe bar, but decided that the gas mask would make it hard to drink my beer. (So how much did you pay for your gas mask? I picked mine up for $20. And yes, it included the hose thing and the filter cannister thing.)
Silly me. I thought I'd be the most outrageously attired.
I had heard of the phenomenon, but I'd never actually seen it. And I get around. Y'see, among some straight men, most of whom seem to be big, burly blue collar guys, there's this fetish. They love nothing more in the world than to dress up in these frilly, pretty party dresses, complete with white stockings and mary janes. Think of the shit that Jon Benet Ramsey's psycho parents used to inflict upon her. Now picture a guy who delivers pianos for a living wearing an enormous version of that.
So there were two party girls at the Rainbow Mountain Resort pub that evening. From what I understand, these guys aren't gay. But they hang out in gay bars because the chances that folks are gonna point at them and holler things is less than it would be if they went to the local mall. They had a karaoke contest that night at the pub of the Rainbow Mountain Resort. (Naturally.) (Did you know that the guy who works the karaoke machine is referred to as a "KJ," as in "DJ" only with a "K" instead? Well now you do. And I thought you referred to him as an "Asshole.")
Mebbe you can see where this is going.
Big and I will forever have emblazoned in our minds the image of a 250 pound man wearing a pink party dress, white stockings, and mary janes singing "Just call me angel of the morning" in a base baritone.
But, for most of the time since I went on hiatus back in November, it's been all about missing Big, and Big missing me. Damn these meager five vacation days anyway.
How's your dad?
Okay.
Yeah. Just 'okay.'
There was a meltdown. Sort of. Not of grand proportions or anything.
I forgot what exactly prompted it. (My therapist would probably phrase that as, 'you're blocking what exactly prompted it.') But it just seemed to me that I give and I give and I give. And then I'm asked to give some more. I make dinner. I clean up the kitchen. I fill up the wood box. I keep the fire going. I bring ice cream up from the freezer in the basement. I drop off letters to be mailed. I get the paper. I do his laundry. I clean his bathroom. I vacuum. I straighten. I write the Christmas cards. I change the lightbulbs. I do the shopping. I change the washer to stop the leaky faucet. And I have never, ever been thanked, or told that I'm appreciated for that.
My brother came up from Florida for Christmas, and it was great to be able to commiserate with him. Cuz oh yeah. He and his wife used to come over here, often at the drop of a hat, and do all kinds of crap for my father and step-mother. And not once was a thank you offered. Not once.
Resentment grew. I became terse and vaguely hostile. Every time I heard my father lumbering down the hall ("the lightbulb is burned out back here. Come change it for me?") I would just cringe.
But I made some changes. First off, I have given myself four years. I'm learning to be a cabinet maker. It's like going back to college. And college lasts four years. I'm not sure where I'll go or what I'll do in four years (well, three now), but I'm working towards that point. And secondly, I'm going to the gym. Religiously. It's something I do for me. I think of my home life as a second job. I work all day at Wuperior Soodcraft, then before I go home for the whole make-dinner-clean-up-fill-up-the-wookbox deal, I go to the gym. I spend as much time there as I need and want to. I enjoy the steam room. I shave my head.
And I heard this thing on public radio. It was an interview with Rachel Simon who had written a book called 'Riding The Bus With My Sister.' She describes how she took a year off from her life as a journalist to spend time with her developmentally disabled sister, Beth. Beth spends her days riding the buses in Philadelphia. One day, after what you might call 'an episode,' Rachel is talking to a bus driver. The bus driver, who knows Beth pretty well from having her as a passenger every day, tells her that when something like this happens, it's never about Beth, it's always about you.
It's never about my father. It's always about me.
My father is who he is. I have no control over who he is. I'd like to have a dad like the ones you see in LL Bean ads, resplendent in fleece vest, natty chinos, and mucklucks. But I don't.
But what I do have (some) control over is how I respond to this. I can go out under the night sky shake my fist at the stars, shaking with fury at the man. I can become an alcoholic. I can sink into a deep depression and not get out of bed. Whatever. It won't change my dad.
Or, I can just do what I have to do. Make dinner. Clean up the kitchen. Fill up the wood box. Tend the fire. Change the lightbulbs. All the rest of it. You gotta do what you gotta do, as they used to say on the Little Rascals.
"Two men looked out from prison bars, one saw the sand, one saw the stars." My grandmother used to say that. So when I go out under the nighttime sky, it's not to shake my fist in fury. Faithful Companion, the Great Fierce Hunter Of Field Mice, is there with me, and I let myself be filled with awe at the beauty of the stars, trying to pick out the constellations I know. Orion. Cassiopeia. Cephas. Pegasus. Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Hydra.
Then I go back to the house. I bring in another load of firewood. I hit 'Start' on the dishwasher. I load up the fire with wood so it will keep burning overnight. I turn on the hall light and stick my head in and say 'goodnight' to my father.
How were the holidays?
Really cool.
My brother and his wife came up from Florida. We got together as a family to celebrate Christmas on Tuesday, December 21st. Now, my sister-in-law is a vegan. (You know how I feel about people with food issues.) I was making dinner for the four of us. She was bringing her tofurkey (gag), and I would leave the butter out of the sweet potatoes or something.
But no.
I like a challenge, and I decided to make an All Vegan Christmas Feast. The goal was Yummy And Tasty And Nothing On The Table That She Couldn't Eat.
So what did I make? Well, fettuccine en croque with white beans and red peppers sauced with roasted shallots and soy milk cream, a souffle of acorn squash and chestnuts with walnuts and sage, and red cabbage sautee with orange zest and anise.
Oh. My. God.
It totally rocked. It was really really good. And she and my brother deeply appreciated the gesture.
And it was great to have my brother around. We spent a lot of time together during the week he was here. Going to the gym. Having dinner. We're closer than we've ever been.
You've got to give to get. I guess that's the lesson there. My brother needed help with the packing and the moving, and I came through for him. And, when he and his wife were feeling the stress of The Move ("Why did you put the coffee maker in one box and the pot that goes with it in a different box???!!! It will take us weeks to find both of them!! And we won't have coffee during all that time!! What's the matter with you??? Are you Insane???!!"), I did my best to talk him through it ("You're both under a lot of pressure right now. It's a very stressful thing. But it will all be over. It has an end.")
On Christmas Day proper, my father and I drove over to spend the day with my sister-in-law's family. We'll refer to that clan as Not My Relatives. It can be really great spending a holiday with Not My Relatives. Like watching a natural disaster unfold but not being touched by it. Seeing a devastating avalanche from a helicopter. Watching a thunderstorm from the covered porch of your cabin. Not My Relatives featured a brother who is a diehard Rush Limbaugh dittohead. He opted to say the Grace, and when he segued into thanking the Almighty for the securing for our nation four more years of the kingship of Christ through the person of George W. Bush, I thought about walking out or standing up and turning my back and having this sort of long-suffering but dignified expression on my face. But hey, these people are Not My Relatives. And then there was the part where mom took my father's coat and threw it out in the back yard because it smelled like cigars (no, really). But, y'know, Not My Relatives.
But probably the best was New Years' Eve. I headed down to the Bike Stop. My pocket loaded up with some nice Romeo y Julieta maduros. The place was jumpin'. I spent the whole night chatting with guys I knew, exchanging best wishes for 2005. Standing around, talking, flirting, smoking cigars, drinking beer. I was glad to see them, they were glad to see me.
Damn.
I haven't felt like this since the LURE closed on April 19th, 2003.
I found it. Community. A circle of brothers. The bonds of friendship with fellow leathermen. I'm home. I am at home here. I live here now. These are my people. I'm not alone out here in the hinterlands.
New Years' resolution?
Oh yeah.
I love New Years' resolutions! So here it is for 2005: Take care of business.
Y'see, there's these things that I've gotta do. Clear out the garage. Have the benign fistula taken off my dog's butt. Get to the dentist (I'm kinda gonna replace getting the tattoo work done with having my teeth worked on; the same thing when you think about it). Finances in check. Get to the gym. Take care of business. Just because I'm sleeping in my childhood bedroom doesn't mean that I can abnegate all of these adult responsibilities.
So that's what it's gonna be all about this year.
How was MAL?
Best. MAL. Ever.
Ever!
From the moment I got there until I headed out Mass Ave to Rte. 50 to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway to home, it was golden. Just absolutely golden. So many sweet moments in the lobby and the cigar tent. Just perfectly paced. I love and I am loved. I'm so secure in that. Every time I turned around it was to fall into the ever lovin' arms of a wonderful man who missed me and was so glad to see me, and who I loved missed, and was so glad to see.
That's as close as we get to come to heaven on this earth.
"Hey!"
"Hey!!! Hello!"
"Wow, great to see you! You look great!"
You hug, your body melts against his, his arms enfold you, you hold him, your eyes meet, all smiles, you kiss, with tongues. Geez, you think, he's such a great guy. You talk, touching. Catch up. What's been going on.
I am brought to life, redeemed, and sustained by the love of my brothers. (And sisters!)
And... and... Oh man, this is soooo cool. You gotta here this.
So several weeks ago, on WorldLeathermen, I run across the profile of this guy with the handle Deputy Hunter. It turns out that he was part of the folks that brought us the Academy videos.
Longtime careful readers of SingleTails will recall that the only erotic video I've ever spent money on was made by the Academy. I love Academy videos. No fucking and sucking (what do I want to watch that for? I know how that works.), just men in uniforms handcuffing each other, beating on each other, throwing each other into cells. All with some thin make-it-up-as-you-go plot.
Well, it turns out that the man who was the mastermind of the Academy series is no longer with us. (Of Blessed Memory.) But Deputy Hunter and a couple of the other guys involved have started a new venture called Be Forced, Inc. I went to their website, and whilst tooling around there, I clicked on a link about how they were recruiting. There was this lengthy questionnaire to fill out. Things were going great with the questionnaire until I got to a question along the lines of, 'Do you have facial hair? Would you be willing to lose it?' Uh... that would be a Yes and a No. Dang. Be Forced is all about cops and military, and there ain't nobody in law enforcement or the armed forces with a stache like mine. Dang.
Oh well.
But then, a week or so before MAL, I got this email that Be Forced would be down at MAL meeting with potential recruits, and giving me a phone number to call.
I am so ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille!
I knew that my Friend and Former Landlord was going to be at MAL, and I thought that he might be interested in Be Forced as an investment opportunity. And what better way to show up for an audition than with a guy with his checkbook at your side? So, on Saturday afternoon, I met up with Friend and Former Landlord, we made the call, and went to meet up with the Be Forced Krew at their suite.
I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I wasn't expecting them to be such nice guys. I mean, they were really great. Warm, friendly, open. Guys I'd like to hang with. So we smoked cigars and talked, I did my best to lay out what I thought I could offer. How I definitely wasn't in it for the money, but that what always impressed me about the Academy stuff was that the guys in the vids seemed to be having such a good time. I talked about my skills with the whip, and my chain bondage expertise, and how that it's not uncommon when I bottom for me to cry like a little bitch. And no, I wouldn't mind doing that on camera. Any of it.
After I had said my piece, I kinda turned things over to Friend and Former Landlord. Then the torture scene began, as Friend and Former Landlord began to pepper them with all those hard questions. They all retired to the next room to talk about the money end of the operation, while I stayed behind with some of the other potential recruits. (Also really good guys.)
Presently, the group returned. It seemed to me that things had gone pretty well.
So then, one of the Be Forced men says to me, "So you're pretty good with a whip, huh?"
"I am very good with a whip," I replied.
"I'd kinda like a taste of that," he says, and this beautiful man doffs his shirt, turns around, and presents to me this beautiful, broad, muscular back.
Better believe I jumped right the fuck in on that opportunity. Immediately, my whip was dancing across his back, teasing, connecting, moving in, holding back...
There was this weird thing though where half the guys in the room grabbed their cell phones...
"Who the fuck are they calling?" I wondered.
Silly me! Although I've always been an early adapter, my reduced financial circumstances seems to have made me a technological laggard. They were all getting video of me on their cell phones.
The man I was whipping asked for one really good one. And CRACK, I gave it to him. It left a beautiful, white hot stripe right in the middle of his bright red back.
So I think the audition went pretty well.
I would love to be in a Be Forced video. That would be such a blast. I sincerely hope they can find a role for me to take on.
And was that the highlight of the weekend? Close, but not quite. On Sunday night, hanging out in the lobby, I met this guy from LA. He was wearing a black tshirt that said 'Edge Play' in relatively small letters over his left pec. We started talking. And talking and talking and talking. Covering the waterfront. Especially those dangerous and dark areas that you'll find down there. I hadn't eaten, and I was keenly interested in taking care of that. We decided that room service at his hotel would probably be just what I needed.
And after dinner, there was dessert. For dessert, I decided to forgo the crème brûlée and opt instead for a mind-blowing edge play scene like I have never before experienced or imagined. Un. Be. Lievable. Wearing leather gloves, and armed only with fists and a trusty knife, we went hunting for the demons lurking down the dark corridors and passageways of the obscure recesses of each others subconscious minds. We passed off the role of pointman by exchanging the pair of gloves we had, and were at it unto the wee hours of the morning.
This SM thing? It really rocks.
...and so with that, I'll close. For now. SingleTails is back.
The long wait is over. Let's jump right to the FAQs, 'kay?
How's the book?
It's really really good! Is it done yet? No. No, it's not done yet. But I've got some rally good stuff I've written. And, I feel that I've sort of exhausted myself on the subject. There's nothing more I can say. From my standpoint, it's definitive. Complete. Now, I just need to get like a graduate student to type up all my notes. Or... y'know... do that all myself. But I think it's all down hill from here. Thanks for your patience and forbearance in letting me have the time off.
How's work?
Still loving my job. It's so great to be able to lose yourself in what you're doing for eight hours a day. However I'm feeling when I walk in the door, I just start screwing those drawer slides into the cabinets and it all just resolves itself into a pleasant hum of mindful activity.
Here's the Big Funny Moment At Work that you missed. Before the shop shut down for the winter break, my employer, Wuperior Soodcraft, hosted a Christmas Party for all of us.. There was a flyer posted next to the timeclock "inviting" us to come. (Like we had any choice. Missing it would have involved being AWOL from work that day.) So there we all are standing in line to punch out for lunch a few days before. I turn around to my co-workers standing behind me, point to the sign, and say, "Hey guys! Clothing Optional!" Gales of laughter.
Another Big Funny Moment At Work. If'n you want the guys building your new kitchen to think you're an ignoramus, make sure you get the finish 'distressed.' As in, hit with rocks (no, really) and chisels and such so it has a bunch of dents and dings in it. All in an attempt to make your gawdawful McMansion look like the drafty old barn has been in your family for generations rather than thrown up over the course of a weekend the previous winter. So one day, Nightingale is out there pounding on a cabinet with a rock (no, really) the two guys who built the cabinet and the sanders who sanded the cabinet down were watching, their faces showing expressions ranging from disapproval to disgust. I wander over and Nightingale explains to me, "My job today is to distress these cabinets." I offered to help, and I bent down so my face is just inches from the cabinet Nightingale's working on, and I shout, "Daddy drinks because you cry!!!" Gales of laughter ensued.
How's Big?
Currently, my Sir is less than loving being one of San Francisco's top non-profit executives. Having been one of New York City's top non-profit executives, I can commiserate. To get an idea of what he's going through, and what I went through, spend an entire day doing the following: whenever you make eye contact with somebody, ask them to give you $20. The guy at the deli. The woman behind you in line at the ATM. Your domestic partner. Your cat. At the end of the day, when you've fielded all those dry-mouthed-hard-swallow responses, and nobody is picking up when you call anymore, and the fact that you have only 68¢ to show for your efforts and that means you're a bad person, you'll have some idea of what it's like.
I do my utmost to offer my Sir consolation or at least distraction, but at thhe same time, I just have this deep down warm feeling stemming from the fact that I don't have to do that any more.
Back in December, Big and I spent an amazing weekend together. He had an errand to run in the middle of Pennsylvania. As in, out by Williamsport, home of the annual little league world series. I offered to drive. We spent a fun friday night at a kind of hairy hotel in Philadelphia (built over the bus station) (no, really), which included a night at the Bike Stop. Then, we headed up Broad Street to Beautiful Bucks County. I showed my Sir the Starbucks that is the frequent site of my phone calls to him, the building where I work that could be a location shot for The Molly Maguires, and we had a really great dinner at the Raven (no, really). Then, we continued up river, because our lodging for the evening was the reknowned Rainbow Mountain Resort in the heart of the Pocono Mountains.
Oh. My. God.
Unbelievable.
It deserves a trip. At least once. So you can say you did.
The Rainbow Mountain Resort is this sort of this lone gay outpost. The weekend before, they had hosted something their website called a "Bisexual Extravaganza" (I didn't have the stones to ask what that involved). The host was brimming over with salaciousness. The room was itsy bitsy. While the heat kicked on in the room, Big and I headed down to the bar. Earlier that day, on a shopping trip to I. Goldberg's (the place is not to be missed!), I had purchased these rockin' German military tank overalls and a gas mask. Big, who had been wondering what to get me for Christmas ("what do you get for the boy who denies himself nothing?") bought me this really cool looking gun metal gray parka. I briefly considered wearing all three of these for our trip down to thhe bar, but decided that the gas mask would make it hard to drink my beer. (So how much did you pay for your gas mask? I picked mine up for $20. And yes, it included the hose thing and the filter cannister thing.)
Silly me. I thought I'd be the most outrageously attired.
I had heard of the phenomenon, but I'd never actually seen it. And I get around. Y'see, among some straight men, most of whom seem to be big, burly blue collar guys, there's this fetish. They love nothing more in the world than to dress up in these frilly, pretty party dresses, complete with white stockings and mary janes. Think of the shit that Jon Benet Ramsey's psycho parents used to inflict upon her. Now picture a guy who delivers pianos for a living wearing an enormous version of that.
So there were two party girls at the Rainbow Mountain Resort pub that evening. From what I understand, these guys aren't gay. But they hang out in gay bars because the chances that folks are gonna point at them and holler things is less than it would be if they went to the local mall. They had a karaoke contest that night at the pub of the Rainbow Mountain Resort. (Naturally.) (Did you know that the guy who works the karaoke machine is referred to as a "KJ," as in "DJ" only with a "K" instead? Well now you do. And I thought you referred to him as an "Asshole.")
Mebbe you can see where this is going.
Big and I will forever have emblazoned in our minds the image of a 250 pound man wearing a pink party dress, white stockings, and mary janes singing "Just call me angel of the morning" in a base baritone.
But, for most of the time since I went on hiatus back in November, it's been all about missing Big, and Big missing me. Damn these meager five vacation days anyway.
How's your dad?
Okay.
Yeah. Just 'okay.'
There was a meltdown. Sort of. Not of grand proportions or anything.
I forgot what exactly prompted it. (My therapist would probably phrase that as, 'you're blocking what exactly prompted it.') But it just seemed to me that I give and I give and I give. And then I'm asked to give some more. I make dinner. I clean up the kitchen. I fill up the wood box. I keep the fire going. I bring ice cream up from the freezer in the basement. I drop off letters to be mailed. I get the paper. I do his laundry. I clean his bathroom. I vacuum. I straighten. I write the Christmas cards. I change the lightbulbs. I do the shopping. I change the washer to stop the leaky faucet. And I have never, ever been thanked, or told that I'm appreciated for that.
My brother came up from Florida for Christmas, and it was great to be able to commiserate with him. Cuz oh yeah. He and his wife used to come over here, often at the drop of a hat, and do all kinds of crap for my father and step-mother. And not once was a thank you offered. Not once.
Resentment grew. I became terse and vaguely hostile. Every time I heard my father lumbering down the hall ("the lightbulb is burned out back here. Come change it for me?") I would just cringe.
But I made some changes. First off, I have given myself four years. I'm learning to be a cabinet maker. It's like going back to college. And college lasts four years. I'm not sure where I'll go or what I'll do in four years (well, three now), but I'm working towards that point. And secondly, I'm going to the gym. Religiously. It's something I do for me. I think of my home life as a second job. I work all day at Wuperior Soodcraft, then before I go home for the whole make-dinner-clean-up-fill-up-the-wookbox deal, I go to the gym. I spend as much time there as I need and want to. I enjoy the steam room. I shave my head.
And I heard this thing on public radio. It was an interview with Rachel Simon who had written a book called 'Riding The Bus With My Sister.' She describes how she took a year off from her life as a journalist to spend time with her developmentally disabled sister, Beth. Beth spends her days riding the buses in Philadelphia. One day, after what you might call 'an episode,' Rachel is talking to a bus driver. The bus driver, who knows Beth pretty well from having her as a passenger every day, tells her that when something like this happens, it's never about Beth, it's always about you.
It's never about my father. It's always about me.
My father is who he is. I have no control over who he is. I'd like to have a dad like the ones you see in LL Bean ads, resplendent in fleece vest, natty chinos, and mucklucks. But I don't.
But what I do have (some) control over is how I respond to this. I can go out under the night sky shake my fist at the stars, shaking with fury at the man. I can become an alcoholic. I can sink into a deep depression and not get out of bed. Whatever. It won't change my dad.
Or, I can just do what I have to do. Make dinner. Clean up the kitchen. Fill up the wood box. Tend the fire. Change the lightbulbs. All the rest of it. You gotta do what you gotta do, as they used to say on the Little Rascals.
"Two men looked out from prison bars, one saw the sand, one saw the stars." My grandmother used to say that. So when I go out under the nighttime sky, it's not to shake my fist in fury. Faithful Companion, the Great Fierce Hunter Of Field Mice, is there with me, and I let myself be filled with awe at the beauty of the stars, trying to pick out the constellations I know. Orion. Cassiopeia. Cephas. Pegasus. Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Hydra.
Then I go back to the house. I bring in another load of firewood. I hit 'Start' on the dishwasher. I load up the fire with wood so it will keep burning overnight. I turn on the hall light and stick my head in and say 'goodnight' to my father.
How were the holidays?
Really cool.
My brother and his wife came up from Florida. We got together as a family to celebrate Christmas on Tuesday, December 21st. Now, my sister-in-law is a vegan. (You know how I feel about people with food issues.) I was making dinner for the four of us. She was bringing her tofurkey (gag), and I would leave the butter out of the sweet potatoes or something.
But no.
I like a challenge, and I decided to make an All Vegan Christmas Feast. The goal was Yummy And Tasty And Nothing On The Table That She Couldn't Eat.
So what did I make? Well, fettuccine en croque with white beans and red peppers sauced with roasted shallots and soy milk cream, a souffle of acorn squash and chestnuts with walnuts and sage, and red cabbage sautee with orange zest and anise.
Oh. My. God.
It totally rocked. It was really really good. And she and my brother deeply appreciated the gesture.
And it was great to have my brother around. We spent a lot of time together during the week he was here. Going to the gym. Having dinner. We're closer than we've ever been.
You've got to give to get. I guess that's the lesson there. My brother needed help with the packing and the moving, and I came through for him. And, when he and his wife were feeling the stress of The Move ("Why did you put the coffee maker in one box and the pot that goes with it in a different box???!!! It will take us weeks to find both of them!! And we won't have coffee during all that time!! What's the matter with you??? Are you Insane???!!"), I did my best to talk him through it ("You're both under a lot of pressure right now. It's a very stressful thing. But it will all be over. It has an end.")
On Christmas Day proper, my father and I drove over to spend the day with my sister-in-law's family. We'll refer to that clan as Not My Relatives. It can be really great spending a holiday with Not My Relatives. Like watching a natural disaster unfold but not being touched by it. Seeing a devastating avalanche from a helicopter. Watching a thunderstorm from the covered porch of your cabin. Not My Relatives featured a brother who is a diehard Rush Limbaugh dittohead. He opted to say the Grace, and when he segued into thanking the Almighty for the securing for our nation four more years of the kingship of Christ through the person of George W. Bush, I thought about walking out or standing up and turning my back and having this sort of long-suffering but dignified expression on my face. But hey, these people are Not My Relatives. And then there was the part where mom took my father's coat and threw it out in the back yard because it smelled like cigars (no, really). But, y'know, Not My Relatives.
But probably the best was New Years' Eve. I headed down to the Bike Stop. My pocket loaded up with some nice Romeo y Julieta maduros. The place was jumpin'. I spent the whole night chatting with guys I knew, exchanging best wishes for 2005. Standing around, talking, flirting, smoking cigars, drinking beer. I was glad to see them, they were glad to see me.
Damn.
I haven't felt like this since the LURE closed on April 19th, 2003.
I found it. Community. A circle of brothers. The bonds of friendship with fellow leathermen. I'm home. I am at home here. I live here now. These are my people. I'm not alone out here in the hinterlands.
New Years' resolution?
Oh yeah.
I love New Years' resolutions! So here it is for 2005: Take care of business.
Y'see, there's these things that I've gotta do. Clear out the garage. Have the benign fistula taken off my dog's butt. Get to the dentist (I'm kinda gonna replace getting the tattoo work done with having my teeth worked on; the same thing when you think about it). Finances in check. Get to the gym. Take care of business. Just because I'm sleeping in my childhood bedroom doesn't mean that I can abnegate all of these adult responsibilities.
So that's what it's gonna be all about this year.
How was MAL?
Best. MAL. Ever.
Ever!
From the moment I got there until I headed out Mass Ave to Rte. 50 to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway to home, it was golden. Just absolutely golden. So many sweet moments in the lobby and the cigar tent. Just perfectly paced. I love and I am loved. I'm so secure in that. Every time I turned around it was to fall into the ever lovin' arms of a wonderful man who missed me and was so glad to see me, and who I loved missed, and was so glad to see.
That's as close as we get to come to heaven on this earth.
"Hey!"
"Hey!!! Hello!"
"Wow, great to see you! You look great!"
You hug, your body melts against his, his arms enfold you, you hold him, your eyes meet, all smiles, you kiss, with tongues. Geez, you think, he's such a great guy. You talk, touching. Catch up. What's been going on.
I am brought to life, redeemed, and sustained by the love of my brothers. (And sisters!)
And... and... Oh man, this is soooo cool. You gotta here this.
So several weeks ago, on WorldLeathermen, I run across the profile of this guy with the handle Deputy Hunter. It turns out that he was part of the folks that brought us the Academy videos.
Longtime careful readers of SingleTails will recall that the only erotic video I've ever spent money on was made by the Academy. I love Academy videos. No fucking and sucking (what do I want to watch that for? I know how that works.), just men in uniforms handcuffing each other, beating on each other, throwing each other into cells. All with some thin make-it-up-as-you-go plot.
Well, it turns out that the man who was the mastermind of the Academy series is no longer with us. (Of Blessed Memory.) But Deputy Hunter and a couple of the other guys involved have started a new venture called Be Forced, Inc. I went to their website, and whilst tooling around there, I clicked on a link about how they were recruiting. There was this lengthy questionnaire to fill out. Things were going great with the questionnaire until I got to a question along the lines of, 'Do you have facial hair? Would you be willing to lose it?' Uh... that would be a Yes and a No. Dang. Be Forced is all about cops and military, and there ain't nobody in law enforcement or the armed forces with a stache like mine. Dang.
Oh well.
But then, a week or so before MAL, I got this email that Be Forced would be down at MAL meeting with potential recruits, and giving me a phone number to call.
I am so ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille!
I knew that my Friend and Former Landlord was going to be at MAL, and I thought that he might be interested in Be Forced as an investment opportunity. And what better way to show up for an audition than with a guy with his checkbook at your side? So, on Saturday afternoon, I met up with Friend and Former Landlord, we made the call, and went to meet up with the Be Forced Krew at their suite.
I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I wasn't expecting them to be such nice guys. I mean, they were really great. Warm, friendly, open. Guys I'd like to hang with. So we smoked cigars and talked, I did my best to lay out what I thought I could offer. How I definitely wasn't in it for the money, but that what always impressed me about the Academy stuff was that the guys in the vids seemed to be having such a good time. I talked about my skills with the whip, and my chain bondage expertise, and how that it's not uncommon when I bottom for me to cry like a little bitch. And no, I wouldn't mind doing that on camera. Any of it.
After I had said my piece, I kinda turned things over to Friend and Former Landlord. Then the torture scene began, as Friend and Former Landlord began to pepper them with all those hard questions. They all retired to the next room to talk about the money end of the operation, while I stayed behind with some of the other potential recruits. (Also really good guys.)
Presently, the group returned. It seemed to me that things had gone pretty well.
So then, one of the Be Forced men says to me, "So you're pretty good with a whip, huh?"
"I am very good with a whip," I replied.
"I'd kinda like a taste of that," he says, and this beautiful man doffs his shirt, turns around, and presents to me this beautiful, broad, muscular back.
Better believe I jumped right the fuck in on that opportunity. Immediately, my whip was dancing across his back, teasing, connecting, moving in, holding back...
There was this weird thing though where half the guys in the room grabbed their cell phones...
"Who the fuck are they calling?" I wondered.
Silly me! Although I've always been an early adapter, my reduced financial circumstances seems to have made me a technological laggard. They were all getting video of me on their cell phones.
The man I was whipping asked for one really good one. And CRACK, I gave it to him. It left a beautiful, white hot stripe right in the middle of his bright red back.
So I think the audition went pretty well.
I would love to be in a Be Forced video. That would be such a blast. I sincerely hope they can find a role for me to take on.
And was that the highlight of the weekend? Close, but not quite. On Sunday night, hanging out in the lobby, I met this guy from LA. He was wearing a black tshirt that said 'Edge Play' in relatively small letters over his left pec. We started talking. And talking and talking and talking. Covering the waterfront. Especially those dangerous and dark areas that you'll find down there. I hadn't eaten, and I was keenly interested in taking care of that. We decided that room service at his hotel would probably be just what I needed.
And after dinner, there was dessert. For dessert, I decided to forgo the crème brûlée and opt instead for a mind-blowing edge play scene like I have never before experienced or imagined. Un. Be. Lievable. Wearing leather gloves, and armed only with fists and a trusty knife, we went hunting for the demons lurking down the dark corridors and passageways of the obscure recesses of each others subconscious minds. We passed off the role of pointman by exchanging the pair of gloves we had, and were at it unto the wee hours of the morning.
This SM thing? It really rocks.
...and so with that, I'll close. For now. SingleTails is back.
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