Mix It Up
(Scene: Somewhere on the Astral Plane)
God: All set for your trip?
Me: I guess I am... I mean...
God: Okay. I just want to give you an idea of what you'll be running into down there.
Me: Great! I'm pretty excited about this.
God: Well first off, I should let you know up front that you're going to be gay.
Me: Gay? Really? Gosh...
God: Have a problem with that?
Me: Not if you don't, but...
God: But what?
Me: Okay. If I'm gonna be gay, then I want a fourteen inch dick.
God: Nope. Standard six.
Me: No way! I'll never get laid! Okay. Eleven.
God: No. You're getting six.
Me: Nine.
God: No! Are you arguing with me?
Me: Well, it's just that I don't want to be... ...overlooked.
God: You won't be. I'll give you a quick wit.
Me: A big help that'll be. And a great body?
God: I'll tell you what. Just because I like you: you can eat everything you want and not gain an ounce.
Me: Okay. That's cool.
God: Don't be too grateful. You can also work out all you want and never gain an inch on your biceps.
Me: Why are you doing this to me?
God: Because I like things to be interesting.
Me: Oh my God. I...
God: Please don't do that.
Me: Do what?
God: Spit out my name like that. I hate that. I really hate that. I wrote it on a mountain once. I hear my name called and I drop what I'm doing and check it out, one of my children in anguish or something. And what do I find? Somebody found knock-off Pradas for $20. Pisses me off every time. Don't expect a good parking space after you do that.
Me: I'll remember that.
God: No, actually you won't.
Me: So anyway. Happy childhood?
God: Not too shabby. You're growing up in a beautiful part of the world. Oh. I've gotta make sure you look good in black.
Me: Why black?
God: Because you'll be going to a lot of funerals.
Me: What? Whose?
God: Some of your mothers.
Me: Will I be an orphan?
God: Oh you'd just love all that drama, wouldn't you? No. Just mothers. And grandparents.
Me: That's an awful childhood! I don't want that! Will I be spoiled at least?
God: You'll have a lot of love coming your way. And wait till you meet your paternal grandmother. She'll like you the best.
Me: How about adolescence? What's in the plan there?
God: Do the words "pizza face" mean anything to you?
Me: Acne? I'm going to have acne? Why? I'll be scarred for life.
God: Because you're actually going to be pretty good looking, and I don't want it to go to your head.
Me: Okay. Do I find true love? Will I find my soulmate? Someone to share my life with?
God: Actually, you'll be lucky when you find someone to share your weekend with.
Me: Your kidding me, right? You call this a life?
God: Like I said, I like to mix it up some. Keeps things interesting.
Me: Interesting to you is turmoil for me. Has that dawned on you?
God: It won't be that bad. Take a look. Here's some of the hotties you'll be hanging with.
Me: Wow. Whoa! That one is nice. Do I get much time with him?
God: Uhhh... Lemme see. No. He gets all whiney because you go to a movie he doesn't like and so you don't return his calls.
Me: How about him? He looks great.
God: Oh yeah. I'm definitely being generous to you there. He's great. You're gonna have a whole summer with him.
Me: What happens in September?
God: Let's move on, shall we?
Me: Alright. I have a request.
God: Let's hear it.
Me: If I'm gonna be gay, I want to be a Top.
God: Thank you! Thank you for mentioning that to me. I keep forgetting to make them Tops. It's all out of whack down there. Yes. You can be a Top.
Me: Great! Thanks, God!
God: Although... (murmuring while taking notes) include a double order of empathy and heavy on the self-doubt.
Me: What was that?
God: Oh, I was just remembering something I have to do for later.
Me: So will I do great things?
God: I've got some pretty good ones lined up for you. You'll be leaving My creation better than you found it in a number of ways. Of course, most of the time you won't realize that.
Me: I sound like kind of a dweeb...
God: No. You will definitely not be a dweeb. Well, maybe in junior high school. Yeah. Then it's definitely dweeb.
Me: Is it going to be a hard life?
God: I tell the same thing to everybody: it's as hard as you want to make it.
Me: Gotcha. I'll remember that.
God: You definitely won't. Well, sometimes you'll remember that.
Me: Will I be famous?
God: (laughing) I got really creative here. I'm actually pretty pleased with myself on that score.
Me: So you're saying...
God: Your best moments will end up right on the cutting room floor.
Me: God! C'mon!
God: I'm sorry. But I can't help myself. This is going to be great. My advice to you is not to care too much about that.
Me: So what else is in store for me?
God: What can I tell you at this point... Some great dogs, some great friends, risking death two... three... four times. Before it's for real.
Me: Wow!
God: Yeah. Just to keep you honest. And let's see what else. What have I given you in terms of skills... let's see. Public speaking. An eye for beauty. Good with words. A poet's soul--y'know I'm stingy with that last one. Great at throwing a whip...
Me: And that will help me how?
God: Let's just say it will give you an opportunity to remember what you're leaving behind while you're down there.
Me: How...? Why...?
God: You'll see. And, I'm giving you a lot of insight. People in your life will rely on you for that.
Me: Great. So I'll be a hit at cocktail parties, won't I?
God: Don't be so negative! Although as a matter of fact, you will.
Me: Okay. So we've covered death, acne, obscurity... How about some of the good stuff in store for me. If there is any.
God: Of course there is! The part when you're in the Nevada desert under the stars! You'll love that! And when you're ten, you're going to have your first brush with lycanthropy. Oh, and when Starbucks gets going, things will really look up for you. And in the 'early sexual experiences' department, you're totally lucking out. And great dogs you'll have! And when you and this guy fall asleep in an olive grove, and you wake up in the morning and see the sun rise... I love how you cry for that one. And after you give birth to your first child, you'll be back on the modeling circuit in a matter of weeks...
Me: What???!!!
God: Oops. My mistake. That last one was for someone named Yasmine LeBon. She's going down the same chute that you are. Yup. Same birthday. October 29, 1964.
Me: So overall, I'll have a good time?
God: I'll just say this. When the time arrives for you to come home... well, some people are more than ready. Some people are ready to go years before they do. But not with you. When you realize what's going down, you'll have to take a moment to prepare. Because you won't want it to end.
Me: Why? Because I'll be nineteen years old or something?
God: No, because of all the sweetness and the joy that you'll know, year after year after year.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Thursday, August 18, 2005
My Stalker
Okay. Starbucks today. I roll in and there's Farmer Guy! ('Member him? Queer. Hot. From SF. Moved back here, like me, at the death of a parent. Works to support himself by doing organic farming.) It's been a while since I've seen Farmer Guy. And as usual, he was an eyeful. Deeply tan from all that work out in the sun, wearing a wife beater and plaid shorts. We got our coffee drinks and repaired to the porch. And chatted up a storm. Catching up.
He said something like "great running into you," and I went off on a riff: "Well go figure! I'm here every day, monday through friday, from 4 pm to 6 pm. I would be so easy to stalk? Why do I not have a stalker? I'm such a creature of routine. I'm perfect for stalking."
Without looking at me, a slight smile on his lips, eyes fixed on the middle distance, Farmer Guy said, "Yeah. Calling ahead to Starbucks and asking if you were there. Carmelita would always give me the word. Usually you had fallen asleep reading your book when I got there. But then you wrecked the whole thing by asking if you wanted me to go to the movies. You can't stalk somebody who's asking you to go to the movies."
Right.
Right...
I asked him to go to thhe movies with me. He basically said that he was busy. As in always. And I took it as a not interested. For whatever reason.
So this is kooky. Farmer Guy was not only returning my keen interest, but was stalking me. But wanted to keep me at a distance.
And I get that.
We both live in thhis weird netherworld. We're spoken for, although not in a way we'd like. The future is indefinite. I do the same thing. Delighting in the company of the boys of summer at Starbucks, sucking face with guys at the Bike Stop even though I have an hour and a half drive to get home and I'll be doing that alone. Living your life in terms of "if only." I get that.
What a disaster it would be if the real thing cropped up.
Interesting.
Farmer Guy had to get going. I had to get to the gym. We shook hands goodbye out in front of Starbucks.
I had a great workout at the gym.
Okay. Starbucks today. I roll in and there's Farmer Guy! ('Member him? Queer. Hot. From SF. Moved back here, like me, at the death of a parent. Works to support himself by doing organic farming.) It's been a while since I've seen Farmer Guy. And as usual, he was an eyeful. Deeply tan from all that work out in the sun, wearing a wife beater and plaid shorts. We got our coffee drinks and repaired to the porch. And chatted up a storm. Catching up.
He said something like "great running into you," and I went off on a riff: "Well go figure! I'm here every day, monday through friday, from 4 pm to 6 pm. I would be so easy to stalk? Why do I not have a stalker? I'm such a creature of routine. I'm perfect for stalking."
Without looking at me, a slight smile on his lips, eyes fixed on the middle distance, Farmer Guy said, "Yeah. Calling ahead to Starbucks and asking if you were there. Carmelita would always give me the word. Usually you had fallen asleep reading your book when I got there. But then you wrecked the whole thing by asking if you wanted me to go to the movies. You can't stalk somebody who's asking you to go to the movies."
Right.
Right...
I asked him to go to thhe movies with me. He basically said that he was busy. As in always. And I took it as a not interested. For whatever reason.
So this is kooky. Farmer Guy was not only returning my keen interest, but was stalking me. But wanted to keep me at a distance.
And I get that.
We both live in thhis weird netherworld. We're spoken for, although not in a way we'd like. The future is indefinite. I do the same thing. Delighting in the company of the boys of summer at Starbucks, sucking face with guys at the Bike Stop even though I have an hour and a half drive to get home and I'll be doing that alone. Living your life in terms of "if only." I get that.
What a disaster it would be if the real thing cropped up.
Interesting.
Farmer Guy had to get going. I had to get to the gym. We shook hands goodbye out in front of Starbucks.
I had a great workout at the gym.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Sent By God
Yesterday, at Starbucks, there I was, enjoying my cigar and latté, and then he showed up. This... this... unbelievably hot musclefuck. Just incredible.
Now usually, body builders leave me cold. Much prefer the lean, rangey type. (Like me! Go Lean, Rangey Types!)
But there was something brutish, stoopid, and animalistic about him. Like one of the guys in the pics that PunchPig graces my email inbox with every so often. The Germans have a saying (hopefully I won't mangle this too badly): "Dumn ficte gute," which translates as, "Stupid guys are (ahem.) good in bed." And he was Class A Dumn.
He sits down right in front of me. And asks me the time. Which I was happy to provide. And then he said the magic words: "Great. I have time to have a cigar before my bus gets here."
No lie!
So I watched him sit there, smoking his cigar, big ol' side of beef that he was, until he caught his bus.
And now here's the sad part. Testimony of how pathetic my sex/love life is right now. What was going through my mind right then and there was: Yesss! Masturbatory fodder!
That's it. Casting in a starring role in my bedtime jerk off fantasies.
And ohhhh... do I have plans for him! Last night was all about suspending him in a harness and forcefeeding him. He got bigger and bigger and bigger. Topping 300. Then getting to 400. Musclefuck was now a big ol' porker. And, most importantly, my big ol' porker. Transformed. Remade
*sigh*
Tonight, I think he's gonna get beat. Just... y'know... until he breaks. Until I see some tears and sobbing out of him.
See what you get for saying the Lord's Prayer??? Must be that "give us today our daily bread" part.
Thanks, God! Just what I needed!
Yesterday, at Starbucks, there I was, enjoying my cigar and latté, and then he showed up. This... this... unbelievably hot musclefuck. Just incredible.
Now usually, body builders leave me cold. Much prefer the lean, rangey type. (Like me! Go Lean, Rangey Types!)
But there was something brutish, stoopid, and animalistic about him. Like one of the guys in the pics that PunchPig graces my email inbox with every so often. The Germans have a saying (hopefully I won't mangle this too badly): "Dumn ficte gute," which translates as, "Stupid guys are (ahem.) good in bed." And he was Class A Dumn.
He sits down right in front of me. And asks me the time. Which I was happy to provide. And then he said the magic words: "Great. I have time to have a cigar before my bus gets here."
No lie!
So I watched him sit there, smoking his cigar, big ol' side of beef that he was, until he caught his bus.
And now here's the sad part. Testimony of how pathetic my sex/love life is right now. What was going through my mind right then and there was: Yesss! Masturbatory fodder!
That's it. Casting in a starring role in my bedtime jerk off fantasies.
And ohhhh... do I have plans for him! Last night was all about suspending him in a harness and forcefeeding him. He got bigger and bigger and bigger. Topping 300. Then getting to 400. Musclefuck was now a big ol' porker. And, most importantly, my big ol' porker. Transformed. Remade
*sigh*
Tonight, I think he's gonna get beat. Just... y'know... until he breaks. Until I see some tears and sobbing out of him.
See what you get for saying the Lord's Prayer??? Must be that "give us today our daily bread" part.
Thanks, God! Just what I needed!
Monday, August 15, 2005
Must See TV
First off, on Monster House on the Discovery Channel, there's a gay welder! And I thought I was the only one.
And... and... the Little League World Series is on ESPN! Tonight I watched as Newtown PA came from behind (3-0 behind!) to beat Toms River NJ! Go Bucks County!
And it was so sweet! When Newtown hit a come-from-behind run, the pitcher from the Jersey team started to cry!
Compare that to the drama of the Philadelphia Eagles, a bunch of millionaires, one of whom doesn't even bother to show up for practice. Tune in for one game. You'll be hooked.
First off, on Monster House on the Discovery Channel, there's a gay welder! And I thought I was the only one.
And... and... the Little League World Series is on ESPN! Tonight I watched as Newtown PA came from behind (3-0 behind!) to beat Toms River NJ! Go Bucks County!
And it was so sweet! When Newtown hit a come-from-behind run, the pitcher from the Jersey team started to cry!
Compare that to the drama of the Philadelphia Eagles, a bunch of millionaires, one of whom doesn't even bother to show up for practice. Tune in for one game. You'll be hooked.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
No Bite!
A good weekend, all in all. Respite from my funk came in the form of the Lord's Prayer, which I was inspired to recite on my drive to work the other morning. It really is a perfect prayer. It's all there...
Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done
...right. I'm not in charge. It's not about what I want, it's about what the Universe serves up for me.
On earth as it is in heaven
...Just because you don't understand what's happening doesn't mean it's bad.
Give us this day our daily bread
...if you have a full belly and a roof over your head (and a good dog, and a nice cigar, and a latte), then you've got all you need. Anything else is gravy.
And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us
...yes. It's all about forgiveness. Letting it all pass through you. Forgive. Find the love.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
...banish the hungry ghosts, banish the fear, banish that which clouds my mind. Clarity. Simplicity. Peace. Strength. Courage. Perserverance.
For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever, Amen.
...before I was, God was. After me, there will be God. Stepping out of time and into eternity.
*sigh*
Nice.
Yesterday, Saturday, was all about housecleaning. Changed my father's bedlinens, vacuumed (such a pain in the ass, we have four vacuums in the house, none of which work), and got the kitchen spic and span. Then, I had an unremarkable AOL date at 6 pm. Spicey as a glass of milk, that one was. But, y'know, got me out of the house, and you never know. I headed to Starbucks afterwards, enjoyed the evening. Then home for dinner, and later, I stopped in at the Raven in New Hope. It's a good thing the place is only fifteen minutes away from me. If I had traveled any distance to find eighty men all of whom make me wistful that I'm not straight, I'd have been pissing into every gastank in the parking lot.
And today! Today was a Special Day! Today was the day I traveled north to the Borough of Kings (better known as Brooklyn) to retrieve my St. Andrew's Cross. (You might remember that I loaned it to GMSMA for a program on singletail whips last year.) And, I got to meet the new dachshund puppies, Frieda and Tulip, of a man we'll call Hey Sailor. Formerly the chair of the program committee of GMSMA (that's how he came to have my cross), now he's crisscrossing the country on a book tour, first time author that he is.
The puppies were wonderful. We love puppies! And they love to give kisses. Unfortunately, they like to take bites at noses and chins when they give kisses, so Hey Sailor asked me to discourage that by a firm "No bite!" We talked and talked and talked, and loaded up my jeep with the cross, and had some middle eastern food down on Seventh Avenue, and then I headed home.
After I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the weather started to get dramatic. Now, I have no qualms at all about driving in the snow, but I'm actually pretty leery of driving in the rain. And it looked like it was going to pour. Remembering that it was Sunday, I headed to the Dugout where Bear Blast was in full swing.
I wasn't even in the door when I ran into Archangel. (Check the archives on him.) I was glad to see him, unbelievably hot man that he is, and he was glad to see me. I was wondering why it is that things never went further between us than the one time we hooked up. Then, as he passionately kissed me hello, I remembered. Archangel bites. I mean, really bites. All the time. Now, giving a little nip now and then when you're kissing, or sucking nipples, or whatever is fine. But Archangel gnaws. It's too... too... Dawn Of The Dead. That kind of biting. So my libido went from overdrive to a stall pretty quickly.
And, it didn't help things that once inside, I couldn't help but remember that this was the place where Special Guy and I met.
Damn, I miss him.
Damn, he's perfect.
Damn, I'm still not over him.
Damn.
Special Guy would totally get the thing about me saying the Our Father. (Although he'd probably refer to it as the Pater Noster. I'll have to give him a call sometime.
But, I ran into a guy from my softball team, and got chatted up by these two leather bears from Oneonta (and if I didn't have to be at work at 7 am tomorrow, they would have had the opportunity to do a lot more than chat me up). And had my face chewed on by Archangel some more.
The rain wasn't stopping, and it was just getting a bit too Agatha Christie ("no one can leave!") in the Dugout. So I pulled my EMS rain jacket out of my pocket and headed for the jeep. The jacket kept me dry, but every other part of me was soaked through and through. It was sort of fun though, a warm summer rain, and the streets were like wading through rivers. Good thing I was wearing my Kean's, as they're made for just that.
Luckily, not too much in the way of rain on the way home. Although now, here at home, there's a fierce thunderstorm going on. Almost theatrical. Perhaps it's extraterrestrials are making a move on Plumstead Township.
Anyway, time for bed.
A good weekend, all in all. Respite from my funk came in the form of the Lord's Prayer, which I was inspired to recite on my drive to work the other morning. It really is a perfect prayer. It's all there...
Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done
...right. I'm not in charge. It's not about what I want, it's about what the Universe serves up for me.
On earth as it is in heaven
...Just because you don't understand what's happening doesn't mean it's bad.
Give us this day our daily bread
...if you have a full belly and a roof over your head (and a good dog, and a nice cigar, and a latte), then you've got all you need. Anything else is gravy.
And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us
...yes. It's all about forgiveness. Letting it all pass through you. Forgive. Find the love.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
...banish the hungry ghosts, banish the fear, banish that which clouds my mind. Clarity. Simplicity. Peace. Strength. Courage. Perserverance.
For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever, Amen.
...before I was, God was. After me, there will be God. Stepping out of time and into eternity.
*sigh*
Nice.
Yesterday, Saturday, was all about housecleaning. Changed my father's bedlinens, vacuumed (such a pain in the ass, we have four vacuums in the house, none of which work), and got the kitchen spic and span. Then, I had an unremarkable AOL date at 6 pm. Spicey as a glass of milk, that one was. But, y'know, got me out of the house, and you never know. I headed to Starbucks afterwards, enjoyed the evening. Then home for dinner, and later, I stopped in at the Raven in New Hope. It's a good thing the place is only fifteen minutes away from me. If I had traveled any distance to find eighty men all of whom make me wistful that I'm not straight, I'd have been pissing into every gastank in the parking lot.
And today! Today was a Special Day! Today was the day I traveled north to the Borough of Kings (better known as Brooklyn) to retrieve my St. Andrew's Cross. (You might remember that I loaned it to GMSMA for a program on singletail whips last year.) And, I got to meet the new dachshund puppies, Frieda and Tulip, of a man we'll call Hey Sailor. Formerly the chair of the program committee of GMSMA (that's how he came to have my cross), now he's crisscrossing the country on a book tour, first time author that he is.
The puppies were wonderful. We love puppies! And they love to give kisses. Unfortunately, they like to take bites at noses and chins when they give kisses, so Hey Sailor asked me to discourage that by a firm "No bite!" We talked and talked and talked, and loaded up my jeep with the cross, and had some middle eastern food down on Seventh Avenue, and then I headed home.
After I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the weather started to get dramatic. Now, I have no qualms at all about driving in the snow, but I'm actually pretty leery of driving in the rain. And it looked like it was going to pour. Remembering that it was Sunday, I headed to the Dugout where Bear Blast was in full swing.
I wasn't even in the door when I ran into Archangel. (Check the archives on him.) I was glad to see him, unbelievably hot man that he is, and he was glad to see me. I was wondering why it is that things never went further between us than the one time we hooked up. Then, as he passionately kissed me hello, I remembered. Archangel bites. I mean, really bites. All the time. Now, giving a little nip now and then when you're kissing, or sucking nipples, or whatever is fine. But Archangel gnaws. It's too... too... Dawn Of The Dead. That kind of biting. So my libido went from overdrive to a stall pretty quickly.
And, it didn't help things that once inside, I couldn't help but remember that this was the place where Special Guy and I met.
Damn, I miss him.
Damn, he's perfect.
Damn, I'm still not over him.
Damn.
Special Guy would totally get the thing about me saying the Our Father. (Although he'd probably refer to it as the Pater Noster. I'll have to give him a call sometime.
But, I ran into a guy from my softball team, and got chatted up by these two leather bears from Oneonta (and if I didn't have to be at work at 7 am tomorrow, they would have had the opportunity to do a lot more than chat me up). And had my face chewed on by Archangel some more.
The rain wasn't stopping, and it was just getting a bit too Agatha Christie ("no one can leave!") in the Dugout. So I pulled my EMS rain jacket out of my pocket and headed for the jeep. The jacket kept me dry, but every other part of me was soaked through and through. It was sort of fun though, a warm summer rain, and the streets were like wading through rivers. Good thing I was wearing my Kean's, as they're made for just that.
Luckily, not too much in the way of rain on the way home. Although now, here at home, there's a fierce thunderstorm going on. Almost theatrical. Perhaps it's extraterrestrials are making a move on Plumstead Township.
Anyway, time for bed.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Pluck
I've got it!
Come to think of it, it's one of the qualities I admire most in myself. There's a line in a 10,000 Maniacs song, "through adventure we are not adventuresome," and I'm not like that.
How to define pluck?
Perhaps by example. Ah. Here's a good one.
Way back when, I guess I was around 23 years old, I was living in Philadelphia, and volunteering as a buddy to a guy living with HIV/AIDS. And the organization sponsored a bus trip down to Washington DC to see the AIDS Quilt on the Mall. My buddy wanted to go, and I went with him. The bus dropped us off, and we were told to meet back at the bus at 4:30. At 4:30, I was back at the bus, but my buddy wasn't. After fifteen minutes, I was worried, so I went off to look for him.
Now, you should never do that, right? You know what happens, as soon as you head off to look for someone, they show up. And that's what happened, because he was on the bus heading back to Philadelphia, and I missed it because I was off looking for him.
Okay. So there I am, stranded in Washington DC, and I had no money to get home. Like, ten dollars in my pocket.
Did I panic? Did I run around begging for a ride? Did I ask the nearest policeman--who would have sent me to Traveler's Aid and they would have hooked me up with a bus ticket then and there--for help? Nope. Because I have pluck.
What I did was head that night to the DC Eagle. And there, I met a marine. His name was Doug.
Y'see, when you land in a situation like this, say you're driving through rural West Virginia and your car breaks down, the thing not to do is lock your windows and be sane and reasonable about the whole thing. Because what's going down is the Universe is saying, "Man! Have I got an adventure planned for you!"
And my adventure was Doug.
I went home with Doug. And we had sex. He was a Top, which is pretty amazing when you think about it because all marines everywhere are total bottoms. So I told Doug my plight, and asked him if he'd drive me to the bus station tomorrow, so I could take a bus to Baltimore (how much could that be?) where my friend Ed lived, and Ed would doubtless lend me money to get back to Philadelphia. Doug said sure. And then, he burst into tears.
It turns out that Doug had what we used to call a lover. Another active duty marine. Doug's lover had recently tested HIV positive when the Marine Corp gave him his annual physical. And two days before, Doug had come home from work to find that his lover had hung himself down in the basement. Doug made a mistake, and called the military police. They came, took Doug away, and they also took away the sling that Doug and his lover had in the basement, and some of their sex toys.
So Doug, in the 48 hours before I met him, had lost the man he loved, and was probably soon to lose his career in the military, where he had planned to spend the rest of his life.
Now, at the age I was then, I was totally unprepared to be any help at all in helping someone in that situation. I had know idea what to say, what to offer. And, maybe that's because there's nothing to offer, But I sure didn't know that then.
The next day, Doug and I went back to the Quilt. As we were walking around, looking at the panels, we came upon one sewn with the image of a single white heron, it's head upraised and it's beak open. Doug explained to me that among the Chinese, it's a symbol of grief and mourning for your mate. Heron's mate for life, and won't take another mate when their mate dies. And they'll mourn the death by calling out for their lost mate. Doug totally broke down at this. There we stood, this big tough marine, balling his eyes out, while a skinny kid in an ACT UP tshirt held him.
That's an example of what I'm talking about. That's pluck. Disaster strikes, and you know deep down it means that you're about to have an experience that will change your life. Just keep your head together and your eyes open.
Now, as I discussed recently here, I'm the kind of person who, if someone had suggested to me that I take a one way trip to DC without the money to get back, I would have said no to that without having to think about it. But, again and again, I do something or other that will get me stranded, with only my own resources to rely on. (Of course I knew when I walked into the crowds that the bus was getting ready to leave!)
Life offers so few opportunities step off the beaten path. Sometimes you've got to help it along. Close your eyes, plunge into the underbrush, and "Oh gosh! Now I'm lost! What to do now?"
So, being plucky has meant I've had a pretty interesting life. If'n I were to learn that I had only a month to live, of course I'd be full of regret, after all, there are several adventure-inviting things on my list of things to do. I still haven't taken off two months and spent it driving across the country and back. But I know I'd take comfort in the fact that this facility of mine has brought me to a number of wonderful places.
Thank you, pluck.
I've got it!
Come to think of it, it's one of the qualities I admire most in myself. There's a line in a 10,000 Maniacs song, "through adventure we are not adventuresome," and I'm not like that.
How to define pluck?
Perhaps by example. Ah. Here's a good one.
Way back when, I guess I was around 23 years old, I was living in Philadelphia, and volunteering as a buddy to a guy living with HIV/AIDS. And the organization sponsored a bus trip down to Washington DC to see the AIDS Quilt on the Mall. My buddy wanted to go, and I went with him. The bus dropped us off, and we were told to meet back at the bus at 4:30. At 4:30, I was back at the bus, but my buddy wasn't. After fifteen minutes, I was worried, so I went off to look for him.
Now, you should never do that, right? You know what happens, as soon as you head off to look for someone, they show up. And that's what happened, because he was on the bus heading back to Philadelphia, and I missed it because I was off looking for him.
Okay. So there I am, stranded in Washington DC, and I had no money to get home. Like, ten dollars in my pocket.
Did I panic? Did I run around begging for a ride? Did I ask the nearest policeman--who would have sent me to Traveler's Aid and they would have hooked me up with a bus ticket then and there--for help? Nope. Because I have pluck.
What I did was head that night to the DC Eagle. And there, I met a marine. His name was Doug.
Y'see, when you land in a situation like this, say you're driving through rural West Virginia and your car breaks down, the thing not to do is lock your windows and be sane and reasonable about the whole thing. Because what's going down is the Universe is saying, "Man! Have I got an adventure planned for you!"
And my adventure was Doug.
I went home with Doug. And we had sex. He was a Top, which is pretty amazing when you think about it because all marines everywhere are total bottoms. So I told Doug my plight, and asked him if he'd drive me to the bus station tomorrow, so I could take a bus to Baltimore (how much could that be?) where my friend Ed lived, and Ed would doubtless lend me money to get back to Philadelphia. Doug said sure. And then, he burst into tears.
It turns out that Doug had what we used to call a lover. Another active duty marine. Doug's lover had recently tested HIV positive when the Marine Corp gave him his annual physical. And two days before, Doug had come home from work to find that his lover had hung himself down in the basement. Doug made a mistake, and called the military police. They came, took Doug away, and they also took away the sling that Doug and his lover had in the basement, and some of their sex toys.
So Doug, in the 48 hours before I met him, had lost the man he loved, and was probably soon to lose his career in the military, where he had planned to spend the rest of his life.
Now, at the age I was then, I was totally unprepared to be any help at all in helping someone in that situation. I had know idea what to say, what to offer. And, maybe that's because there's nothing to offer, But I sure didn't know that then.
The next day, Doug and I went back to the Quilt. As we were walking around, looking at the panels, we came upon one sewn with the image of a single white heron, it's head upraised and it's beak open. Doug explained to me that among the Chinese, it's a symbol of grief and mourning for your mate. Heron's mate for life, and won't take another mate when their mate dies. And they'll mourn the death by calling out for their lost mate. Doug totally broke down at this. There we stood, this big tough marine, balling his eyes out, while a skinny kid in an ACT UP tshirt held him.
That's an example of what I'm talking about. That's pluck. Disaster strikes, and you know deep down it means that you're about to have an experience that will change your life. Just keep your head together and your eyes open.
Now, as I discussed recently here, I'm the kind of person who, if someone had suggested to me that I take a one way trip to DC without the money to get back, I would have said no to that without having to think about it. But, again and again, I do something or other that will get me stranded, with only my own resources to rely on. (Of course I knew when I walked into the crowds that the bus was getting ready to leave!)
Life offers so few opportunities step off the beaten path. Sometimes you've got to help it along. Close your eyes, plunge into the underbrush, and "Oh gosh! Now I'm lost! What to do now?"
So, being plucky has meant I've had a pretty interesting life. If'n I were to learn that I had only a month to live, of course I'd be full of regret, after all, there are several adventure-inviting things on my list of things to do. I still haven't taken off two months and spent it driving across the country and back. But I know I'd take comfort in the fact that this facility of mine has brought me to a number of wonderful places.
Thank you, pluck.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
These are two journal entries. A little sophomoric maybe, but I liked them.
Oh. Right. The job interview. I think it worked well. My big deficit is that I don't know how to do precise cost estimates of construction jobs. And they're in no big hurry to hire. So if, in the next few weeks, someone walks through the door who's been working for a construction company and is interested in making $50,000 less a year working for a non-profit community development organization, then I'm sunk.
I came back a little deflated. I guess I imagined I'd come back with a new job, or not. But, of course, that's not the way the hiring works. This was the screening interview. If I 'passed,' then I'll be called back for one or two or more interviews. it's like a process. And it will probably go on for weeks.
Onward and upwards.
Anyway...
Escape Artist
The happiest moments in my life have been when I'm making my escape.
But, of course, for every friday afternoon, there comes a monday morning. When once again, I've obligated myself. Tied myself down.
Erich Fromm (I think) called this "escape from freedom," the experience of our own freedom and independence is so terrifying to us that we are forever breaking into prison, walling ourselves away, where at least we know we'll get three square a day and a bed without lice.
What would it take for me to face freedom--if that door opens to me again anytime ever again--unafraid?
That last one. Dang. Obtainable? Not looking for anything outside of myself. Banishing the Hungry Ghosts.
To be alive is to want. But it's what you want that's key. Not wanting what you can't acquire yourself? And the discipline to obtain it?
Greasers
That's what we called them in high school. Work boots. Flannel shirts. Jeans. Always being sent down to the disciplinarian's office. Smoking in the boys' room.
We were Reagan's children. it was morning in America. Implicitly, there was some kind of promise made to us. But like, for instance, the experience of being seated in a restaurant and handed a three foot tall leatherbound menu with gold tassels emblazoned in Gothic script with the words "Ye Olde Bill of Faire"... well, some of us figured out early that we were about to get rooked.
And those farsighted folks were the greasers.
More than anything, they're a socio-economic group. They're poor kids. And they know it. It's a bad start. Dad's gone. Mom the waitress is barely holding it together.
I was in awe of them back in high school. And now, sitting with this new generation of greasers on the porch of Starbucks every afternoon, I feel a certain frisson still. There's guts there I never had. Try this drug. Break this law. Fight this outsider. Fix your car yourself. Quit school. Get wasted.
Possibly it's the result of the deracination. Starting off with the deck stacked against you. Freedom, as the old song says, is just another word for nothing left to lose.
For the greasers, there were no ambiguities. They knew that fortune wasn't going to smile on them.
I, on the other hand, was sure that fortune would do just that. My smarts, my easy smile, my quick wit, my winning ways... Something would see me through.
But this brought its own fear. A subtle obsessive compulsive disorder. Say the right prayers at the right altar, carry the right talisman, observe all the taboos. Or else.
And every reversal, no matter how small and seemingly inconsequential, is to be dreaded. Leaves you knotting your sheets at night, because it might be the first sign that you did something wrong. That it's all downhill from here. So not only the persisting fear, but the ongoing examen de conscience, like a medieval monk.
It's impossible to be good.
And the trap is circular. And the circle grows smaller and smaller. More and more you sense you're living on borrowed time. Surely the ax is soon to fall, if it hasn't already.
Better, by far, to be a greaser. Knowing from the git go that it all pretty much sucks. People like you don't win the lottery or get to be on television. So payday is as good an excuse as any other to go out and get wasted.
I, for one, see a certain nobility in that.
Oh. Right. The job interview. I think it worked well. My big deficit is that I don't know how to do precise cost estimates of construction jobs. And they're in no big hurry to hire. So if, in the next few weeks, someone walks through the door who's been working for a construction company and is interested in making $50,000 less a year working for a non-profit community development organization, then I'm sunk.
I came back a little deflated. I guess I imagined I'd come back with a new job, or not. But, of course, that's not the way the hiring works. This was the screening interview. If I 'passed,' then I'll be called back for one or two or more interviews. it's like a process. And it will probably go on for weeks.
Onward and upwards.
Anyway...
Escape Artist
The happiest moments in my life have been when I'm making my escape.
- Getting away from my troubled teenage home, however briefly. To work. To meet up with friends. To head off alone.
- Going to college, leaving it all behind.
- Leaving my first NYC boyfriend. Heh heh. When I moved out of the apartment we shared, I couldn't afford a mover, or even to rent a truck. But, since I didn't own much, I figured that borrowing a dolly would get the job done. The apartment was at 7th Street and Avenue B, overlooking scenic Tompkins Square Park. My new apartment was on First Avenue between 5th and 6th Streets. And the day I moved was the day of riots in Tompkins Square Park. So while East Village anarchists squared off against the NYPD, I trundled through the middle of this conflagration with all my worldly belongings stacked atop a dolly. Grinning.
- Taking off on a plane--alone--going anywhere. This was before September 11th made air travel a miserable experience.
- Leaving behind the Awful Ex and the Seven-And-A-Half-Year-Relationship. Few better days of my life.
- Getting off work on any given Friday afternoon. My favorite moment of the week. The weekend stretches ahead, filled with nothing but possibilty.
But, of course, for every friday afternoon, there comes a monday morning. When once again, I've obligated myself. Tied myself down.
Erich Fromm (I think) called this "escape from freedom," the experience of our own freedom and independence is so terrifying to us that we are forever breaking into prison, walling ourselves away, where at least we know we'll get three square a day and a bed without lice.
What would it take for me to face freedom--if that door opens to me again anytime ever again--unafraid?
- A roof over my head.
- The metaphorical room of my own.
- A society of sorts. I am, after all, a social animal.
- Trust in myself.
- Being at ease with myself.
That last one. Dang. Obtainable? Not looking for anything outside of myself. Banishing the Hungry Ghosts.
To be alive is to want. But it's what you want that's key. Not wanting what you can't acquire yourself? And the discipline to obtain it?
Greasers
That's what we called them in high school. Work boots. Flannel shirts. Jeans. Always being sent down to the disciplinarian's office. Smoking in the boys' room.
We were Reagan's children. it was morning in America. Implicitly, there was some kind of promise made to us. But like, for instance, the experience of being seated in a restaurant and handed a three foot tall leatherbound menu with gold tassels emblazoned in Gothic script with the words "Ye Olde Bill of Faire"... well, some of us figured out early that we were about to get rooked.
And those farsighted folks were the greasers.
More than anything, they're a socio-economic group. They're poor kids. And they know it. It's a bad start. Dad's gone. Mom the waitress is barely holding it together.
I was in awe of them back in high school. And now, sitting with this new generation of greasers on the porch of Starbucks every afternoon, I feel a certain frisson still. There's guts there I never had. Try this drug. Break this law. Fight this outsider. Fix your car yourself. Quit school. Get wasted.
Possibly it's the result of the deracination. Starting off with the deck stacked against you. Freedom, as the old song says, is just another word for nothing left to lose.
For the greasers, there were no ambiguities. They knew that fortune wasn't going to smile on them.
I, on the other hand, was sure that fortune would do just that. My smarts, my easy smile, my quick wit, my winning ways... Something would see me through.
But this brought its own fear. A subtle obsessive compulsive disorder. Say the right prayers at the right altar, carry the right talisman, observe all the taboos. Or else.
And every reversal, no matter how small and seemingly inconsequential, is to be dreaded. Leaves you knotting your sheets at night, because it might be the first sign that you did something wrong. That it's all downhill from here. So not only the persisting fear, but the ongoing examen de conscience, like a medieval monk.
It's impossible to be good.
And the trap is circular. And the circle grows smaller and smaller. More and more you sense you're living on borrowed time. Surely the ax is soon to fall, if it hasn't already.
Better, by far, to be a greaser. Knowing from the git go that it all pretty much sucks. People like you don't win the lottery or get to be on television. So payday is as good an excuse as any other to go out and get wasted.
I, for one, see a certain nobility in that.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Welcome To My World
Check this out! Doylestown has a live web cam! Just go to www.doylestownsfrontporch.com. Some of the shots include the corner of State and Main Streets, where my beloved Starbucks is located. Soooo... if'n you tune in around 4 pm to 5:30 pm Monday through Friday, chances are good that you'll be catching site of me. And possibly some of the boys I ogle.
Check this out! Doylestown has a live web cam! Just go to www.doylestownsfrontporch.com. Some of the shots include the corner of State and Main Streets, where my beloved Starbucks is located. Soooo... if'n you tune in around 4 pm to 5:30 pm Monday through Friday, chances are good that you'll be catching site of me. And possibly some of the boys I ogle.
Jitters
Job interview tomorrow!
Nervous? Yeah.
Some job interview flubs I've made...
•In front of this tight assed human resources manager, I made the horrible error of rocking back in my chair and putting my ankle over my knee. (I didn't get that job, like I'd want to work there.)
•When asked to name a quality of mine that might detract from my ability to do the job, I said, "I can be indecisive." (I ended up getting that job anyway.)
•When looking out the window of the woman interviewing me for a job at a brokerage firm on the 102nd floor of 2 World Trade Center, I said, "Holy shit!" (Definitely didn't get that job; she seemed cool up to that point, then she turned decidedly uncool.)
At work, I told them I had a dentist appointment. The boss was cool, coming back with "what are you having done? We have tools here..." But I think they know what's up. And they're terrified. They have that deer in the headlights look.
And I feel terrible about that. I love those guys. I love my job. I'm going to be sad to leave it all behind.
But I've realized that I will never be a master cabinet maker.
Well, not entirely true. About the time I hit sixty I might be a master cabinet maker.
Get it now?
I sort of realized this months ago. When as part of the apprenticeship program, I had to build a box of some kind. So I built a humidor for my Sir. It was done in cherry, and I put walnut trim on it. I was pretty proud of the effort. One of the foremen at work came over to take a look. "Nice job, Dutch!" he complemented. All good. Then he followed that with "Cherry and walnut is a great combination. When I was sixteen I made a grandfather clock with cherry and walnut."
Now you get it.
I decided to dress to kill tomorrow. I have this blue wool/lycra pinstripe suit. I mean, it's All That. I'm even gonna wear a tie. Although it could very well be the final time they see me wearing a tie. I decided a few years ago that I don't wear ties.
But hey. Be cool. Just be cool. When it comes to a job search, one important thing to remember: disappointment happens.
I'll let you all know how goes.
Job interview tomorrow!
Nervous? Yeah.
Some job interview flubs I've made...
•In front of this tight assed human resources manager, I made the horrible error of rocking back in my chair and putting my ankle over my knee. (I didn't get that job, like I'd want to work there.)
•When asked to name a quality of mine that might detract from my ability to do the job, I said, "I can be indecisive." (I ended up getting that job anyway.)
•When looking out the window of the woman interviewing me for a job at a brokerage firm on the 102nd floor of 2 World Trade Center, I said, "Holy shit!" (Definitely didn't get that job; she seemed cool up to that point, then she turned decidedly uncool.)
At work, I told them I had a dentist appointment. The boss was cool, coming back with "what are you having done? We have tools here..." But I think they know what's up. And they're terrified. They have that deer in the headlights look.
And I feel terrible about that. I love those guys. I love my job. I'm going to be sad to leave it all behind.
But I've realized that I will never be a master cabinet maker.
Well, not entirely true. About the time I hit sixty I might be a master cabinet maker.
Get it now?
I sort of realized this months ago. When as part of the apprenticeship program, I had to build a box of some kind. So I built a humidor for my Sir. It was done in cherry, and I put walnut trim on it. I was pretty proud of the effort. One of the foremen at work came over to take a look. "Nice job, Dutch!" he complemented. All good. Then he followed that with "Cherry and walnut is a great combination. When I was sixteen I made a grandfather clock with cherry and walnut."
Now you get it.
I decided to dress to kill tomorrow. I have this blue wool/lycra pinstripe suit. I mean, it's All That. I'm even gonna wear a tie. Although it could very well be the final time they see me wearing a tie. I decided a few years ago that I don't wear ties.
But hey. Be cool. Just be cool. When it comes to a job search, one important thing to remember: disappointment happens.
I'll let you all know how goes.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Meeting Jesus
And how could I forget...
Orlando, of course, is the city of Theme Parks. Mickey, Shamu, all the rest of them. And it's also the home of the Holy Land Experience. It's a Biblical theme park.
Now, I can't quite imagine what that entails, although from the highway, we could see what looked to be Herod's Temple.
My host informed me that there's another interesting aspect of the Holy Land Experience. Similar to Disney, they have strolling actors portraying actual figures from the Bible. Including Jesus.
Now... That's a whole new ballgame.
I mean, there you are, strolling through the Holy Land Experience, and you meet up with Jesus. How are you gonna handle that one? After you get your picture taken with your Lord and Savior, what are you gonna do for small talk?
I, for one, would be moved to quiz him. "What's the Parable of the Sower really mean?" "What are you doing here among all these Christians? Shouldn't you be hanging with prostitutes and tax collectors and such?"
I shared this information with Columbine Boy, my Bush-votin' Bible-thumpin buddy at work. He was against it. And what would Columbine Boy say to Jesus? "Loved you in The Passion! Did you do your own stunts?"
Before we depart this thread, something else. At the Holy Land Experience, do they have rides? What would those rides be like...?
Mom: "Nero's Circus." Now that sounds fun, huh? I love the circus! Let's go on that one!
Oh this is weird! It's dark in here.
Dad: Hey wait. Here's a door. Oh wait, we're outside again.
Mom: Listen to that cheering! I wonder what's going on...
Dad: Look kids! Lions! I guess this is a lion taming thing, huh? Hey!! Who closed that door?
Mom: Those lions aren't tied up or anything, Doug! They're coming over here! Tyler! Tiffany! Come here NOW!
(screams)
(more cheering)
And how could I forget...
Orlando, of course, is the city of Theme Parks. Mickey, Shamu, all the rest of them. And it's also the home of the Holy Land Experience. It's a Biblical theme park.
Now, I can't quite imagine what that entails, although from the highway, we could see what looked to be Herod's Temple.
My host informed me that there's another interesting aspect of the Holy Land Experience. Similar to Disney, they have strolling actors portraying actual figures from the Bible. Including Jesus.
Now... That's a whole new ballgame.
I mean, there you are, strolling through the Holy Land Experience, and you meet up with Jesus. How are you gonna handle that one? After you get your picture taken with your Lord and Savior, what are you gonna do for small talk?
I, for one, would be moved to quiz him. "What's the Parable of the Sower really mean?" "What are you doing here among all these Christians? Shouldn't you be hanging with prostitutes and tax collectors and such?"
I shared this information with Columbine Boy, my Bush-votin' Bible-thumpin buddy at work. He was against it. And what would Columbine Boy say to Jesus? "Loved you in The Passion! Did you do your own stunts?"
Before we depart this thread, something else. At the Holy Land Experience, do they have rides? What would those rides be like...?
Mom: "Nero's Circus." Now that sounds fun, huh? I love the circus! Let's go on that one!
Oh this is weird! It's dark in here.
Dad: Hey wait. Here's a door. Oh wait, we're outside again.
Mom: Listen to that cheering! I wonder what's going on...
Dad: Look kids! Lions! I guess this is a lion taming thing, huh? Hey!! Who closed that door?
Mom: Those lions aren't tied up or anything, Doug! They're coming over here! Tyler! Tiffany! Come here NOW!
(screams)
(more cheering)
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Whorlando
I just flew in from Orlando, and boy! Are my arms tired! (Hey... wait a minute... you're broke! How'd you get to Orlando? Well... I have always relied on the frequent flier miles of others. Nuff said.)
Sad commentary that I had to fly down to Orlando to get laid, huh? But that's the long and short of it. And, as I truly am broke, I'm not in much of a position to refuse any offer of all-expenses-paid travel.
Verrrry interesting trip overall.
My host, FilthyNasty, had a great house with a screened in pool and a hot tub overlooking one of Orlando's many lakes. Lovely and serene setting. My intention was to find pigspace. (Since I found bottomspace, that's next on my list.) Alas, I didn't. Quite.
Mostly, FilthyNasty and I talked. A lot. Really good talking. And so I'm coming back here with a lot of clarity. Clarity about the many ways in which I am conflicted, interestingly enough. I don't want to want what I want. But that's not gonna stop me from having a good time. I hope.
And by the by, if you're visiting Orlando, don't miss a trip to Parliament House. It's this huge motel complex, with a pool and tiki bar in the center. Verrrrry mid-century (and we love that!). And lots of guys who seem to have no air-conditioning in their rooms as they lie on the bed wearing boxers watching television with the door open. That kind of scene. FilthyNasty informs me that until recently, there was a trailer park next door. Over the years, many gay guys moved into the trailers...
...imagine that. A gay trailer park. I know exactly where I want to live when I grow up. How cool would that be?
But alas, the owners of the Parliament House felt they needed more parking or something, so they bought the trailer park, evicted all the trailer livin' homos and plowed it all under.
Also had some good vietnamese food while I was down there. (I think Pho is the perfect thing to eat.) Sadly, we have no vietnamese available in Central Bucks County.
And now I'm ready to swing into my work week. And start getting myself prepared for the Job Inteview on Wednesday.
Oh. No. I didn't go to Disney.
I just flew in from Orlando, and boy! Are my arms tired! (Hey... wait a minute... you're broke! How'd you get to Orlando? Well... I have always relied on the frequent flier miles of others. Nuff said.)
Sad commentary that I had to fly down to Orlando to get laid, huh? But that's the long and short of it. And, as I truly am broke, I'm not in much of a position to refuse any offer of all-expenses-paid travel.
Verrrry interesting trip overall.
My host, FilthyNasty, had a great house with a screened in pool and a hot tub overlooking one of Orlando's many lakes. Lovely and serene setting. My intention was to find pigspace. (Since I found bottomspace, that's next on my list.) Alas, I didn't. Quite.
Mostly, FilthyNasty and I talked. A lot. Really good talking. And so I'm coming back here with a lot of clarity. Clarity about the many ways in which I am conflicted, interestingly enough. I don't want to want what I want. But that's not gonna stop me from having a good time. I hope.
And by the by, if you're visiting Orlando, don't miss a trip to Parliament House. It's this huge motel complex, with a pool and tiki bar in the center. Verrrrry mid-century (and we love that!). And lots of guys who seem to have no air-conditioning in their rooms as they lie on the bed wearing boxers watching television with the door open. That kind of scene. FilthyNasty informs me that until recently, there was a trailer park next door. Over the years, many gay guys moved into the trailers...
...imagine that. A gay trailer park. I know exactly where I want to live when I grow up. How cool would that be?
But alas, the owners of the Parliament House felt they needed more parking or something, so they bought the trailer park, evicted all the trailer livin' homos and plowed it all under.
Also had some good vietnamese food while I was down there. (I think Pho is the perfect thing to eat.) Sadly, we have no vietnamese available in Central Bucks County.
And now I'm ready to swing into my work week. And start getting myself prepared for the Job Inteview on Wednesday.
Oh. No. I didn't go to Disney.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Downhill
Something occured to me the other day.
If my life was a John Updike novel. Or even a John Cheever short story (I think I'm much more an Updike character, but I live in a Cheever world), then I can pinpoint the day that it all started.
"It" of course, is this slow but steady decline, to my present morose state.
Remember back over the winter, when I drove down to West Virginia to visit Mountain Man? And I was driving up the steep mountain road, when all of a sudden, although my foot was on the gas and I was going forward, I started moving backwards down the mountain?
Remember that? The scary descent, skidding all over the road until I went right off it and lodged on a culvert by 3/8ths of an inch? Remember the towtruck that showed up to tow me out and lost control on the same icy road, slamming into the back of my jeep and almost knocking me all the way down into a deep ravine?
Well that was it.
I had to drive around in the Ford Taurus. And when the bill came in, paying the $1000 deductible TWICE (two accidents: me going off the road, and the towtruck slamming into me), that pretty much exhausted my resources. And, then my insurance went up to almost $3000 per year.
So that was when it all started.
I remember at the time being proud of my pluck, my ability to roll with the punches.
But that day the downhill skid started, and it hasn't stopped since.
Huh.
I guess if either Updike or Cheever did use that conceit in a piece of fiction, they or their editors would scratch it out.
I mean, way too obvious, right?
Something occured to me the other day.
If my life was a John Updike novel. Or even a John Cheever short story (I think I'm much more an Updike character, but I live in a Cheever world), then I can pinpoint the day that it all started.
"It" of course, is this slow but steady decline, to my present morose state.
Remember back over the winter, when I drove down to West Virginia to visit Mountain Man? And I was driving up the steep mountain road, when all of a sudden, although my foot was on the gas and I was going forward, I started moving backwards down the mountain?
Remember that? The scary descent, skidding all over the road until I went right off it and lodged on a culvert by 3/8ths of an inch? Remember the towtruck that showed up to tow me out and lost control on the same icy road, slamming into the back of my jeep and almost knocking me all the way down into a deep ravine?
Well that was it.
I had to drive around in the Ford Taurus. And when the bill came in, paying the $1000 deductible TWICE (two accidents: me going off the road, and the towtruck slamming into me), that pretty much exhausted my resources. And, then my insurance went up to almost $3000 per year.
So that was when it all started.
I remember at the time being proud of my pluck, my ability to roll with the punches.
But that day the downhill skid started, and it hasn't stopped since.
Huh.
I guess if either Updike or Cheever did use that conceit in a piece of fiction, they or their editors would scratch it out.
I mean, way too obvious, right?
Please Hire Me
Okay. Got a job interview. Next week. For a Construction Manager position. (How butch is that, huh? "Yeah. I work construction. Whaddyou do? Sumfin wid computers?") The guy and I bonded on the phone. Had a good talk. (I'm so good at that!) By no means a shoe in. They're looking for someone who can estimate construction bids. I can't even guess the dollar amount of the groceries in my basket. And I just about always use the Fifteen Items Or Less line.
Quick! Anybody out there able to teach me that in the six days before my interview???
And this weekend I'm going away. Nope. Not gonna say where. If you want to find out you'll have to hack into my email account. (Please don't hack into my email account.)
Funny. Getting a new job would mean a lot to me, but I'm not feeling much in the way of anxiety about the interview. More concerned with what I'm gonna say to get the day off work. Doctor's appointment? Meeting with my probation officer?
Oh. And another interesting thing happened today. My partner at work, the Bush-votin', Bible-thumpin' guy with whom I get along really well (there's genuine affection between us), today asked me what I thought about men who become women and women who become men.
I could see where this was going.
I said I had no big problems with that. Not even as a Christian. I pointed out that a surprisingly large number of babies are born who are intersex, and an arbitrary decision is made to assign sex. Columbine Boy disagreed. He thought it was wrong. His reasoning was that if you were born a boy, then that's because God intended you to be a boy. And you best not try to go against God's will for you.
I asked about infants born with congenital abnormalities, that are corrected. Conjoined twins was the example I raised. If you separate conjoined twins, wouldn't that be going against God's will? (Sorry readers of transgendered experience, for comparing your situation to a birth defect.)
Columbine Boy had an answer ready for me. He views those things as the result of sin. The sins of our fathers, and of all mankind, going back to Adam. And, sin can be forgiven, but it can't be erased. And even when those defects are corrected, there's still some scar, some remnant. Because sin can't be erased.
And I think I agree with that. I sort of shut up, thinking about how it's our sense of ourselves as sinners, and our memories of all the sins we've committed (interpret the word "sin" anyway you wish, I think of it as those actions which separate us from God and from others) that make us truly human. Not much in the way of compassion coming from the sinless amongst us.
Egad! Had Columbine Boy won that round?
I continued to mull the issue as we worked.
And then Bingo! Galations 3:28: There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.
Sooo... God doesn't see any distinction between the sexes. So changing your apparatus, in God's eyes, is like changing your tshirt.
Because I quoted scripture, I won the argument. (And I'm an Episcopalian! We're not supposed to be able to do that!)
Man. I'll miss the current job. Miss the debates with Columbine Boy. Miss working with the guys. Miss the high regard in which I'm held by my co-workers. A lot to miss. But I won't miss $10-an-hour.
Okay. Got a job interview. Next week. For a Construction Manager position. (How butch is that, huh? "Yeah. I work construction. Whaddyou do? Sumfin wid computers?") The guy and I bonded on the phone. Had a good talk. (I'm so good at that!) By no means a shoe in. They're looking for someone who can estimate construction bids. I can't even guess the dollar amount of the groceries in my basket. And I just about always use the Fifteen Items Or Less line.
Quick! Anybody out there able to teach me that in the six days before my interview???
And this weekend I'm going away. Nope. Not gonna say where. If you want to find out you'll have to hack into my email account. (Please don't hack into my email account.)
Funny. Getting a new job would mean a lot to me, but I'm not feeling much in the way of anxiety about the interview. More concerned with what I'm gonna say to get the day off work. Doctor's appointment? Meeting with my probation officer?
Oh. And another interesting thing happened today. My partner at work, the Bush-votin', Bible-thumpin' guy with whom I get along really well (there's genuine affection between us), today asked me what I thought about men who become women and women who become men.
I could see where this was going.
I said I had no big problems with that. Not even as a Christian. I pointed out that a surprisingly large number of babies are born who are intersex, and an arbitrary decision is made to assign sex. Columbine Boy disagreed. He thought it was wrong. His reasoning was that if you were born a boy, then that's because God intended you to be a boy. And you best not try to go against God's will for you.
I asked about infants born with congenital abnormalities, that are corrected. Conjoined twins was the example I raised. If you separate conjoined twins, wouldn't that be going against God's will? (Sorry readers of transgendered experience, for comparing your situation to a birth defect.)
Columbine Boy had an answer ready for me. He views those things as the result of sin. The sins of our fathers, and of all mankind, going back to Adam. And, sin can be forgiven, but it can't be erased. And even when those defects are corrected, there's still some scar, some remnant. Because sin can't be erased.
And I think I agree with that. I sort of shut up, thinking about how it's our sense of ourselves as sinners, and our memories of all the sins we've committed (interpret the word "sin" anyway you wish, I think of it as those actions which separate us from God and from others) that make us truly human. Not much in the way of compassion coming from the sinless amongst us.
Egad! Had Columbine Boy won that round?
I continued to mull the issue as we worked.
And then Bingo! Galations 3:28: There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.
Sooo... God doesn't see any distinction between the sexes. So changing your apparatus, in God's eyes, is like changing your tshirt.
Because I quoted scripture, I won the argument. (And I'm an Episcopalian! We're not supposed to be able to do that!)
Man. I'll miss the current job. Miss the debates with Columbine Boy. Miss working with the guys. Miss the high regard in which I'm held by my co-workers. A lot to miss. But I won't miss $10-an-hour.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
You Are Beautiful
I remember this phenomenon from when I would spend my summers working in restaurants in New Hope when I was growing up. At the time, it reminded me of an Agatha Christie novel. (Aggie was a youthful obsession.) At the outset, a cast of characters--very boldly drawn characters--are introduced and assembled.
"Miss Chittenwell descended the steps of 10:20 from Paddington, blinking in the sun, mopping her brow with her handkerchief, and clutching her carpet bag. "To be expected," she said, not seeing anyone from Pauncett House waiting on the platofrm to meet her."
The characters gather at some remote country house for the weekend, and over the course of the book, much of the interest is generated by their interactions. Fortunes rise, fortunes fall. A body or five is discovered. And in the final pages a murderer is uncovered.
No murders in New Hope--well, one that I remember, but that's another posting--but amazingly, things tended to unfold in the same way. In June, you met the cast of characters. Billy's hustler that he brought back from New York and gave a job in the club. Dino from Los Angeles, who was close-mouthed about his past. Gary, just graduated from the Culinary Institute of America, and frustrated to be making salads when he knew how to make a sauce américaine. Dominique, Carol's new opera singer girlfriend. Wacky Nina who would drive up to New York City every weekend to attend classes at the Famous Soap Opera Actor's School of Soap Opera Acting.
Combine.
Mix well.
Bake in the sun.
Be surprised.
And now, midway through my second summer of hanging on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown smoking cigars and enjoying my iced-quad-venti-one-pump-vanila-easy-ice-latté, the same thing is happening.
These people just appear out of nowhere. A different set from last summer.
So here's the cast of characters this year.
Top O' The Mornin': Sweet guy who works at Starbucks. He went to college at Trinity University in Dublin, Ireland. Majoring in Guiness. Something of a songster, he's convinced Starbucks to do a live music thing on monday nights, And he's a Top O' The Mornin' and his guitar are a huge hit.
Grand Cherokee: Busy hanging out. Allegedly a painting contractor, although no one has ever known him to do anything besides hanging out. And he's a pro at that. He brings his own chair! One of those fold up jobs you buy for $7. And seems to have a constant array of snack foods available. So Grand Cherokee will set up his chair on the porch of Starbucks, or, y'know, in the middle of the sidewalk out front (Seriously!) After years of not being able to drive because of an unfortunate DWI situation, Gran Cherokee is the proud new owner of... a Jeep Grand Cherokee! Periodically, he'll leap up from his chair (think Batman upon seeing the Bat Signal projected on the clouds over Gotham), hastily gather up his snack foods, dash to the Jeep Grand Cherokee, power down all the windows, crank the sound system, and go tearing off. Only to return moments later.
Bimbeaux: She asked me what I did for work. And I told her. Then I asked what she did. She loves animals, she explained, so she works with animals. "Oh," I probed, "do you work at a shelter?" No. No, she doesn't. She works in a lab, injecting bunnies, puppies, and kittens with toxic substances and taking careful notes of their decline. (Seriously!) I tend to avoid her after that revelation. That and the fact that her idea of conversation is "No way! Oh wow. Wow. Oh my God. No way. That's really cool." (This in response to a statement like, "I just got off work.") But, she's built like a brick outbuilding. So, those nutty heterosexual guys always seem to have time for her. I mean, she's one of the eleven women on the planet who can wear low-rider jeans without evoking winces.
Mr. Miserable: I hate him. Like a little black cloud at a picnic. And so hostile. But in that vague and can't-quite-put-your-finger-on-it sort of way. Never misses a chance to undermine you. Disagrees with everything you say, relying on his seemingly bottomless repository of incorrect knowledge. I flat out ignore him.
The Boy: There's not much of the Death In Venice in me, but he brings it out. Oh. My. God. He is just so fuckin beautiful. About nineteen (legal!), this shock of wiry dirty blond hair, these impossibly beautiful lips that would look so good glistening with my cum, amazing blue eyes, and, beneath the drapey shapeless black clothing he wears all the time, a really sweet little body, combining baby fat and decent muscle. Most nights, I see him in my dreams. Only he's chained up. And crying. And I comfort him. Then make him cry some more.
He's Gay!: Again, like nineteen or twenty years old. Rose colored glasses. Grungey long sideburns. I mean, soooo Boy Bar circa 1988. And he's Queer! I mean, he greets all these presumably straight boys he knows from high school with "Hey Handsome Man!", a kiss on the cheek, and a fanny pat. (Seriously!) I mean, all these straight kids sit there talking about their girlfriends and the motorcycles they want to buy, and he's applying liquid eyeliner. I'm a huge fan of his. Haven't made his acquaintance yet, but he's definitely in my sites.
...and last but not least...
Stewie!: I'm not even using a nom de plume here. Stewie totally rocks. He's just incredible. He grew up with his hippie father on a commune in Oregon. He's tattooing himself. Thhis wild, organic design, incorporating a blessing in Sanskrit characters running down his arm. It looks amazing. Stewie is an expert canoer. He can make his canoe go sideways in the river. His girlfriend is this total waif babe. Such a babe. A babe with brains. I love seeing them together. Taking turns sitting on each other's laps. Today, I wrote on a piece of looseleaf paper, "Pick a nice summer light, dim the lights, light candles, share a bottle of wine, take turns reading to each other from the Journals of Anaïs Nin." They're gonna do it, too. Here's something magical that Stewie told me today. We were watching the Tuesday evening Vigil for Peace planting themselves at the intersection. "WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER!" and the like. Stewie told me how last summer, he made up fifty signs that read, "You are Beautiful" and got fifty friends to stand around Doylestown for three hours holding them up for passing cars and pedestrians.
So at this point, I'm spending hours on the porch of Starbucks. If'n you happen to be in town, stop by. I'll introduce you around.
I remember this phenomenon from when I would spend my summers working in restaurants in New Hope when I was growing up. At the time, it reminded me of an Agatha Christie novel. (Aggie was a youthful obsession.) At the outset, a cast of characters--very boldly drawn characters--are introduced and assembled.
"Miss Chittenwell descended the steps of 10:20 from Paddington, blinking in the sun, mopping her brow with her handkerchief, and clutching her carpet bag. "To be expected," she said, not seeing anyone from Pauncett House waiting on the platofrm to meet her."
The characters gather at some remote country house for the weekend, and over the course of the book, much of the interest is generated by their interactions. Fortunes rise, fortunes fall. A body or five is discovered. And in the final pages a murderer is uncovered.
No murders in New Hope--well, one that I remember, but that's another posting--but amazingly, things tended to unfold in the same way. In June, you met the cast of characters. Billy's hustler that he brought back from New York and gave a job in the club. Dino from Los Angeles, who was close-mouthed about his past. Gary, just graduated from the Culinary Institute of America, and frustrated to be making salads when he knew how to make a sauce américaine. Dominique, Carol's new opera singer girlfriend. Wacky Nina who would drive up to New York City every weekend to attend classes at the Famous Soap Opera Actor's School of Soap Opera Acting.
Combine.
Mix well.
Bake in the sun.
Be surprised.
And now, midway through my second summer of hanging on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown smoking cigars and enjoying my iced-quad-venti-one-pump-vanila-easy-ice-latté, the same thing is happening.
These people just appear out of nowhere. A different set from last summer.
So here's the cast of characters this year.
Top O' The Mornin': Sweet guy who works at Starbucks. He went to college at Trinity University in Dublin, Ireland. Majoring in Guiness. Something of a songster, he's convinced Starbucks to do a live music thing on monday nights, And he's a Top O' The Mornin' and his guitar are a huge hit.
Grand Cherokee: Busy hanging out. Allegedly a painting contractor, although no one has ever known him to do anything besides hanging out. And he's a pro at that. He brings his own chair! One of those fold up jobs you buy for $7. And seems to have a constant array of snack foods available. So Grand Cherokee will set up his chair on the porch of Starbucks, or, y'know, in the middle of the sidewalk out front (Seriously!) After years of not being able to drive because of an unfortunate DWI situation, Gran Cherokee is the proud new owner of... a Jeep Grand Cherokee! Periodically, he'll leap up from his chair (think Batman upon seeing the Bat Signal projected on the clouds over Gotham), hastily gather up his snack foods, dash to the Jeep Grand Cherokee, power down all the windows, crank the sound system, and go tearing off. Only to return moments later.
Bimbeaux: She asked me what I did for work. And I told her. Then I asked what she did. She loves animals, she explained, so she works with animals. "Oh," I probed, "do you work at a shelter?" No. No, she doesn't. She works in a lab, injecting bunnies, puppies, and kittens with toxic substances and taking careful notes of their decline. (Seriously!) I tend to avoid her after that revelation. That and the fact that her idea of conversation is "No way! Oh wow. Wow. Oh my God. No way. That's really cool." (This in response to a statement like, "I just got off work.") But, she's built like a brick outbuilding. So, those nutty heterosexual guys always seem to have time for her. I mean, she's one of the eleven women on the planet who can wear low-rider jeans without evoking winces.
Mr. Miserable: I hate him. Like a little black cloud at a picnic. And so hostile. But in that vague and can't-quite-put-your-finger-on-it sort of way. Never misses a chance to undermine you. Disagrees with everything you say, relying on his seemingly bottomless repository of incorrect knowledge. I flat out ignore him.
The Boy: There's not much of the Death In Venice in me, but he brings it out. Oh. My. God. He is just so fuckin beautiful. About nineteen (legal!), this shock of wiry dirty blond hair, these impossibly beautiful lips that would look so good glistening with my cum, amazing blue eyes, and, beneath the drapey shapeless black clothing he wears all the time, a really sweet little body, combining baby fat and decent muscle. Most nights, I see him in my dreams. Only he's chained up. And crying. And I comfort him. Then make him cry some more.
He's Gay!: Again, like nineteen or twenty years old. Rose colored glasses. Grungey long sideburns. I mean, soooo Boy Bar circa 1988. And he's Queer! I mean, he greets all these presumably straight boys he knows from high school with "Hey Handsome Man!", a kiss on the cheek, and a fanny pat. (Seriously!) I mean, all these straight kids sit there talking about their girlfriends and the motorcycles they want to buy, and he's applying liquid eyeliner. I'm a huge fan of his. Haven't made his acquaintance yet, but he's definitely in my sites.
...and last but not least...
Stewie!: I'm not even using a nom de plume here. Stewie totally rocks. He's just incredible. He grew up with his hippie father on a commune in Oregon. He's tattooing himself. Thhis wild, organic design, incorporating a blessing in Sanskrit characters running down his arm. It looks amazing. Stewie is an expert canoer. He can make his canoe go sideways in the river. His girlfriend is this total waif babe. Such a babe. A babe with brains. I love seeing them together. Taking turns sitting on each other's laps. Today, I wrote on a piece of looseleaf paper, "Pick a nice summer light, dim the lights, light candles, share a bottle of wine, take turns reading to each other from the Journals of Anaïs Nin." They're gonna do it, too. Here's something magical that Stewie told me today. We were watching the Tuesday evening Vigil for Peace planting themselves at the intersection. "WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER!" and the like. Stewie told me how last summer, he made up fifty signs that read, "You are Beautiful" and got fifty friends to stand around Doylestown for three hours holding them up for passing cars and pedestrians.
So at this point, I'm spending hours on the porch of Starbucks. If'n you happen to be in town, stop by. I'll introduce you around.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Joy
Another night of sitting in my car, moaning and wailing.
And then, I decided that it might be a good time to conjure my spirit guide, Wolf.
We only talked briefly, but it was a good talk. As usual, I aske the questions, and he answers them. (Novel for someone like me, who enjoys listening to myself talk so much [g].)
As usual, a lot was conveyed in that conversation. But here's the really important thing. Wolf told me that this time will determine the rest of my life. If I allow misery to set down roots into my soul, then I'll be miserable for the rest of my life. No matter what my future circumstances. But, if I can find joy, even during this hard time, then nothing will ever be able to hurt me again. Joy will be mine for all time.
Sweet.
The stakes are high, but I feel up to the challenge.
Another night of sitting in my car, moaning and wailing.
And then, I decided that it might be a good time to conjure my spirit guide, Wolf.
We only talked briefly, but it was a good talk. As usual, I aske the questions, and he answers them. (Novel for someone like me, who enjoys listening to myself talk so much [g].)
As usual, a lot was conveyed in that conversation. But here's the really important thing. Wolf told me that this time will determine the rest of my life. If I allow misery to set down roots into my soul, then I'll be miserable for the rest of my life. No matter what my future circumstances. But, if I can find joy, even during this hard time, then nothing will ever be able to hurt me again. Joy will be mine for all time.
Sweet.
The stakes are high, but I feel up to the challenge.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Broke
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
This is unbelievable. Almost to the point of getting me to revise my cosmology.
Yesterday when I got home, fumbling around with the groceries, and I dropped one of the bags. The bag contained only one item: a dozen eggs. i swore like a sailor. Amazingly, only a few of the eggs were broke. And but dang that pissed me off.
So this morning, rushing off to work, my practially new cell phone head set thingy got caught in the door. The wire snapped. So it's broke and I can't afford to buy a new one. And that practically renders my cell phone, which is soon to be cut off anyway, all but unuseable because the teeny tiny speaker in it is broke.
After work, went kayaking, hit Starbucks, then headed to the gym. Luckily, I'm paid through the end of August. I took two weeks off and lost ten pounds. So I've got six weeks to get my body back for Inferno. If I can manage to scrape together the $350 I owe by the end of August. And that's going to be tough, because I'm flat broke. And with every day that goes by, it's less and less likely that I'll get a spot. So I might not even get to Inferno this year. And by the way, unluckily, paying for the gym exhausted my bank account. I hate that.
So at the gym, I was undressing, feeling good looking forward to my workout. (Legs tonight.) While taking off my watch, the strap broke. My watch. I love that watch. Oh hell. I hate that. Maybe I can get a new strap made. But, of course, not right now, because I'm broke. Muttering under my breath, but doing my best not to get out of my workout headspace, I threw my stuff into the locker, and put the lock on. Then, I realized that I didn't have the key to the padlock I had just secured. Unbelievable. I've never done that in twenty years of gym going.
So after my workout, I had borrowing bolt cutters from the staff to look forward to. More muttering under my breath as I broke into my locker. And in doing so, broke my padlock.
So how am I? I'm broke.
I am so broke. Broke and broken.
This is all just too much. I've been plagued by insomnia lately. Even though the weather is gorgeous (96 again today!); even though I had the opportunity to whip an amazing man on Sunday courtesy of my old buddy Bus Driver; even though I loved playing softball on Saturday and played pretty well, I'm low.
What I want... what I really want... is for someone to hold me while I cry. This is all just too much.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
HHH
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
My all time favorite weather conditions. And we've had day after day of it this week. Walking Faithful Companion at night feels like moving through water, the air is so heavy.
And that's good. That's what's sustaining me right now.
Yep. That's right. Another Bad Period.
How'm'I doin'? Well, I'll tell ya.
Broke. Lonely. Single. Unhappy. Trapped. Not having a good week. No word at all from the folks I sent my resume to. So hard up I'll have to forego cigars and stick to iced tea or something at Starbucks for the next two weeks. Extended myself to those two guys I talked about, and neither one has shown much interest. Did meet a hot man at the Raven last Saturday night, but, alas, he has a verrry strong penchant for raunch. As in manstink. And that never works for me. Not with my extreme aversions to smells of any kind and that hair-trigger gag reflex of mine. But I'll be open. Maybe that's negotiable with him. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I was watching "Kept" last night, my latest television obsession. The thing on VH1 where Jerry Hall puts a bunch of doofuses through their paces, to see which one will get to spend a year as her "kept man." The dramatic interest is provided by the fact that she's looking for someone to carry her bags through Heathrow, and the guys are thinking Jerry will be the winner's girlfriend.
But anyway, it occured to me that I would sweep the field. I can talk art. I can cook. I have table manners. I'm considerate. I'm a good conversationalist. I'm adventurous. I speak french, italian, some russian, some italian, and a little german. I'm handy around the house at such diverse tasks as flower arranging and welding. I can dress well when I want to. I give one hell of a massage. I'd make a great kept man.
Or, y'know, a boyfriend.
Or, y'know, a boy.
Or, even, a Sir.
Although, the conundrum is this. Both of the Current Men Of Interest are New Yorkers. And the basic rule of romance in NYC is that there's always somebody standing behind you, with a better body, better mind, better job, better apartment, better car, better everything. And at the same time, even though--summoning all the modesty I can here--I tend to rock the Bike Stop and the Raven when I stick my head in there, finding a man who both turns my crank sexually and with whom I don't mind having a conversation is statistically so improbably as to be just about beyond the realms of possibility.
Anyway.
Thank the Lord it's sweltering hot. That makes anything endurable.
(Like it's news to you that I'm twisted? C'mon.)
Sunday, July 17, 2005
On Guests Uninvited
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
So after a great day playing softball and tooling around NYC yesterday, I get up late, have a cup of tea and a protein shake, and hop in the shower. I love unrushed Sunday ablutions. I do a body scrub, a facial scrub, hose out my hole with the Shur-Shot, nice close shave of my face and scalp, body moisturizer, face moisturizer. Went and picked out something to wear today. Settled on my cargo capri pants (ya gotta see'em to understand, bought them at I. Goldberg's, some army in the world actually sends its soldiers off to battle in cargo capri pants), tight gray shirt, and my Wesco's. The loggers, not the custom harness.
And then...
*sigh*
The Wants showed up.
I hate that.
Things were going just fine, until in the door came the Wants.
Want to be able to not have to sweat to afford Inferno. Want to get to the beach. Want a job that pays me enough money to live on (I sent in a resume to a place in community development agency in Philadelphia on Thursday, everybody keep their fingers crossed.) And then, of course, the one that takes up the most space: Want a man to share my life--or significant parts of my life anyway--with.
Yeah.
Y'see, I formulated a plan of sorts. I decided to give it a try. If that Guy From LA wasn't available for much more than a twice a year Edge play session, that didn't mean that it would be impossible to find someone who was, right?
Could I replace the Guy From LA?
And I actually didn't have to think very hard to come up with a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: I've actually known him for years. How we met might warrant a retelling. Years and years and years ago (okay, maybe not that many), newly sprung from my relationship with the Seven and A Half Year Awful Relationship, I headed to the LURE. And there he was. This big guy, full leather, smoking a cigar and drinking from a can of Bud. I mean, he hit all those archetypes dead on. I had seen him a couple of times before. And he made me weak in the knees.
He was flagging everything on the left, so I did my best (which was pretty bad) to present myself. Standing in front of him, hands behind my back, head bowed. (I know, right? I know better now.) But miraculously, he took the bait. Approached. Did this great wordless breathing down my neck thing. I was rock hard. Asked, I think, what I was up for. (A question that I've never been good at answering when posed by a Top. Still haven't figured that one out.) He said something like, okay, well maybe I'll catch up with you later.
So I went to look elsewhere, hoping that I'd end up going home with him.
And that same night, I met my buddy whom we'll call PissPiggy. This stunning looking Italian guy from Brooklyn. He was all pig, and thus so much more approachable. He and I got to know each other, and there was immediate report. He's tough not to like, sunny and open disposition, and a beautiful smile that says he's up for anything.
But, it turned out that PissPiggy wasn't quite available that night. Y'see, he had already agreed that tonight, he belonged to none other than the fantasy sadist I had talked to earlier. Huh, I said, I talked to him. Oh cool! said PissPiggy. And he had a plan. Involving the three of us.
So PissPiggy, Sadist, and li'l ol' me bundled into PissPiggy's car and headed for Sadist's place on the upper upper East Side.
Once there, Sadist began putting the two of us through our paces. That was the first night that I ever drank piss. But then, Sadist started taking out his various implements. He pretty quickly realized that PissPiggy could take it (and wanted more) and I couldn't. So, PissPiggy was chained spread eagle on the bed, and I was ordered to "stand over there."
And then, at one point, Sadist handed me his flogger. He ordered me to beat the pig on the bed.
Now, this was the very first time I had ever held a flogger in my life. Ever.
I swung it around a few times, getting a feel for it. Then I started rhythmically bringing it down on PissPiggy's thighs and chest (knowing almost instinctively to focus on the muscley parts).
And, it was like I came to life. I liked it! I really liked it!
Sadist took note. "Enjoying yourself, aren't you, pig?"
I grinned, "I could really get used to this, Sir!"
And the rest, as they say, is history.
But a few years later, whom should I meet at Inferno but Sadist. He recognized me immediately. Asked what I was up to. I explained that I had found my calling in wielding singletail whips. He laughed. "I created a monster!" he said.
Okay. So why am I thinking of him now?
Well, I was totally unprepared to give Sadist what he wanted way back then. In those novice days, I guess I just wanted to be tied up or something. I had no idea. But now, I'm... uh... seasoned. And I have developed a definite taste for the kind of Edge play that Sadist likes. And, on his worldleathermen profile, he notes that he's open to finding another "bruder Top" for "something more than a weekend." Huh.
So that bears exploration, no?
Possibility #2: He's this really hot guy from the World Wide Internet. We've talked a few times online. He's in NYC, too. More details than that, I don't know. And as Lolita once famously advised me, "The internet doesn't mean shit; you gotta smell'em."
So how's it going?
Not well. Whenever I've gone up to NYC these past few weeks, I've called both of them. Sadist has been on vacation or traveling for work. Number Two always seems to be out on Long Island attending his niece's first holy communion or something.
Just recently, I noticed that phone messages I left and email I've sent hasn't been returned. Maybe they're both real busy.
Or maybe they're unavailable.
Anyway.
Enough of the wants. The rain has let up (oh joy, another rainy summer, so good for the roses). I'm gonna head to Starbucks in Doylestown, to sit on the porch, enjoy my latte, smoke a cigar, and dig into a book.
And maybe, maybe, some local leatherman who has somehow heretofore escaped my attention will stop at Starbucks to enjoy the afternoon, and there I'll be, all decked out in my capri cargo pants, smoking my cigar, that great ink of mine, all moisturized, and with my hole squeaky clean.
Hey! It might happen!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Summer
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
No postings in a week??? What's up with that? Everything okay?
Yup. Everything is copascetic here. Doing really good.
Here are some highlights of what you've missed...
•Went to the beach. Last Tuesday. That day it was bitter freezing cold. (72 degrees.) It actually was pretty cold. And overcast. And there was a stiff wind blowing. Spraying me and UnFortunate with sand. Which hurt. "Ow. Ow. Ow! OWWW!" Eventually, I was pounding my fists in the sand saying "It's not fair!" and we headed into NYC. Good thing, too. Much longer and we would have been buried.
•In NYC, I visited the needle exchange program I used to run. That was gratifying. They're still there, and going strong. And the walls are still painted orange. And I was greeted by one of my favorite former employees, who had left about six months before I did to go to motorcycle mechanics school in Arizona. Great to see him. Love the guy. A little story by way of introduction. We were once at a conference together. All sitting around with people from other agencies in this big hotel ballroom while someone up at the podium was talking about social networks among crack injectors in New Haven or something. And we were there with folks from lots of other agencies, too. So this guy turns to a woman from another agency at our table and says, "You're a bootie freak, aren't you?" Before I could say, "You're way outta line Mister, and this means your job is on the line!" the two of them rose and headed up to her room. Wish I had one tenth of that chutzpah.
•Saturday was softball. We lost. Both games. But I haven't had so much fun playing softball in a long, long time. I did pretty well at the plate, and my base running is strong as ever, despite last year's broken ankle. And I even did my part in the field pretty well.
•Sunday was the GMSMA SM/Spirituality Special Interest Group. Two plus years in the running. And a sublime experience always.
Something I spoke to the group about...
Why did that Guy From LA get under my skin so much? Good question. I think I figured it out with the help of a child psychiatrist from Connecticut whom I fucked on Tuesday night. And a bit more. I was saying how the Guy From LA is the most withholding man I've ever met. He gives nothing away. When I went out to visit him, I was greeted at the airport, not with "Great to see you! You're looking really good!" or something along those lines, but with, "The plane was on time. I'm parked right out here."
And this propelled me to go to greater and greater lengths to get something by way of affirmation out of him. Being of basically sound mind, I didn't go so far as some of his recent exex that I know about. Nothing illegal, for instance.
So I was telling this by way of pillow talk, and child psychologist chimes in, "Like your father maybe?"
Bingo.
Wow.
And how.
So that's the deal. I couldn't get it from my dad, so it became especially important to get it from this guy.
Uh huh.
And later, I was thinking... Now, as a rule, I do not try to self-psychoanalyze my SM. Not a good thing to do. It's a black box. And best left that way.
But maybe, just maybe... Having grown up with the love of The World's Least Demonstrative Man, perhaps what turns my crank is erotic encounters with men that are very, very demonstrative.
And I can live with that. If that's one of my demons, then I'll gladly invite that one out to dance.
And now, it's back to work. Which feels good. My mantra lately is "if you're not sweating, it's not work." And since it's five to ten degrees hotter in the shop than it is outside, I'm working a lot.
And for the past two days, the weather has been beautiful. So after work, I head to Lake Galena and spend an hour or three paddling around in my kayak. I'm getting familiar with a pair of hawks. A certain heron allows me to get real close. I saw a snapping turtle today of jurassic proportions. (Seriously!)
And then, I head to Starbucks, where I smoke cigars on the porch and enjoy a latte.
I love summer. I'm broke. I ain't got nobody. But damn, am I happy.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Allons Les Enfants De La Patrié...
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Oh. Wait. No. That's The Other One.
Happy 239th Birthday America! I'm feeling sooooo Toby Keith today!
Anyway, great weekend so far! I'm hardly regretting at all that I'm not in Florida right now.
Not being able to take a vacation this year meant that I could go to the annual July 4th Weekend dungeon party hosted by a couple of Inferno buddies of mine, who have made it their mission to insure that sexual deviancy thrives in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. My first trip from NYC to this party lead to much anxiety on my part, worried that I would be outclassed. This time, I just felt myself to be entirely among friends. And, because it was a quick hop, skip, and jump to get there, I brought my chains and whips and such, but if'n I didn't end up playing, that was cool, too.
Barbeque was good, and I enjoyed the company. Two of the very pillars of GMSMA were there. I have made a date to bottom to... Horowitz (no nom de plume necessary here, I don't think) at Inferno this year. He has a plan. A diabolical plan, by the sound of it. Involving an "announcement made at breakfast." So I'm pretty enthralled.
After dinner, the guys that were just there for dinner drifted homewards, and the rest of us got busy in the well-appointed dungeon.
In attendance was this... this... this man. I've seen him and his Sir for years. And they always make me drip cum. He, in particular, is just so incredibly hot. True to form, whenever he's around, I just stare at the ground sixteen inches in front of my boots, unable to make eye contact, little less engage in conversation, little less actually ask if he'd be up for a scene. (I hate that!)
But as dinner was breaking up, he approached me, greeted me, and shook my hand. Later, in the dungeon, I watched as he put a succession of subs into his vac rack. Sticking my courage to the sticking place, I complemented him on the scenes he did, and helped him clean up afterwards. And then, I did it. I asked if he wanted to play. And he said, "Sure."
He went to check in with his Sir, and I set about thinking what I might like to do. I decided on face-to-face, with boxing gloves (had mine!), maybe chained to a post (alas, no sides of any post were free of eye-bolts). I just had this image of this big, beautiful man, all chained up, and me wearing the boxing gloves, working him over. The physicality of it, getting to throw some good punches at him. And then, bringing the glove up to his face and saying, "yeaaaaah, kiss it boy. kiss it." Followed by a measured jab right in the kisser.
The Man returned, asked what I had in mind, and I told him I wanted to beat him. He declined that, but said he would sure be up for a flogging.
Okay. Not a problem. Switch gears.
Flogging... I'm good at that!
So that's what we did. At his request, he was unrestrained. Just standing there, bearing his beautiful back to me. It just reddened up beautifully. So wonderful. I was turned on the entire time. It was a sweet and pure distillation of SM. So simple. So elegant. So good for the soul.
Afterwards, he was glowing. And flying. And grateful. We talked some more. And, as it happens, he's a really great guy. Very likeable. Very upfront. Self aware. And maybe I'll have a second bite at the apple at Inferno. Hope so ("kiss it, boy. yeah. kiss it.").
Yesterday, Sunday, it was off to the beach. Namely, Gunnison Beach at Sandy Hook. Aka, the Nude Beach.
Word had reached me that there was this big Bear thing going on there. Metrobears NYC, Garden State Bears, and the Liberty Bears of Philadelphia were all converging at Gunnison. And, to be sure, that was all the inclination I needed.
And... and... one of the great things about living here is I-195. If you look at a map of NJ, all the roads basically run north-south. Except for 195. Which cuts due east from Trenton and takes you to the beach, 35 miles away. It's a great road, and it's like a worm hole: you enter at one end, and in no time at all, it spits you out at the other end.
Traffic was dicey once I got off the Parkway at the opposite end of 195, but that's more a function of the fact that Sandy Hook is sort of off there on it's own on the northernmost tip of the New Jersey shoreline.
I messed up on the parking, and had to slog through the non-nude beach to get to the nude beach (I always do this), but finally, there it was: nudidity! But it was all kinds of heterosexual nudidity. I watched some hot naked straight men cavorting with their naked girlfriends/wives for a while. And then I remembered: the queers tend to congregate on the southern part of the nude beach.
Right.
So I rolled up my blanket and slogged down the beach some more. (Some nude heterosexuals complemented me on my ink work along the way. See? I make friends wherever I go!)
And there were the naked bears! A beach full of them! Yippee!
Tragically, by this point, it was four o'clock. So I had just time enough to scope out the bears, enjoy a cigar (which you can't really do with a stiff ocean breeze blowing, and get 20 pages into my collection of Nero Wolfe short stories before the bears were packing up to go.
But it's all good. I enjoyed the expanding empty beach left behind by the departing bears for a bit, then packed up my stuff and headed for home. I stopped at the New Jersey Diner With Incredibly Slow Service But Great Food (I think it's a chain... I've eaten there countless times before), and made another stop in New Hope to grab a latte at Starbucks. (I had hoped to stop and grab an iced quad venti one-pump-vanilla easy-ice latte on my way in, but whaddya know, there were no parking spaces at all in the entire town. When I worked there as a pup, I had a t-shirt printed up that read, "Pave The River!" It was an inside joke, but I was the only one on the inside.) (Yes, even I, though I know better, used to wear legible t-shirts.)
But that's not all! Later that night, I headed back down to New Hope to stop into the Raven. The crowd was pretty dreary, but I did meet one hot Worldleathermen interlocutor, whom I've really gotta tie up and torture some time. He's got one of those north jersey accents that just make me melt.
So now, here I am, on July 4th, sitting on the porch, typing this account of myself.
It's a gorgeous day. ("The two most beautiful words in the English language...") My astilbe, day lilies, and lupine are just exploding. After a shopping trip, I'm heading down to Philadelphia for a party and to watch the fireworks with some local leathermen.
Nice.
Nice nice nice nice Nice.
Enjoy your weekend!
Saturday, July 02, 2005
More Cold-Blooded Messengers!
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to themosquito breeding bog pond in the back yard and let him go. Far from the road. With fresh water. And lots of nice green vegetation for him to eat.
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
So this morning--or, y'know, what passes for "morning" on a Saturday here at the Humble Abode--my father called out to me from the kitchen. As I made my way there, the words "What did you say? I thought you said, 'there's a toad in the kitchen,'" were coming out of my mouth.
But as I rounded the corner, there was my father, bracing himself against a chair, and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor was a toad.
My dad was going on about 'how did that get in here? it's because you leave the door open...' or something. I scooped up the toad (he was beautiful, this pale greenish-brown, like ancient, weathered bone). I took him out on the porch, and let him go in the garden.
A toad... I used to spend my summer days in childhood catching toads and frogs.
This guy didn't even piss in my hand. (It's their defense mechanism. If Faithful Companion got a hold of him in his mouth, it would have made him sick.) And when I let him go, he just sat there.
Beautiful.
And then, just now, I was out on the porch having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I heard this sort of metallic clunking sound. I thought it was Faithful Companion's tail knocking something. But when I heard it again, I got a better sense of where it was coming from. I stepped off the porch and examined the downspout of the rain gutter.
And sure enough, there was a box turtle, knocking up against it with his hard shell.
This was a different box turtle from the one the other day. He was older, with a more mature design on his shell. I went out, plucked him up, and carried him back to the
Turtle, toad, turtle.
Could this be something like an angelic Morse code? What's going on here?
I choose to believe it's some good portent. Something good is coming my way. Or maybe someone good.
And that's good. I need that.
That Guy From LA is on Fire Island this week. I told him how I had off all this week. How I couldn't afford to go down to Florida. How much I loved Fire Island. If it crossed his mind to invite me out for a day, he sure didn't give that away by anything he said.
Ah well. I abide.
I've been sort of hard-hearted concerning menfolk of late. I've met exactly two-and-a-half men in my life who I found... compelling. That's the word. Men who sort of had it all. They were so hot I couldn't think clearly when I looked at them. And I could just talk to them forever and ever, never exhausting things to think about. They were men who loved life, and who lived people. And what a great team we'd make. Like the Hardy Boys (only, y'know, not related; and we'd fuck), just chafing at the bit to get out there and have some new adventure.
Body, mind, spirit. Everything I love about all the men in my life, although ample quantities of each in the form of one guy. Two and a half times!
And at this point in my life, I'm less and less willing to settle for anything less than the complete package. Settling just gets me into trouble. Sure, he has an amazing body with that beer gut and those sixteen inch guns on him and all that hair, but if I have to hear about how this is like a Will & Grace episode one more time... Or, gosh, it's amazing that this guy can reel off these amazing poems from memory, but what is up with those toenails of his?
Oh. And he has to be accessible, too. Someone I can call up and make plans for Friday night with on a wednesday afternoon at Starbucks.
And, it goes without saying, he has to be absolutely twisted. And omnivorously so.
Anyway. I'm off to the annual July Fourth Weekend Dungeon Party hosted by friends of mine who live in Pottstown. Longtime readers may remember the Yellow Dress dilemma when I went there two years ago. No such anxieties this time around. I'm just going for the burgers and hot dogs. Although maybe I'll meet some special guy...
Or maybe those were just a couple of turtles and a toad that happenstance placed in my path.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Turtle
This is so cool.
On my way home today, I was thinking about turtles.
Sometimes, driving the backroads of Bucks County in the summer months, you run across box turtles. My father would always stop the car, get out, and bring me home a turtle. I love turtles. Just the word... turtle. What a great word. Can you resist smiling when you say 'turtle?' Turtle. Say it out loud.
Don't you just love turtles?
And then, I knew this guy who lived in Reading. He had a place in the city with a little twelve by twelve foot yard behind it. He once brought home a turtle and put it in his back yard. Among his friends, it became "a thing" to bring him turtles. They couldn't go anywhere as his backyard was surrounded by a wall. And the turtles bred. In no time at all, his back yard was full of box turtles.
And they were great! You'd come out into the back yard and they'd all retreat into their shells, but one by one they'd pop out. And get this, because he always had lettuce or whatever with him, they'd come up to you, expecting to be fed.
Friendly turtles!
So as I drive along, I'm thinking all about turtles. And... y'know... keeping an eye on the road, on the lookout for turtles.
I didn't find a turtle.
I got home, and, of course, the first order of business was walking Faithful Companion. I leashed him up and we headed out.
And there, just off the driveway, about ten feet from the road, was a box turtle.
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
Faithful Companion had urgent business to attend to. And we took care of that business.
When we came back from our walk, the turtle was gone. He had been headed in the direction of the road, and... well... that's too terrible to think about.
So I hunted for the turtle.
We found him about fifteen feet away (fast turtle, huh?).
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked up at me.
I picked up the turtle, and took him to themosquito infested slime hole pond in the woods behind the house. I found a nice green spot for the turtle, and put him down. He came out of his shell.
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
See? This is how it is with me. Just when I start to get into A Mood, the Universe reaches out to me, giving me what I need,
Sending me a messenger. In the form of a turtle.
This is so cool.
On my way home today, I was thinking about turtles.
Sometimes, driving the backroads of Bucks County in the summer months, you run across box turtles. My father would always stop the car, get out, and bring me home a turtle. I love turtles. Just the word... turtle. What a great word. Can you resist smiling when you say 'turtle?' Turtle. Say it out loud.
Don't you just love turtles?
And then, I knew this guy who lived in Reading. He had a place in the city with a little twelve by twelve foot yard behind it. He once brought home a turtle and put it in his back yard. Among his friends, it became "a thing" to bring him turtles. They couldn't go anywhere as his backyard was surrounded by a wall. And the turtles bred. In no time at all, his back yard was full of box turtles.
And they were great! You'd come out into the back yard and they'd all retreat into their shells, but one by one they'd pop out. And get this, because he always had lettuce or whatever with him, they'd come up to you, expecting to be fed.
Friendly turtles!
So as I drive along, I'm thinking all about turtles. And... y'know... keeping an eye on the road, on the lookout for turtles.
I didn't find a turtle.
I got home, and, of course, the first order of business was walking Faithful Companion. I leashed him up and we headed out.
And there, just off the driveway, about ten feet from the road, was a box turtle.
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
Faithful Companion had urgent business to attend to. And we took care of that business.
When we came back from our walk, the turtle was gone. He had been headed in the direction of the road, and... well... that's too terrible to think about.
So I hunted for the turtle.
We found him about fifteen feet away (fast turtle, huh?).
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked up at me.
I picked up the turtle, and took him to the
I looked at the turtle. The turtle looked at me.
See? This is how it is with me. Just when I start to get into A Mood, the Universe reaches out to me, giving me what I need,
Sending me a messenger. In the form of a turtle.
Monday, June 27, 2005
I Am Lana Turner
Except for time at work today, the past 30 hours have just about all been spent in the company of the Baron von Philadelphia.
Yesterday (that would be Sunday), I picked him up at the train station in Doylestown, and we headed up to NYC for Pride festivities. On the drive up, we talked politics and economics. Well, I kept my mouth shut mostly, because I know better at this point than to argue with the Baron about politics. We arrived in the city at about 3 pm, found parking in my newly discovered parking spot haven (like I'm gonna tell you where!), and positioned ourselves at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 24th Street.
Timing couldn't have been better. At least, I can't think of any contingent that I'd want to see that I missed out on. I saw the leather/fetish/BDSM groups (Go GMSMA! Go Eulenspiegel Society! Go LSM!). And, I was treated to the spectacle of all five of the Fab Five from Queer Eye riding in convertible VWs. (I nearly wet my pants.) (Carson, Ted, and Thom waved back to me.) And then, we saw the religious affiliated contingent. And, the Episcopalians sure constituted about 75% of that section. (Go Home Team!). And, newly ordained openly gay Bishop Gene Robinson was on hand. I was hoping to get a blessing out of the Bishop, but he was just in smile-and-wave mode. Purple is definitely his color though!
So that was all very cool.
The Baron and I grabbed some food, wandered down to the Village, hung out for awhile, grabbed some more food (at Mamoun's on MacDougal Street--Woof! to the guy behind the counter, worth the trip all by himself, not counting the best humous and falafel anywhere), and then slowly made our way back to the car.
More non-stop-turn-down-the-radio conversation on the way back home. Not about politics this time, so I plunged right in.
We arrived back at the Humble Abode at a decent hour, and I got a good night's sleep.
After work today, I headed home to retrieve the Baron, who was my houseguest for the night, and then we went to hang at Starbucks until the Baron's train arrived to take him back down to Philadelphia.
"So," asked the Baron,"When are you going to get published?"
I hemmed. I hawed. "Well, y'see..."
The Baron took me to task. "You," he said, "should be a columnist. You should be writing for the Voice, or for Instigator. Or somewhere. What you should do, and what I suggested you do two years ago, is put together a sampling of some of your best writing and send it off to every publication you can think of and..."
No.
No, I told the Baron.
No.
I care too much about my writiing. And I can't do that. When I put together my poetry and sent it off to the fine folks at the MFA program at Temple University all those years ago, and received in the mail the thin envelope instead of the fat envelope, I stopped writing poetry then and there.
I just can't deal with rejection. And every time in my life that I've tried to compete in that way, I've failed. And it hurts terribly.
The Baron countered that I'll never get published without doing that. That's how the game works. You write, you send off your stuff, you get rejection after rejection after rejection, but then maybe your hard work will pay off, and you'll get a letter of acceptance. Why, if you were an actor instead of a writer, it would be all about going to auditions...
And then, the proverbial lightbulb came on.
Not quite, y'see.
I've met with a lot of success in my life. I've had some wonderful romances. I've had some great jobs (I was the Executive Director a non-profit organization with a staff of 25 and a budget (when Ieft, after increasing it by 500%) of $4 million.
But, none of those successes came my way by putting my hat in the ring and hoping for the best.
I operate differently.
And that's when I thought of Lana Turner.
You remember Lana Turner, right?
There she was, sitting at the counter of Schrafft's, sucking on an ice cream soda, wearing her pink angora sweater, when in walked some big Hollywood director or producer or someone who took one look at her and signed her on the spot.
Okay. So I leave it all up to chance, huh?
Uh uh. And neither did Lana.
Lana decided to eschew the route of running to all those auditions with all those other hopeful would-be starlets. She knew that Hollywood types frequented Schrafft's. So she strategically positioned herself at the counter, and made sure she looked radiant, and dressed in something eye-catching, like a pink angora sweater.
And that's how I operate, too.
Not the pink angora sweater part though.
I don't send out my resume to eighty different ads I find on Craig's List and hope for the best. Because that's never worked for me. And when it doesn't work for me, I go into an emotional tailspin. I don't have the fortitude for that. It would wreck me.
Rather, I look for opportunities in the modest situations that my daily life presents to me wherein I can shine. When I meet people, I do my best to be friendly and engaging. When I'm given the opportunity to have the spotlight, I do my best to rise to the occasion. I try to come off as warm, thoughtful, smart, and fun. (And I am, pretty much, warm, thougtful, smart, and fun.)
And every once in a while, someone notices and approaches me with an offer. "Would you consider...?"
The Baron was not impressed.
"But," he countered, you can't count on that. Lana Turner was all of eighteen. If she had tried that at 40, the result might have been different."
Not so fast, Baron!
"Yeah, but here's the thing. Even though I make $10 an hour, even though I can't go to Florida, even though this guy from LA that I'm wild about takes me for granted, even though my father makes me crazy on a regular basis, even though I'm no longer tooling around NYC and getting laid as much as I like... I am happy. I am at peace. I might not like my life, but I like living it. I like what I do at work. I like sitting at Starbucks and shooting the breeze and making cute boys nervous with my Scorpio gaze, I like going to the gym despite the fact that I'll never be a big muscle-bound thug, I like walking my dog and seeing the fireflies every night. Life is good. I am happy. And if, perchance, someone out there says, "Hey! I've read your blog! I really like your writing! How would you like to be a columnist for my publication?", well then that's gravy.
So screw the whole sending off what I affectionately refer to as "my stuff" to several dozen publications. And dying a slow death by a thousand knives in the following weeks.
I'll be at Starbucks. Enjoying my iced venti quad one-pump-vanila easy ice latte. Waiting patiently.
And if my patience goes unrewarded, then I'll head to Lake Galena and enjoy the sweet breeze and the sunshine and working my muscles paddling my kayak for a few hours.
Except for time at work today, the past 30 hours have just about all been spent in the company of the Baron von Philadelphia.
Yesterday (that would be Sunday), I picked him up at the train station in Doylestown, and we headed up to NYC for Pride festivities. On the drive up, we talked politics and economics. Well, I kept my mouth shut mostly, because I know better at this point than to argue with the Baron about politics. We arrived in the city at about 3 pm, found parking in my newly discovered parking spot haven (like I'm gonna tell you where!), and positioned ourselves at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 24th Street.
Timing couldn't have been better. At least, I can't think of any contingent that I'd want to see that I missed out on. I saw the leather/fetish/BDSM groups (Go GMSMA! Go Eulenspiegel Society! Go LSM!). And, I was treated to the spectacle of all five of the Fab Five from Queer Eye riding in convertible VWs. (I nearly wet my pants.) (Carson, Ted, and Thom waved back to me.) And then, we saw the religious affiliated contingent. And, the Episcopalians sure constituted about 75% of that section. (Go Home Team!). And, newly ordained openly gay Bishop Gene Robinson was on hand. I was hoping to get a blessing out of the Bishop, but he was just in smile-and-wave mode. Purple is definitely his color though!
So that was all very cool.
The Baron and I grabbed some food, wandered down to the Village, hung out for awhile, grabbed some more food (at Mamoun's on MacDougal Street--Woof! to the guy behind the counter, worth the trip all by himself, not counting the best humous and falafel anywhere), and then slowly made our way back to the car.
More non-stop-turn-down-the-radio conversation on the way back home. Not about politics this time, so I plunged right in.
We arrived back at the Humble Abode at a decent hour, and I got a good night's sleep.
After work today, I headed home to retrieve the Baron, who was my houseguest for the night, and then we went to hang at Starbucks until the Baron's train arrived to take him back down to Philadelphia.
"So," asked the Baron,"When are you going to get published?"
I hemmed. I hawed. "Well, y'see..."
The Baron took me to task. "You," he said, "should be a columnist. You should be writing for the Voice, or for Instigator. Or somewhere. What you should do, and what I suggested you do two years ago, is put together a sampling of some of your best writing and send it off to every publication you can think of and..."
No.
No, I told the Baron.
No.
I care too much about my writiing. And I can't do that. When I put together my poetry and sent it off to the fine folks at the MFA program at Temple University all those years ago, and received in the mail the thin envelope instead of the fat envelope, I stopped writing poetry then and there.
I just can't deal with rejection. And every time in my life that I've tried to compete in that way, I've failed. And it hurts terribly.
The Baron countered that I'll never get published without doing that. That's how the game works. You write, you send off your stuff, you get rejection after rejection after rejection, but then maybe your hard work will pay off, and you'll get a letter of acceptance. Why, if you were an actor instead of a writer, it would be all about going to auditions...
And then, the proverbial lightbulb came on.
Not quite, y'see.
I've met with a lot of success in my life. I've had some wonderful romances. I've had some great jobs (I was the Executive Director a non-profit organization with a staff of 25 and a budget (when Ieft, after increasing it by 500%) of $4 million.
But, none of those successes came my way by putting my hat in the ring and hoping for the best.
I operate differently.
And that's when I thought of Lana Turner.
You remember Lana Turner, right?
There she was, sitting at the counter of Schrafft's, sucking on an ice cream soda, wearing her pink angora sweater, when in walked some big Hollywood director or producer or someone who took one look at her and signed her on the spot.
Okay. So I leave it all up to chance, huh?
Uh uh. And neither did Lana.
Lana decided to eschew the route of running to all those auditions with all those other hopeful would-be starlets. She knew that Hollywood types frequented Schrafft's. So she strategically positioned herself at the counter, and made sure she looked radiant, and dressed in something eye-catching, like a pink angora sweater.
And that's how I operate, too.
Not the pink angora sweater part though.
I don't send out my resume to eighty different ads I find on Craig's List and hope for the best. Because that's never worked for me. And when it doesn't work for me, I go into an emotional tailspin. I don't have the fortitude for that. It would wreck me.
Rather, I look for opportunities in the modest situations that my daily life presents to me wherein I can shine. When I meet people, I do my best to be friendly and engaging. When I'm given the opportunity to have the spotlight, I do my best to rise to the occasion. I try to come off as warm, thoughtful, smart, and fun. (And I am, pretty much, warm, thougtful, smart, and fun.)
And every once in a while, someone notices and approaches me with an offer. "Would you consider...?"
The Baron was not impressed.
"But," he countered, you can't count on that. Lana Turner was all of eighteen. If she had tried that at 40, the result might have been different."
Not so fast, Baron!
"Yeah, but here's the thing. Even though I make $10 an hour, even though I can't go to Florida, even though this guy from LA that I'm wild about takes me for granted, even though my father makes me crazy on a regular basis, even though I'm no longer tooling around NYC and getting laid as much as I like... I am happy. I am at peace. I might not like my life, but I like living it. I like what I do at work. I like sitting at Starbucks and shooting the breeze and making cute boys nervous with my Scorpio gaze, I like going to the gym despite the fact that I'll never be a big muscle-bound thug, I like walking my dog and seeing the fireflies every night. Life is good. I am happy. And if, perchance, someone out there says, "Hey! I've read your blog! I really like your writing! How would you like to be a columnist for my publication?", well then that's gravy.
So screw the whole sending off what I affectionately refer to as "my stuff" to several dozen publications. And dying a slow death by a thousand knives in the following weeks.
I'll be at Starbucks. Enjoying my iced venti quad one-pump-vanila easy ice latte. Waiting patiently.
And if my patience goes unrewarded, then I'll head to Lake Galena and enjoy the sweet breeze and the sunshine and working my muscles paddling my kayak for a few hours.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Emersonian
So yesterday, the first day of Spring, I was sitting at Starbucks enjoying a cigar and a latte. And coming out of a rough period. I had just had the double whammy: realizing that my financial straits were too dire to afford a trip down to Florida; and having that man from LA with whom I'm totally smitten inform me, without a trace of 'gosh sorry' in his voice, that although he knew I'd be attending Session A of Inferno, he was opting for Session B. (I give, and I give, and I give...)
But the night before, I had taken Faithful Companion for his last walk of the day, and the night air was thick with fireflies. Millions of them. Everywhere. It was just breathtaking.
And then there I was, soaking up the sunlight, enjoying a very good cigar, and watching the seemingly endless parade of Really Hot Boys that seem to be swarming around Starbucks in Doylestown this year...
And then it happened.
Out of nowhere, I just had this sense of myself as... nothing. As a chance agglomeration of energy, just like the trees. Just like the chair I was sitting on. Just like the air moving in and out of my lungs. And so ephemeral. Since the Big Bang until the end of time, I'm not even a blink of an eye. I am nothing. Nothing at all.
Kooky, I know.
But it was just so amazing.
I've never been good at meditation. Never able to quiet my mind. Stop the endless thoughts. The best I can do is to count.
But yesterday, without even trying, there I was in Zen bliss.
So nothing is wrong. Nothing is bad. Because nothing is.
So yesterday, the first day of Spring, I was sitting at Starbucks enjoying a cigar and a latte. And coming out of a rough period. I had just had the double whammy: realizing that my financial straits were too dire to afford a trip down to Florida; and having that man from LA with whom I'm totally smitten inform me, without a trace of 'gosh sorry' in his voice, that although he knew I'd be attending Session A of Inferno, he was opting for Session B. (I give, and I give, and I give...)
But the night before, I had taken Faithful Companion for his last walk of the day, and the night air was thick with fireflies. Millions of them. Everywhere. It was just breathtaking.
And then there I was, soaking up the sunlight, enjoying a very good cigar, and watching the seemingly endless parade of Really Hot Boys that seem to be swarming around Starbucks in Doylestown this year...
And then it happened.
Out of nowhere, I just had this sense of myself as... nothing. As a chance agglomeration of energy, just like the trees. Just like the chair I was sitting on. Just like the air moving in and out of my lungs. And so ephemeral. Since the Big Bang until the end of time, I'm not even a blink of an eye. I am nothing. Nothing at all.
Kooky, I know.
But it was just so amazing.
I've never been good at meditation. Never able to quiet my mind. Stop the endless thoughts. The best I can do is to count.
But yesterday, without even trying, there I was in Zen bliss.
So nothing is wrong. Nothing is bad. Because nothing is.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Hello, Thrill Seekers!
Here's a cool article from the NY Times emailed me by Diabolique. If you enjoy taking personality tests--I know I do!--then here's a link where you can take one to determine just how much of a thrill-seeker you are.
Enjoy! And keep those dopamine levels elevated!
The New York Times
June 20, 2005
What's the Lure of the Edge?
By RICHARD A. FRIEDMAN, M.D.
DURING a vacation last winter, I took a zip-line canopy tour of the
Costa Rican rain forest. Strapped into a harness 100 feet above the jungle
floor, I was flying through the air, with the toucans and parrots,
attached to a steel cable strung between two platforms. I was having far
too much fun to think that this could be dangerous. At first it was pretty
thrilling, but by the 10th zip line I felt it was losing its charge.
On the last and highest platform, a guy just in front of me began to
hyperventilate. Being a psychiatrist, I realized he was having a panic
attack. I got him to relax with some deep breathing and then asked him
whether he had had this problem before. "Oh, yes," he said. "I thought
this would be a way to conquer my fear of heights."
Why was he terrified by what was beginning to bore me? We were both
members of the sex that studies and more informal surveys indicate is more
drawn to thrill seeking (for better or worse - more men than women have
orbited the earth, while men are two to three more times likely to be
pathological gamblers). But this man and I seemed to be on opposite ends
of the thrill-seeking spectrum.
On an individual level, the difference seems to be hard-wired in our
brains, scientists have begun to discover. What is more surprising is that
thrill seeking appears to be enjoyed not just by an elite - or, as some
think, aberrant - bunch of people who put their lives at peril for a jolt
of excitement.
The focus of research on a relatively small, though dramatic, group of
unsavory characters like psychopaths and drug addicts can give the
impression that thrill is only for the mentally unbalanced. Far from it.
Thrill seeking in one form or another is so widespread that it has
practically become institutionalized in the culture. From reality TV shows
like "Fear Factor," shot through with danger and risk, to the growing
popularity of extreme sports, there is something to suit everyone's taste.
The root of the thrill-seeking experience lies in an ancient neural
circuit buried deep inside the brain that is intimately involved in
pleasure, reward and novelty seeking. This system, which connects our
thinking cortex with our more primitive limbic emotional center, runs on
dopamine, a neurotransmitter. Many of life's greatest pleasures feel good
because, in the end, they cause the release of dopamine from the brain's
reward pathway. Sex, food and recreational drugs all flood the brain with
dopamine - and so does thrill seeking.
Like just about every other human attribute, there is great variation
in individual taste for novelty and thrill seeking, much of it rooted in
the brain. For example, Dr. Nora Volkow at the National Institute on Drug
Abuse has shown that response to euphoria-producing drugs is related to
the levels of brain dopamine receptors.
In one experiment, she gave normal male controls intravenous Ritalin,
which releases dopamine, and found that those who experienced the drug as
pleasant had significantly fewer dopamine receptors than participants who
reported unpleasant effects. Those with more dopamine receptors at
baseline are probably less likely to abuse drugs or seek any thrill
because their brains already have more dopamine activity to start with. In
fact, these guys are likely to be thrill-averse, like that fellow I met on
the zip line.
For the chronically underaroused, a simple bike ride or jog in the
park doesn't do the trick; it would take something more intense like
diving 50 feet into a gorge or snorting cocaine to provide them with
enough dopamine for them to feel excited.
An entire industry has emerged in the last decade to satisfy such
voracious appetites for thrills. Rich Hopkins, an inveterate surfer,
stuntman and extreme sportsman, is president of ThrillSeekers Unlimited, a
company he founded in 1992. Clients try anything from skydiving, bungee
jumping and paragliding to zip-line or stunt driving. They will even give
you the "fire burn," where you are set safely on fire, like a real
stuntman. "When we started, we had around 50 to 75 customers that first
year," Mr. Hopkins said. "Now, we routinely take out several hundred
people in just one adventure."
Who are these thrill seekers? About 80 percent are men, Mr. Hopkins
said. But the big surprise is that some of the largest clients are
corporations and that many participants are men well into their 50's and
60's. "Instead of a golf holiday, they are sending their employees for an
extreme sports adventure and they love it," Mr. Hopkins said.
Charles Edwards has been chasing tornadoes in Oklahoma ever since he
studied meteorology in college. "I've been obsessed with tornadoes for the
last 15 years," he said. "Every storm is completely different, and you
just get this adrenaline rush and try to get as close as possible to them.
I've seen houses getting blown apart and cows tossed aside. Just awesome."
Mr. Edwards was so hooked by the thrill of chasing storms that he
created his own company, Cloud 9 Tours, to support his habit, as he called
it. "We take people out during the tornado season here in Oklahoma, from
April through August. These guys come back again and again."
But what about thrill-averse guys? Can they learn to enjoy a little
more excitement? If so, would thrilling activity itself change their
neural circuitry to make them more like thrill lovers?
Probably not, judging from studies of Dr. Jerome Kagan at Harvard, who
has shown that certain temperamental traits you are born with are pretty
stable. Using M.R.I. brain scanning, Dr. Carl Schwartz at Harvard recently
found that these anxious adults showed greater responses in the amygdala,
a brain region that processes fearful and threatening stimuli, to faces of
strangers than to familiar faces. In other words, people who like novelty
have biologically different brains than cautious folks, and no one knows
if experience changes this.
Of course, the surge of dopamine that thrill seekers search out can
literally be addicting. The reason is that anything that activates our
reward system, whether it's a natural reinforcer like sex, food or a
thrilling act, is seen by the brain as something that should be repeated -
over and over. And despite how smart we think we are, our brain can't
really distinguish among the activating effects of drugs, thrill or useful
behaviors. Even worse, for some people, drugs and thrill are more
powerfully self-reinforcing than even food and sex. So the very design of
our brain that promotes survival also makes us vulnerable.
Alain Robert, a k a Spiderman, is known for climbing skyscrapers
without special equipment or a safety net. He recently climbed the Taipei
101 Tower in Taiwan, which, standing at 1,670 feet, is the world's tallest
building. "The euphoria when I reach the summit maybe lasts a few hours or
days at the most, and then I have to have it again," he said. "I enjoy the
risk and to be in control of my fear and have to do it again and again. I
cannot stop climbing."
Not all men get their thrills in such physically spectacular ways as
Mr. Robert; some get it from their work.
James Cramer, a founder of TheStreet
.com and a financial commentator, used to manage a hedge fund. "I
craved the risk," he said. "I would come to work and if by midday I hadn't
made a serious bet, I'd be miserable. The bigger the bet, the better."
"I got such energy and felt so alive," he added, "I was ecstatic on a
daily basis."
For some, though, there may be more to thrill than only a dopamine
rush. "Guys like extreme sports not just because it's exciting, but
because it makes them feel accomplished and more self-confident," Mr.
Hopkins said.
John Bardes, a freshman at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., who
enjoys scaling 50-foot walls, echoed this. "The wall is a genuine test of
your ability and if your muscles can't make it, you fall. It's a way of
finding your limits and seeing how far you can push yourself."
Mr. Bardes, however, is not fearless. "At first I was nervous, and the
higher I went the more anxious I became," he said. "But I got over that.
Up there, I feel like I'm alone in my own world and it clears my head."
Thrill has a dark side, too. In the sexual arena, it can literally be
fatal. Men with a strong taste for sexual novelty in the form of multiple
partners are at high risk of both getting and spreading H.I.V. and other
sexually transmitted diseases as they move from one encounter to the next.
But few forms of thrill are as insidiously destructive as gambling.
Recently, scientists have peered into the brain while people are
playing a game that simulates gambling. Dr. Hans Breiter at Harvard had
subjects play a computer game of chance in which they either won or lost
money, and monitored their brain activity. He found that the prospect of
winning money activates the same dopamine reward pathway in the brain as
recreational drugs like cocaine do. No wonder gambling is so compelling.
This also helps explain why gamblers, like drug addicts, often seem
helpless to resist an impulse that brings intense pleasure but can ruin
their lives.
Curiously, winning the prize is not what seems to make gambling so
thrilling and addictive. Dr. David Zald at Vanderbilt University measured
dopamine release in a group of subjects who played a computer game in two
different conditions. In the first, subjects selected one of four cards
and knew they might win a $1 reward, but didn't know when it might occur.
In the second, subjects knew ahead that they were guaranteed to win $1
with every fourth card.
Dr. Zald found a large increase in dopamine activity when winning was
unpredictable, but not when the subjects knew what was coming. The
implication is that gambling is powerfully addictive precisely because the
outcome is uncertain.
Believe it or not, thrill seeking is pretty much a modern phenomenon.
Our hominid ancestors did not bungee jump or do any of the silly things
that we do these days for thrill. Life back on the savannah was exciting
enough on its own, with ferocious predators and an overall lack of
amenities.
Nowadays, where the basics like food or a sexual partner are a mouse
click away, we don't really need our reward circuit for survival; we are
free to use it just for pleasure. (To determine your risk comfort level,
you can try a test adapted from the Zuckerman-Kuhlman Personality
Questionnaire at nytimes.com/menshealth.)
With few exceptions, like 9/11, modern life has become so safe and
controlled that you have to work at finding a little excitement. In fact,
one might predict that as life becomes more predictable, riskier forms of
excitement will emerge. Hang gliding off Mount Everest? Antarctic
triathlon? There's no telling what's next.
Here's a cool article from the NY Times emailed me by Diabolique. If you enjoy taking personality tests--I know I do!--then here's a link where you can take one to determine just how much of a thrill-seeker you are.
Enjoy! And keep those dopamine levels elevated!
The New York Times
June 20, 2005
What's the Lure of the Edge?
By RICHARD A. FRIEDMAN, M.D.
DURING a vacation last winter, I took a zip-line canopy tour of the
Costa Rican rain forest. Strapped into a harness 100 feet above the jungle
floor, I was flying through the air, with the toucans and parrots,
attached to a steel cable strung between two platforms. I was having far
too much fun to think that this could be dangerous. At first it was pretty
thrilling, but by the 10th zip line I felt it was losing its charge.
On the last and highest platform, a guy just in front of me began to
hyperventilate. Being a psychiatrist, I realized he was having a panic
attack. I got him to relax with some deep breathing and then asked him
whether he had had this problem before. "Oh, yes," he said. "I thought
this would be a way to conquer my fear of heights."
Why was he terrified by what was beginning to bore me? We were both
members of the sex that studies and more informal surveys indicate is more
drawn to thrill seeking (for better or worse - more men than women have
orbited the earth, while men are two to three more times likely to be
pathological gamblers). But this man and I seemed to be on opposite ends
of the thrill-seeking spectrum.
On an individual level, the difference seems to be hard-wired in our
brains, scientists have begun to discover. What is more surprising is that
thrill seeking appears to be enjoyed not just by an elite - or, as some
think, aberrant - bunch of people who put their lives at peril for a jolt
of excitement.
The focus of research on a relatively small, though dramatic, group of
unsavory characters like psychopaths and drug addicts can give the
impression that thrill is only for the mentally unbalanced. Far from it.
Thrill seeking in one form or another is so widespread that it has
practically become institutionalized in the culture. From reality TV shows
like "Fear Factor," shot through with danger and risk, to the growing
popularity of extreme sports, there is something to suit everyone's taste.
The root of the thrill-seeking experience lies in an ancient neural
circuit buried deep inside the brain that is intimately involved in
pleasure, reward and novelty seeking. This system, which connects our
thinking cortex with our more primitive limbic emotional center, runs on
dopamine, a neurotransmitter. Many of life's greatest pleasures feel good
because, in the end, they cause the release of dopamine from the brain's
reward pathway. Sex, food and recreational drugs all flood the brain with
dopamine - and so does thrill seeking.
Like just about every other human attribute, there is great variation
in individual taste for novelty and thrill seeking, much of it rooted in
the brain. For example, Dr. Nora Volkow at the National Institute on Drug
Abuse has shown that response to euphoria-producing drugs is related to
the levels of brain dopamine receptors.
In one experiment, she gave normal male controls intravenous Ritalin,
which releases dopamine, and found that those who experienced the drug as
pleasant had significantly fewer dopamine receptors than participants who
reported unpleasant effects. Those with more dopamine receptors at
baseline are probably less likely to abuse drugs or seek any thrill
because their brains already have more dopamine activity to start with. In
fact, these guys are likely to be thrill-averse, like that fellow I met on
the zip line.
For the chronically underaroused, a simple bike ride or jog in the
park doesn't do the trick; it would take something more intense like
diving 50 feet into a gorge or snorting cocaine to provide them with
enough dopamine for them to feel excited.
An entire industry has emerged in the last decade to satisfy such
voracious appetites for thrills. Rich Hopkins, an inveterate surfer,
stuntman and extreme sportsman, is president of ThrillSeekers Unlimited, a
company he founded in 1992. Clients try anything from skydiving, bungee
jumping and paragliding to zip-line or stunt driving. They will even give
you the "fire burn," where you are set safely on fire, like a real
stuntman. "When we started, we had around 50 to 75 customers that first
year," Mr. Hopkins said. "Now, we routinely take out several hundred
people in just one adventure."
Who are these thrill seekers? About 80 percent are men, Mr. Hopkins
said. But the big surprise is that some of the largest clients are
corporations and that many participants are men well into their 50's and
60's. "Instead of a golf holiday, they are sending their employees for an
extreme sports adventure and they love it," Mr. Hopkins said.
Charles Edwards has been chasing tornadoes in Oklahoma ever since he
studied meteorology in college. "I've been obsessed with tornadoes for the
last 15 years," he said. "Every storm is completely different, and you
just get this adrenaline rush and try to get as close as possible to them.
I've seen houses getting blown apart and cows tossed aside. Just awesome."
Mr. Edwards was so hooked by the thrill of chasing storms that he
created his own company, Cloud 9 Tours, to support his habit, as he called
it. "We take people out during the tornado season here in Oklahoma, from
April through August. These guys come back again and again."
But what about thrill-averse guys? Can they learn to enjoy a little
more excitement? If so, would thrilling activity itself change their
neural circuitry to make them more like thrill lovers?
Probably not, judging from studies of Dr. Jerome Kagan at Harvard, who
has shown that certain temperamental traits you are born with are pretty
stable. Using M.R.I. brain scanning, Dr. Carl Schwartz at Harvard recently
found that these anxious adults showed greater responses in the amygdala,
a brain region that processes fearful and threatening stimuli, to faces of
strangers than to familiar faces. In other words, people who like novelty
have biologically different brains than cautious folks, and no one knows
if experience changes this.
Of course, the surge of dopamine that thrill seekers search out can
literally be addicting. The reason is that anything that activates our
reward system, whether it's a natural reinforcer like sex, food or a
thrilling act, is seen by the brain as something that should be repeated -
over and over. And despite how smart we think we are, our brain can't
really distinguish among the activating effects of drugs, thrill or useful
behaviors. Even worse, for some people, drugs and thrill are more
powerfully self-reinforcing than even food and sex. So the very design of
our brain that promotes survival also makes us vulnerable.
Alain Robert, a k a Spiderman, is known for climbing skyscrapers
without special equipment or a safety net. He recently climbed the Taipei
101 Tower in Taiwan, which, standing at 1,670 feet, is the world's tallest
building. "The euphoria when I reach the summit maybe lasts a few hours or
days at the most, and then I have to have it again," he said. "I enjoy the
risk and to be in control of my fear and have to do it again and again. I
cannot stop climbing."
Not all men get their thrills in such physically spectacular ways as
Mr. Robert; some get it from their work.
James Cramer, a founder of TheStreet
.com and a financial commentator, used to manage a hedge fund. "I
craved the risk," he said. "I would come to work and if by midday I hadn't
made a serious bet, I'd be miserable. The bigger the bet, the better."
"I got such energy and felt so alive," he added, "I was ecstatic on a
daily basis."
For some, though, there may be more to thrill than only a dopamine
rush. "Guys like extreme sports not just because it's exciting, but
because it makes them feel accomplished and more self-confident," Mr.
Hopkins said.
John Bardes, a freshman at Carleton College in Northfield, Minn., who
enjoys scaling 50-foot walls, echoed this. "The wall is a genuine test of
your ability and if your muscles can't make it, you fall. It's a way of
finding your limits and seeing how far you can push yourself."
Mr. Bardes, however, is not fearless. "At first I was nervous, and the
higher I went the more anxious I became," he said. "But I got over that.
Up there, I feel like I'm alone in my own world and it clears my head."
Thrill has a dark side, too. In the sexual arena, it can literally be
fatal. Men with a strong taste for sexual novelty in the form of multiple
partners are at high risk of both getting and spreading H.I.V. and other
sexually transmitted diseases as they move from one encounter to the next.
But few forms of thrill are as insidiously destructive as gambling.
Recently, scientists have peered into the brain while people are
playing a game that simulates gambling. Dr. Hans Breiter at Harvard had
subjects play a computer game of chance in which they either won or lost
money, and monitored their brain activity. He found that the prospect of
winning money activates the same dopamine reward pathway in the brain as
recreational drugs like cocaine do. No wonder gambling is so compelling.
This also helps explain why gamblers, like drug addicts, often seem
helpless to resist an impulse that brings intense pleasure but can ruin
their lives.
Curiously, winning the prize is not what seems to make gambling so
thrilling and addictive. Dr. David Zald at Vanderbilt University measured
dopamine release in a group of subjects who played a computer game in two
different conditions. In the first, subjects selected one of four cards
and knew they might win a $1 reward, but didn't know when it might occur.
In the second, subjects knew ahead that they were guaranteed to win $1
with every fourth card.
Dr. Zald found a large increase in dopamine activity when winning was
unpredictable, but not when the subjects knew what was coming. The
implication is that gambling is powerfully addictive precisely because the
outcome is uncertain.
Believe it or not, thrill seeking is pretty much a modern phenomenon.
Our hominid ancestors did not bungee jump or do any of the silly things
that we do these days for thrill. Life back on the savannah was exciting
enough on its own, with ferocious predators and an overall lack of
amenities.
Nowadays, where the basics like food or a sexual partner are a mouse
click away, we don't really need our reward circuit for survival; we are
free to use it just for pleasure. (To determine your risk comfort level,
you can try a test adapted from the Zuckerman-Kuhlman Personality
Questionnaire at nytimes.com/menshealth.)
With few exceptions, like 9/11, modern life has become so safe and
controlled that you have to work at finding a little excitement. In fact,
one might predict that as life becomes more predictable, riskier forms of
excitement will emerge. Hang gliding off Mount Everest? Antarctic
triathlon? There's no telling what's next.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Life With Father, Part LCXXXIV
So I get home this evening in a black mood. How black? Well, I sat in my jeep in the driveway for a good half hour bellowing, first from anguish, and then with rage.
Pour quoi?
One thing I won't go into. For... certain reasons. But, I realized that the numbers don't add up and I won't be able to drive down to Florida the first week of July to visit my brother and a bunch of my leather brothers along the way. I just can't afford it. Not on $10 an hour.
Poverty = Sucks.
And then, of course, there's my dad. "Why can't he be different?" was the basic gist. (jist?)
So after I had exercised myself some, the first order of business was to take the groceries inside, and take Faithful Companion for a walk.
The sky was beautiful. Everything is so lush and green. So much in bloom. Beautiful.
Then, I went back and relayed the days events to my father. And then I fixed him dinner (Monday means ham and eggs).
And then...
Well, more correctly, and now...
He and I are sitting here smoking cigars, flipping the channel back and forth betweent the Red Sox-Indians game (Go Bosox! Dave Wells on the mound! Yesss!) and Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky's ballet, Tchaikovsky being my father's second favorite composer after Hector Berlioz.
So I'm still miffed about the cancelled vacation, but overall, things are better.
So I get home this evening in a black mood. How black? Well, I sat in my jeep in the driveway for a good half hour bellowing, first from anguish, and then with rage.
Pour quoi?
One thing I won't go into. For... certain reasons. But, I realized that the numbers don't add up and I won't be able to drive down to Florida the first week of July to visit my brother and a bunch of my leather brothers along the way. I just can't afford it. Not on $10 an hour.
Poverty = Sucks.
And then, of course, there's my dad. "Why can't he be different?" was the basic gist. (jist?)
So after I had exercised myself some, the first order of business was to take the groceries inside, and take Faithful Companion for a walk.
The sky was beautiful. Everything is so lush and green. So much in bloom. Beautiful.
Then, I went back and relayed the days events to my father. And then I fixed him dinner (Monday means ham and eggs).
And then...
Well, more correctly, and now...
He and I are sitting here smoking cigars, flipping the channel back and forth betweent the Red Sox-Indians game (Go Bosox! Dave Wells on the mound! Yesss!) and Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky's ballet, Tchaikovsky being my father's second favorite composer after Hector Berlioz.
So I'm still miffed about the cancelled vacation, but overall, things are better.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Been Busy Today
Yo. Check this out...
So tomorrow, at Folsom Street East, all these guys will be like "Dang! Look at your boots? They are sick! They are phat! Who you got blackin' for ya out there in howling wilderness?"
And I'll be like, "Yo. This is my work."
And they be like, "Yo. No way. You got the excellent services of cubby j. sherwood working on your boots, right?"
And I'll be like, "Dig. I was makin' with the saddle soap and makin' with the Huberts. This is my work."
And they'll be like, "Yo! Dawg! Can't touch that."
So, y'know, it should be good.
Tragically, it's going to be cold. San Francisco cold. Like mid 70s. (Brrrrrr...) But I'll do my best to show up my ink work.
See ya there!
Yo. Check this out...
So tomorrow, at Folsom Street East, all these guys will be like "Dang! Look at your boots? They are sick! They are phat! Who you got blackin' for ya out there in howling wilderness?"
And I'll be like, "Yo. This is my work."
And they be like, "Yo. No way. You got the excellent services of cubby j. sherwood working on your boots, right?"
And I'll be like, "Dig. I was makin' with the saddle soap and makin' with the Huberts. This is my work."
And they'll be like, "Yo! Dawg! Can't touch that."
So, y'know, it should be good.
Tragically, it's going to be cold. San Francisco cold. Like mid 70s. (Brrrrrr...) But I'll do my best to show up my ink work.
See ya there!
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