After
Lately, I've been spending a lot of time thinking and daydreaming about after.
After work, or school, where I'm doing or learning to do something entirely new, I drive home. Along some lonely desert road. Or maybe through the swamps of Southeast Florida.
I pull in the driveway--from the road it looks almost as though no one lives there--of my modest, sparely furnished house. Maybe it's a place I built myself, from one of my many designs. Maybe it's an open plan ranch.
And in the door, here comes Faithful Companion, lumbering in from the deck where he warms his old bones in the sun. I head to my study, emptying my pockets, putting my cell phone in the charger, hooking up my iPod to the speaker system.
A nice feature of my study--a smallish room with bookshelves and a desk--is a low platform, about five by seven feet, upholstered in some comfy manmade material that doghair doesn't stick to. It's smack up against a floor-to-ceiling window. The perfect place to read the paper, check email on my laptop, relax with a good book and drift in and out of sleep on a Sunday night.
Then I head to the bedroom. I get the hot tub going. Take off the clothes.
I head to the kitchen. The kitchen takes up a lot of real estate. In the middle is a big island, covered in butcher block, a nice, wide open work space. There's a big dining room table off the kitchen, because I love to feed people. I get some tea started and get dinner for Faithful Companion.
Then back to the bedroom. I jump in the shower. The shower has a wall of glass, to bring the outside in. When I shower in the morning, I see the rising sun lighting up the sky.
Tea's ready!
I pour myself a mug, grab a cigar, and head out to the hot tub.
For the next forty-five minutes or so, I have a big smile and a vacant expression on my face.
After the hot tub?
An intense little workout, then dinner.
Spend the night reading, surfing the 'Net, watching telebishin. Head out to my welding workshop and do some work. Spend some time in the dungeon, making everything perfect.
Before bedtime, I head to my little Pustina. A little corner of the house set up as a chapel. Something discrete. Minimal. (Everything in there is minimal. Duh!) I light a candle, get quiet, and say Compline.
So all this alone?
Yeah. Maybe.
Maybe there's the Love Of My Life in the picture. But we're not co-habitating. I need to live alone for a while. Man I miss living alone. "She resolved never more to live her life to the rhythms of others" wrote Tillie Olsen in Ironing. That's the ticket.
But he can come over for dinner. Sit in the hot tub with me, both of us smoking cigars. And, of course, he can spend the night.
Or maybe there's a slave around. Or a boy. Or some duly submissive man. Making sure my boots always look great. Having that tea ready for me when I get home. Always ready with a backrub.
And there's a guest room. Guests are good. Come and stay for eight months if you want.
Or not.
Either way, I'm good.
*sigh*
It's taken me a long time for this vision to be so robust, tracing so many different intimations to the source. It's a great gift to know what you want.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Saturday, June 17, 2006
He's A Tramp, But They Love Him
Cool!
Lady And The Tramp is on tonight!
Tramp was my first crush. Even though he's a dog and all. That independence, that edginess, the raw masculinity, the make-your-own-rules ethos. I had it bad for Tramp. And I've been looking for his human equivalent ever since.
And, there's so much more to love about the Lady and the Tramp. There's the gay couple next door: Jock the Scots Terrier and Trusty the Bloodhound. And then there's the musical numbers by none other than Miss Peggy Lee.
Cool!
Lady And The Tramp is on tonight!
Tramp was my first crush. Even though he's a dog and all. That independence, that edginess, the raw masculinity, the make-your-own-rules ethos. I had it bad for Tramp. And I've been looking for his human equivalent ever since.
And, there's so much more to love about the Lady and the Tramp. There's the gay couple next door: Jock the Scots Terrier and Trusty the Bloodhound. And then there's the musical numbers by none other than Miss Peggy Lee.
I, Pleatherman
So today, I was spending some time putting wash away, and figuring out something to wear to Folsom Street East tomorrow. (Yeah I'll be there.) It looks to be the return of my favorite kind of weather: H-cubed. As in, Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
So I'm thinking shorts. I have a bunch of REI shorts I like (lots of pockets), a couple of pair of Carhartt shorts, and two pair of leather shorts. One pair are really tight on me, so they usually end up getting worn under my chaps. The other pair are leather cargo shorts.
Hmmm...
Why do I not wear these more often?
I tried them on, and I remembered why. I mean, they're great. They're Mephisto leather, from Australia, so the leather is just silky smooth and soft. Great stuff.
But they're just cut so damn bad. Sort of square and shapeless. They hang a little bit longer than they should, and are sort of drapey in the leg. They just don't quite work.
But, they're shorts, they're leather, they have pockets, so the leather cargo shorts it'll be.
As I was rooting around, I ran across The Pants I've Worn Exactly Once.
Longtime readers of Singletails will remember these. I bought them years ago. I was looking through the sale racks of one of the Gay Gay Gay! clothing stores on 8th Avenue in Chelsea. And there they were. Leather jeans, lacing over the crotch, this great sort of dark dark brown color. And then I tried them on.
Wow!
They rode really low on my hips, but flared at the ankles, so I could wear boots with them and they'd still be flapping. And that great laced crotch!
And the price tag? Like $50.
Sold!
This was mere days before I was whipped by the first time. By ARt. At Elmer Odge in NYC.
Which I was terrifically anxious about. I wasn't sure if I could take it, since as we know, when it comes to pain, I draw the line at inconvenience. In the cab on the way over to Elmer Odge, I was digging out change in the pockets, and I ran across a little slip of paper. It read, "Made of 100% Man Made Materials."
Gasp!
These weren't leather jeans!
They're pleather jeans!
I'm a Pleatherman!
I'm ersatz!
This was not good for my state of mind, but I managed to talk myself down off that particular ceiling.
Anyway, that was the only time I've worn the pleathers. I've kept them around almost as a momento of the occasion. That night, up on the cross, singing my birthday song.
Taking them out again, on this beautiful hot July day, I was struck anew by them. They really do look a lot like leather.
I thought of a guy I know from Inferno, who is a vegan. And extends his veganism to not wearing anything derived from animals. And looks so fucking hot in rubber you wouldn't believe.
I tried on the pleathers.
Damn.
They ride really low on my hips, elongating my torso, and making my ass look great. I can't quite see the view from the back, but I'm pretty sure that if I saw me wearing these, without a shirt, I'd want to whip me.
Huh.
So I think sometime, not tomorrow, but sometime, I'm gonna wear'em out.
I'll be a pleatherman. Yes I will. And maybe, nobody will know.
Except, of course, you.
So if I run into you, that means I'll have to kill you.
But not to worry, I'll make the experience one of the best scenes you've ever had. Promise! And among your final thoughts before your cerebral cortex ceases operations will be, "Gosh his ass looks so great in those pants!"
So today, I was spending some time putting wash away, and figuring out something to wear to Folsom Street East tomorrow. (Yeah I'll be there.) It looks to be the return of my favorite kind of weather: H-cubed. As in, Hazy, Hot, and Humid.
So I'm thinking shorts. I have a bunch of REI shorts I like (lots of pockets), a couple of pair of Carhartt shorts, and two pair of leather shorts. One pair are really tight on me, so they usually end up getting worn under my chaps. The other pair are leather cargo shorts.
Hmmm...
Why do I not wear these more often?
I tried them on, and I remembered why. I mean, they're great. They're Mephisto leather, from Australia, so the leather is just silky smooth and soft. Great stuff.
But they're just cut so damn bad. Sort of square and shapeless. They hang a little bit longer than they should, and are sort of drapey in the leg. They just don't quite work.
But, they're shorts, they're leather, they have pockets, so the leather cargo shorts it'll be.
As I was rooting around, I ran across The Pants I've Worn Exactly Once.
Longtime readers of Singletails will remember these. I bought them years ago. I was looking through the sale racks of one of the Gay Gay Gay! clothing stores on 8th Avenue in Chelsea. And there they were. Leather jeans, lacing over the crotch, this great sort of dark dark brown color. And then I tried them on.
Wow!
They rode really low on my hips, but flared at the ankles, so I could wear boots with them and they'd still be flapping. And that great laced crotch!
And the price tag? Like $50.
Sold!
This was mere days before I was whipped by the first time. By ARt. At Elmer Odge in NYC.
Which I was terrifically anxious about. I wasn't sure if I could take it, since as we know, when it comes to pain, I draw the line at inconvenience. In the cab on the way over to Elmer Odge, I was digging out change in the pockets, and I ran across a little slip of paper. It read, "Made of 100% Man Made Materials."
Gasp!
These weren't leather jeans!
They're pleather jeans!
I'm a Pleatherman!
I'm ersatz!
This was not good for my state of mind, but I managed to talk myself down off that particular ceiling.
Anyway, that was the only time I've worn the pleathers. I've kept them around almost as a momento of the occasion. That night, up on the cross, singing my birthday song.
Taking them out again, on this beautiful hot July day, I was struck anew by them. They really do look a lot like leather.
I thought of a guy I know from Inferno, who is a vegan. And extends his veganism to not wearing anything derived from animals. And looks so fucking hot in rubber you wouldn't believe.
I tried on the pleathers.
Damn.
They ride really low on my hips, elongating my torso, and making my ass look great. I can't quite see the view from the back, but I'm pretty sure that if I saw me wearing these, without a shirt, I'd want to whip me.
Huh.
So I think sometime, not tomorrow, but sometime, I'm gonna wear'em out.
I'll be a pleatherman. Yes I will. And maybe, nobody will know.
Except, of course, you.
So if I run into you, that means I'll have to kill you.
But not to worry, I'll make the experience one of the best scenes you've ever had. Promise! And among your final thoughts before your cerebral cortex ceases operations will be, "Gosh his ass looks so great in those pants!"
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Dads
Yes, my cage is now in my garage. Unassembled, that's the next challenge I face, but nothing that can't be met with some muscle and a trip to the hardware store. And hopefully I'll be sticking men in it in the very near future.
And I finally met Phillip the Cage Guy in Providence. And what a great guy he is. Quite the evil genius. He does such amazing work. Soon, he'll be working on a sphere shaped cage that opens and closes like a clam shell, and can be suspended from the ceiling. (Schwing!) And... and... he's got these amazing doors from an actual cell that are just amazing. Unfortunately, they're made to be set into concrete walls. But God bless the man who is able to put it to use.
But anyway, this roadtrip was truly a journey.
The cargo van we rented was courtesy of UnFortunate's father. UnFortunate's mother passed away about the same time as my stepmother. UnFortunate's father has had a woman come into his life, and they've decided to get married. And here, as they say, UnFortunate's troubles begin. The Stepmother-to-be is cut from different cloth than Mother. Mother was an amazing cook. Stepmother-to-be is challenged by frozen dinners. Mother kept kosher, and found in her faith a source of vitality and love of life. Stepmother-to-be doesn't see the point. And on and on. And UnFortunate's growing up recollections include several trips the whole family took cross country in a camper, driving down to Mexico City, across Canada, and wherever else they could.
Not that Stepmother-to-be is a slouch. She's an accomplished academic who flies all over the world giving seminars for the World Bank. But she definitely has Issues.
So what's up with Dad?
He tells UnFortunate that he wants to marry Stepmother-to-be, but always with the coda, "although she'll never take the place of your mother."
UnFortunate needed to make this trip because Stepmother-to-be decided she'd be moving in to the UnFortunate family home, and to make room for her stuff, everything had to go. So UnFortunate wanted to salvage what he could of his personal history as embodied in in furniture and bric-a-brac before it ended up in the town dump.
UnFortunate, needless to say, is taking all this pretty hard. He took the bus out to Doylestown, we rented the cargo van, and headed north.
UnFortunate's father was waiting for us when we got in, with dinner.
UnFortunate's father had thoughtfully made us dinner.
Gosh.
He's roughly my dad's age. He's vital, engaged, and active. When he retired, he decided that he would learn one new thing every year. This has included bicycling, kayaking, rock climbing, and a language or two. He has back problems, spinal stenosis, like my father, but has worked hard at physical therapy and is still able to do so much. (This year's "Thing To Learn" was pilates.)
Okay.
So I couldn't help indulging myself in comparison. My Dad up against UnFortunate's dad. And that quickly devolved into some 'if only's.' In the Great Dad Lottery, UnFortunate lucked out. Going through the family memorabilia, we came across a black and white picture of UnFortunate's dad. He had been a labor organizer in his youth. The shot was amazing. It was taken from above, like from a balcony. UnFortunate's dad, nattily dressed in a trim late '40s suit, is pointing accusingly upwards, like at someone next to the photographer. His face a picture of righteous indignation. It was beautiful.
While UnFortunate rummaged, I talked to dad. And enjoyed it. And got a little more steamed at my own father with every passing minute.
But I was missing it. It was going right by me.
Dad would say some little thing, and UnFortunate would just crumble... "But Dad! How can you say that?" Just like that, he was back to being twelve years old, and why can't he ride his bike over to Glen's house?
Dads are from Plato's realm of Ideal Forms, huh? They might have various attributes. Some Dads are remote. Some Dads are engaged. Some Dads are boneheads. Some Dads are thoughtful. Some Dads are playful. Some Dads are serious.
But Dads are Dads. No matter who's your Daddy, he has his shortcomings. Because he's just a guy. Just a guy. And those shortcomings--the obstinancy, the rigidity, the wishy-washiness, whatever--just make you nuts, blinding you to everything he has to offer.
But so it goes. The riddle none of us can solve. Dad is Dad.
Yes, my cage is now in my garage. Unassembled, that's the next challenge I face, but nothing that can't be met with some muscle and a trip to the hardware store. And hopefully I'll be sticking men in it in the very near future.
And I finally met Phillip the Cage Guy in Providence. And what a great guy he is. Quite the evil genius. He does such amazing work. Soon, he'll be working on a sphere shaped cage that opens and closes like a clam shell, and can be suspended from the ceiling. (Schwing!) And... and... he's got these amazing doors from an actual cell that are just amazing. Unfortunately, they're made to be set into concrete walls. But God bless the man who is able to put it to use.
But anyway, this roadtrip was truly a journey.
The cargo van we rented was courtesy of UnFortunate's father. UnFortunate's mother passed away about the same time as my stepmother. UnFortunate's father has had a woman come into his life, and they've decided to get married. And here, as they say, UnFortunate's troubles begin. The Stepmother-to-be is cut from different cloth than Mother. Mother was an amazing cook. Stepmother-to-be is challenged by frozen dinners. Mother kept kosher, and found in her faith a source of vitality and love of life. Stepmother-to-be doesn't see the point. And on and on. And UnFortunate's growing up recollections include several trips the whole family took cross country in a camper, driving down to Mexico City, across Canada, and wherever else they could.
Not that Stepmother-to-be is a slouch. She's an accomplished academic who flies all over the world giving seminars for the World Bank. But she definitely has Issues.
So what's up with Dad?
He tells UnFortunate that he wants to marry Stepmother-to-be, but always with the coda, "although she'll never take the place of your mother."
UnFortunate needed to make this trip because Stepmother-to-be decided she'd be moving in to the UnFortunate family home, and to make room for her stuff, everything had to go. So UnFortunate wanted to salvage what he could of his personal history as embodied in in furniture and bric-a-brac before it ended up in the town dump.
UnFortunate, needless to say, is taking all this pretty hard. He took the bus out to Doylestown, we rented the cargo van, and headed north.
UnFortunate's father was waiting for us when we got in, with dinner.
UnFortunate's father had thoughtfully made us dinner.
Gosh.
He's roughly my dad's age. He's vital, engaged, and active. When he retired, he decided that he would learn one new thing every year. This has included bicycling, kayaking, rock climbing, and a language or two. He has back problems, spinal stenosis, like my father, but has worked hard at physical therapy and is still able to do so much. (This year's "Thing To Learn" was pilates.)
Okay.
So I couldn't help indulging myself in comparison. My Dad up against UnFortunate's dad. And that quickly devolved into some 'if only's.' In the Great Dad Lottery, UnFortunate lucked out. Going through the family memorabilia, we came across a black and white picture of UnFortunate's dad. He had been a labor organizer in his youth. The shot was amazing. It was taken from above, like from a balcony. UnFortunate's dad, nattily dressed in a trim late '40s suit, is pointing accusingly upwards, like at someone next to the photographer. His face a picture of righteous indignation. It was beautiful.
While UnFortunate rummaged, I talked to dad. And enjoyed it. And got a little more steamed at my own father with every passing minute.
But I was missing it. It was going right by me.
Dad would say some little thing, and UnFortunate would just crumble... "But Dad! How can you say that?" Just like that, he was back to being twelve years old, and why can't he ride his bike over to Glen's house?
Dads are from Plato's realm of Ideal Forms, huh? They might have various attributes. Some Dads are remote. Some Dads are engaged. Some Dads are boneheads. Some Dads are thoughtful. Some Dads are playful. Some Dads are serious.
But Dads are Dads. No matter who's your Daddy, he has his shortcomings. Because he's just a guy. Just a guy. And those shortcomings--the obstinancy, the rigidity, the wishy-washiness, whatever--just make you nuts, blinding you to everything he has to offer.
But so it goes. The riddle none of us can solve. Dad is Dad.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Supermarket Shenanigans
So there I am at the checkout line of the SuperFresh (what I call 'StoopidFresh') in Doylestown, bagging my groceries.
Behind me I hear this voice... this pure Arthur Avenue in the Bronx voice, the kind of voice that pronounces "Nature' as 'NAY-chuh.' And she was saying, "Yeah, up there, that's Amelia Bedelia, and there's Curious George the monkey..." I looked up, and they had these huge baloons of characters from children's books. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw a woman holding this absolutely adorable bright eyed baby.
Then she said it. "And there's Clifford! Do you know Clifford?"
Clifford... Clifford the Big Red Puppy... I loved Clifford! Totally my favorite!
I have no idea what came over me.
I turned around and exclaimed--loudly--maybe a little louder than I intended--"We love Clifford! Don't we love Clifford?"
The adorable baby looked at me like, "Uh... What up, Yo?"
Mom clutched her child closer to me, and gave me that look that a mother bear must give when somebody gets between her and her cub. Total "Back off, Buddy."
Suddenly, all was silent at StoopidFresh. My checkout girl was looking at me totally slack-jawed. If she had a way of calling security, she would have been calling security.
Me: "Heh heh. I loved Clifford The Big Red Puppy."
Everybody in StoopidFresh: Wordless immobility.
Me: "It was one of my favorite books when I was a little boy."
Everybody in StoopidFresh: Wordless immobility.
Me: "Okie doke. Time to get home and get dinner on the table."
Then, to the baby, and probably not making things better...
Me: "Bye bye! Clifford rules, right?"
I have to go back there. It's the only place in town where I can buy the Odwalla Pure Protein drinks I have for breakfast every morning.
Maybe I can wear a disguise.
So there I am at the checkout line of the SuperFresh (what I call 'StoopidFresh') in Doylestown, bagging my groceries.
Behind me I hear this voice... this pure Arthur Avenue in the Bronx voice, the kind of voice that pronounces "Nature' as 'NAY-chuh.' And she was saying, "Yeah, up there, that's Amelia Bedelia, and there's Curious George the monkey..." I looked up, and they had these huge baloons of characters from children's books. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw a woman holding this absolutely adorable bright eyed baby.
Then she said it. "And there's Clifford! Do you know Clifford?"
Clifford... Clifford the Big Red Puppy... I loved Clifford! Totally my favorite!
I have no idea what came over me.
I turned around and exclaimed--loudly--maybe a little louder than I intended--"We love Clifford! Don't we love Clifford?"
The adorable baby looked at me like, "Uh... What up, Yo?"
Mom clutched her child closer to me, and gave me that look that a mother bear must give when somebody gets between her and her cub. Total "Back off, Buddy."
Suddenly, all was silent at StoopidFresh. My checkout girl was looking at me totally slack-jawed. If she had a way of calling security, she would have been calling security.
Me: "Heh heh. I loved Clifford The Big Red Puppy."
Everybody in StoopidFresh: Wordless immobility.
Me: "It was one of my favorite books when I was a little boy."
Everybody in StoopidFresh: Wordless immobility.
Me: "Okie doke. Time to get home and get dinner on the table."
Then, to the baby, and probably not making things better...
Me: "Bye bye! Clifford rules, right?"
I have to go back there. It's the only place in town where I can buy the Odwalla Pure Protein drinks I have for breakfast every morning.
Maybe I can wear a disguise.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
"Omigod... Look At That _____!"
Okay. Here's the deal.
Again this year, I am invited to the First Saturday In July Dungeon Party at the Pottstown aerie of JPZapper and DogTopper. Longtime readers of SingleTails may remember the first time I was invited to this event a few years ago, prompting all kinds of proxysms (sp?) of anxiety, causing me to remember the short story by Virginia Wolf titled, "The Yelllow Dress."
'Zapper and DogTopper provide excellent barbeque fare, and guests are invited to bring a dessert.
And I'm kinda thinking that this year, I want to bring a really really really impressive dessert. A total confectionary showstopper. As in, my plate is totally empty but all the other plates are filled. So that in years to come, my invite--if I so merit--will be accompanied by a request to bring that amazing dessert again.
Now, desserts have never been my forté. Back in the days of domesticity, dinner guests were lucky if I remembered to pick up some ice cream and Pepperidge Farm cookies. (But of course they were usually so totally blown away by the dinner that they didn't notice. Or so I like to think.)
Since I've been living here in Bucks County, I've started in on this birthday cake thing, taking delight in baking and iciing birthday cakes. I think my magnum opus birthday cake had to be the one I baked for That Guy From LA: the cake was moist and luscious and chocolatey Devils Food, and I made a butter cream iciing flavored with a blood orange syrup that I concocted myself.
Oh I'm sorry... Did you catch that? I said, "A BUTTER CREAM ICIING FLAVORED WITH A BLOOD ORANGE SYRUP THAT I CONCONCTED MYSELF."
Does that make you heave a sigh of desire and longing? Well it should!
Tragically, like most aspects of my fling with That Guy From LA, this effort went totally unappreciated.
So.
I have less than a month to figure something out.
Maybe cupcakes with blood orange butter cream iciing? Chocolate fudge? Cream cheese brownies?
My step mother used to make this pie of sorts with graham cracker crust and a filling of condensed milk and cream cheese. Maybe something like that... only I could divide it in half and cool it till it starts to set, and flavor one half with chocolate and one half with coffee... Hmmmm...
Anyway, I'm open to suggestions for an impressive and astonishing dessert I could make. What's the most amazing sweet thing you've ever put in your mouth?
I'd ask that you not suggest anything that would be really expensive to make, having me run out and buy a bottle of Gran Marnier so I could use a tablespoon of it and then be left with a bottle of Gran Marnier for the rest of my life.
Post your suggestion as a comment below, if you please.
And thanks.
Okay. Here's the deal.
Again this year, I am invited to the First Saturday In July Dungeon Party at the Pottstown aerie of JPZapper and DogTopper. Longtime readers of SingleTails may remember the first time I was invited to this event a few years ago, prompting all kinds of proxysms (sp?) of anxiety, causing me to remember the short story by Virginia Wolf titled, "The Yelllow Dress."
'Zapper and DogTopper provide excellent barbeque fare, and guests are invited to bring a dessert.
And I'm kinda thinking that this year, I want to bring a really really really impressive dessert. A total confectionary showstopper. As in, my plate is totally empty but all the other plates are filled. So that in years to come, my invite--if I so merit--will be accompanied by a request to bring that amazing dessert again.
Now, desserts have never been my forté. Back in the days of domesticity, dinner guests were lucky if I remembered to pick up some ice cream and Pepperidge Farm cookies. (But of course they were usually so totally blown away by the dinner that they didn't notice. Or so I like to think.)
Since I've been living here in Bucks County, I've started in on this birthday cake thing, taking delight in baking and iciing birthday cakes. I think my magnum opus birthday cake had to be the one I baked for That Guy From LA: the cake was moist and luscious and chocolatey Devils Food, and I made a butter cream iciing flavored with a blood orange syrup that I concocted myself.
Oh I'm sorry... Did you catch that? I said, "A BUTTER CREAM ICIING FLAVORED WITH A BLOOD ORANGE SYRUP THAT I CONCONCTED MYSELF."
Does that make you heave a sigh of desire and longing? Well it should!
Tragically, like most aspects of my fling with That Guy From LA, this effort went totally unappreciated.
So.
I have less than a month to figure something out.
Maybe cupcakes with blood orange butter cream iciing? Chocolate fudge? Cream cheese brownies?
My step mother used to make this pie of sorts with graham cracker crust and a filling of condensed milk and cream cheese. Maybe something like that... only I could divide it in half and cool it till it starts to set, and flavor one half with chocolate and one half with coffee... Hmmmm...
Anyway, I'm open to suggestions for an impressive and astonishing dessert I could make. What's the most amazing sweet thing you've ever put in your mouth?
I'd ask that you not suggest anything that would be really expensive to make, having me run out and buy a bottle of Gran Marnier so I could use a tablespoon of it and then be left with a bottle of Gran Marnier for the rest of my life.
Post your suggestion as a comment below, if you please.
And thanks.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Finally
It's looking like it's gonna happen. Three years in the making. Next Friday, UnFortunate is going to take the bus up hear from Bucks County. I'll pick him up after work. Then, we go pick up the cargo van. I'll head home, get my father dinner, walk my dog, and then we'll head out on the highway to Storrs, CT, where UnFortunate's father lives. We spend the night in Storrs, and the next morning, load up the cargo van with some of UnFortunate's family furniture (his father is getting remarried, and the new wife, who is apparently awful, wants all the old shit gone). Then, we drive east to Providence, Rhode Island. We'll load up my cage--my amazing cage--spend some time with the Cage Maker, who has offered to help, maybe meet this hot Boston guy, another big fan of cold eternal steel, who I've been talking to forever, and for whom Cage Maker is welding a cage now if he can make the drive down.
We'll get back on the highway, heading south, back to NYC, to drop off the furniture at UnFortunate's apartment. Then I'll drive through the Holland Tunnel, south on I-78, get off at exit 15 and take CR-513 to Frenchtown, cross the river, go down river road, and soon end up back at the Ol' Homestead.
And then I'll have my cage.
Who knows how much opportunity I'll get to use it. Lately for me, it's all about quality over quantity, y'know?
But I fell in love with caging years and years ago, when I spent a night in the cage of Aubrey Sparks of Seattle. It'll be wonderful to have a strong, powerful man, under lock and key. For as long as I decide to keep him there. Feeding him out of a dog bowl.
I think that smoking cigars will be a prerequisite for spending time in my cage. The image of a man in a cage smoking a cigar is sooooo hot. I associate cigars with power. Powerful men smoke cigars. And the idea of that power submitting to me... That's just beautiful.
It's looking like it's gonna happen. Three years in the making. Next Friday, UnFortunate is going to take the bus up hear from Bucks County. I'll pick him up after work. Then, we go pick up the cargo van. I'll head home, get my father dinner, walk my dog, and then we'll head out on the highway to Storrs, CT, where UnFortunate's father lives. We spend the night in Storrs, and the next morning, load up the cargo van with some of UnFortunate's family furniture (his father is getting remarried, and the new wife, who is apparently awful, wants all the old shit gone). Then, we drive east to Providence, Rhode Island. We'll load up my cage--my amazing cage--spend some time with the Cage Maker, who has offered to help, maybe meet this hot Boston guy, another big fan of cold eternal steel, who I've been talking to forever, and for whom Cage Maker is welding a cage now if he can make the drive down.
We'll get back on the highway, heading south, back to NYC, to drop off the furniture at UnFortunate's apartment. Then I'll drive through the Holland Tunnel, south on I-78, get off at exit 15 and take CR-513 to Frenchtown, cross the river, go down river road, and soon end up back at the Ol' Homestead.
And then I'll have my cage.
Who knows how much opportunity I'll get to use it. Lately for me, it's all about quality over quantity, y'know?
But I fell in love with caging years and years ago, when I spent a night in the cage of Aubrey Sparks of Seattle. It'll be wonderful to have a strong, powerful man, under lock and key. For as long as I decide to keep him there. Feeding him out of a dog bowl.
I think that smoking cigars will be a prerequisite for spending time in my cage. The image of a man in a cage smoking a cigar is sooooo hot. I associate cigars with power. Powerful men smoke cigars. And the idea of that power submitting to me... That's just beautiful.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Richard Meier Does It Again
Oh man. Things are going great. I'm happy. "Happiness isn't getting what you want, happiness is wanting what you have." Living by that. Or doing my best to.
And then look what happens... Take a gander at this.
An amazing place I'll never live. All those undeserving people get to live there.
This Meier guy must be stopped. He's disturbing my serenity.
Oh man. Things are going great. I'm happy. "Happiness isn't getting what you want, happiness is wanting what you have." Living by that. Or doing my best to.
And then look what happens... Take a gander at this.
An amazing place I'll never live. All those undeserving people get to live there.
This Meier guy must be stopped. He's disturbing my serenity.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Go Keckler!
Oh cool! You can go to the International Mr. Leather website and see pics from the whole overwhelming mega-event. They seem to be taken by BullManX, so y'know they're gonna be good.
I, of course, am rooting feverishly for Mr. Boston Leather, and my GMSMA Novices SIG classmate, Thomas Lewis. Aka Keckler. So for me, going through the galleries was a "Where's Waldo?" affair, as I tried to spot Keckler in all the group shots. He looks great! Great great great! And, you can even go to Keckler's weblog... Uh... Excuse me, I meant "Live Journal" thingy and read about the contest from an insiders perspective. (Huh. Is that a first? Have any other contestants blogged?Aren't most of them illiterate? Well then that's another reason that Keckler deserves to win!)
How feverishly am I rooting for Keckler? Why, so much so that I'm linking to his Live Journal thingy, even though I loathe Live Journal. It's clannish. You've got to have a Live Journal to post on Live Journal and all that nonsense. We're much more democratic and openminded here at Blogger.com, of course. Anyone can post to my blog. (And whaddya know! Anyone does.)
When's the contest again? It's today, right? I hope to learn if Mr. Boston Leather prevails!
Oh cool! You can go to the International Mr. Leather website and see pics from the whole overwhelming mega-event. They seem to be taken by BullManX, so y'know they're gonna be good.
I, of course, am rooting feverishly for Mr. Boston Leather, and my GMSMA Novices SIG classmate, Thomas Lewis. Aka Keckler. So for me, going through the galleries was a "Where's Waldo?" affair, as I tried to spot Keckler in all the group shots. He looks great! Great great great! And, you can even go to Keckler's weblog... Uh... Excuse me, I meant "Live Journal" thingy and read about the contest from an insiders perspective. (Huh. Is that a first? Have any other contestants blogged?
How feverishly am I rooting for Keckler? Why, so much so that I'm linking to his Live Journal thingy, even though I loathe Live Journal. It's clannish. You've got to have a Live Journal to post on Live Journal and all that nonsense. We're much more democratic and openminded here at Blogger.com, of course. Anyone can post to my blog. (And whaddya know! Anyone does.)
When's the contest again? It's today, right? I hope to learn if Mr. Boston Leather prevails!
Yikes!
Today, after church, I was sitting--where else?--on the porch of Starbucks reading the NY Times. I was chuckling through the wedding announcements (no same sexers this week), when I stopped at the announcement of Kimberly Guilfoyle, ex wife of the current mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsome, and.. and... some puppy.
The picture of the former first lady of San Fran was just horrifying. Her face looked like that of a department store manequin. And those eyes... Weird and huge and not quite real looking. Could she be a fembot? Nah, fembots looked like flesh and blood women. Kimberly did not.
So she's marrying this guy who looks young and sweet and innocent. Which just sets her off all the more. He's looking directly at the camera with a vacant expression, and she's sort of got her chin on his shoulder in 3/4 profile. Unclear whether the pose is supposed to indicate cosy soon-to-be-wedded bliss, or whether she's about to drink his blood to fulfil the pact she made with Satan in her quest for Eternal Youth.
I was sharing my Times with an older guy with a fairly distinctive Upper West Side lilt to his voice. I showed him the picture, saying, "check out this happy couple."
"Why, she's going to eat him for lunch, isn't she?" he commented.
Today, after church, I was sitting--where else?--on the porch of Starbucks reading the NY Times. I was chuckling through the wedding announcements (no same sexers this week), when I stopped at the announcement of Kimberly Guilfoyle, ex wife of the current mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsome, and.. and... some puppy.
The picture of the former first lady of San Fran was just horrifying. Her face looked like that of a department store manequin. And those eyes... Weird and huge and not quite real looking. Could she be a fembot? Nah, fembots looked like flesh and blood women. Kimberly did not.
So she's marrying this guy who looks young and sweet and innocent. Which just sets her off all the more. He's looking directly at the camera with a vacant expression, and she's sort of got her chin on his shoulder in 3/4 profile. Unclear whether the pose is supposed to indicate cosy soon-to-be-wedded bliss, or whether she's about to drink his blood to fulfil the pact she made with Satan in her quest for Eternal Youth.
I was sharing my Times with an older guy with a fairly distinctive Upper West Side lilt to his voice. I showed him the picture, saying, "check out this happy couple."
"Why, she's going to eat him for lunch, isn't she?" he commented.
But Still A Great Name For A Band!
Awhile ago, I heard a couple of djs on a local rock station talking about great rock bands. All of them agreed that the greatest band around today--and possibly of all time (!)--was Pearl Jam.
This has sat with me ever since.
At the time, I was sort of like, "Well gosh! If these guys who are rock djs think so, then it must be true! And I've been missing out on something great." I have a few Pearl Jam songs on my iPod, and I've sampled a few others.
Y'know what? All their stuff sounds the same to me. And their new album is in rotation at Starbucks. And it just doesn't do it.
So au contraire, mes confrères,, Pearl Jam is not the greatest rock band of all time.
But, the do have the coolest name of any rock band I can think of. Pearl Jam. Think about that. What's pearly and the consistency of jam. Get it?
Love that.
Awhile ago, I heard a couple of djs on a local rock station talking about great rock bands. All of them agreed that the greatest band around today--and possibly of all time (!)--was Pearl Jam.
This has sat with me ever since.
At the time, I was sort of like, "Well gosh! If these guys who are rock djs think so, then it must be true! And I've been missing out on something great." I have a few Pearl Jam songs on my iPod, and I've sampled a few others.
Y'know what? All their stuff sounds the same to me. And their new album is in rotation at Starbucks. And it just doesn't do it.
So au contraire, mes confrères,, Pearl Jam is not the greatest rock band of all time.
But, the do have the coolest name of any rock band I can think of. Pearl Jam. Think about that. What's pearly and the consistency of jam. Get it?
Love that.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Developments. All Of Them Cool.
Breakthrough on the cage front! My buddy UnFortunate called me yesterday, saying that he had to "salvage what was left of his family history" in Storrs, Connecticut. I had told him about my trip to Providence, and UnFortunate said that he'd be happy to accommodate my cage, and his father is paying for the van. Sweeeeet!
So by the end of June--right on schedule--I could very well have the most wonderful cage ever set up out in my garage.
I'm cooling to the idea of going to work for the Internationally Renowned Woodworker. There just seem to be so many problems at that shop. And I don't doubt that when I came in, everybody there would hate me, and there would be a lot of drama. And I'm looking for a job, not a vocation. If called upon, I will serve, but I don't know that I'm going to put myself out there to get it.
Even though I'm not going to IML, it looks like it's shaping up to be a pretty good weekend. I've got a date tonight with Papihaute down in Philadelphia. Tonight I have a date with one of my Inferno invitees. A great guy, whom I invited to Inferno on the basis of our first date. He's apparently a big muckety-muck in the Philadelphia leather community, throws a great fuck, and get this... loves getting flogged. Gets a hardon from it right away. (The man was sent by God!)
Tomorrow, I have a date with... Dang. I forget his nom de blog. Which probably means I haven't come up with one that's satisfying. Let's call him cowboy for now. Since I do. And since he likes when I do. (Note to self: before your date with cowboy tomorrow, trim fingernails!) And, I'll see about getting my kayak in the water this weekend, and take Faithful Companion over to the bark park in Montgomeryville.
Oh. And the weekend got off to a good start. I was totally looking forward to going to bed on Friday night, and not setting the alarm. Just sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. So my eyes opened, I was wide awake. And, although I was coming out of a deep sleep, words were running through my head. Words for... my profile on WorldLeathermen. (Say what?) So I got out of bed to commit them to paper--or laptop, or whatever--and noticed that it was 6:18 a.m. Which is five hours and eightteen minutes after I went to bed the night before. So much for catching up on my sleep! But the Muse called.
Anyway, I'm surprised and delighted with the results. And here they are...
Leather Is Battle Gear For Warriors Of Love
Being a man is all about holding back. Keep a steady hand. Put on your game face. Suck it up. Hold it in. And that’s a recipe for a heart attack at age 38.
What we want, what we need, every once in a while, is to not hold back. To give it all we’ve got, to just let it come. For me, that’s where SM comes into the picture.
When was the last time you had a man hold you in his arms while you let loose with all your grief and pain and sorrow? Wailing and howling like a trapped and cornered animal? When was the last time you held a weeping man in your arms, mustering all the strength you have, saying softly in his ear, “Yeah Buddy, yeah. Just let it come. I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m with you. You’re safe now.” When was the last time you allowed yourself to be helpless, naked, completely vulnerable? Trusting another man so much that you could take the risk of giving yourself up to him completely, going beyond your limits because you know that he holds your heart in his hands and you’ll emerge intact? When was the last time you contended with another man as though in battle, proving yourself, what you can do, what you’re worth, what you’re capable of, what you can dish out and what you can take, showing your Warrior Soul, in a contest to see which of you can love really Big, and both of you emerge victorious, and better men for it?
So maybe you’re due, Boss?
In 2003, I left behind my life in NYC to come back here to look after my father, not knowing at the time how much I was giving up, but also not knowing how much I was gaining. I find myself in a wilderness of materialistic, inebriate twinks. The opportunities are fewer and farther between, but I still get my licks in when I can. It’s a fallow period. I work hard at a woodshop. I unwind at Starbucks in Doylestown. I hit the gym. I kneel in prayer at church. I take the kayak off the roof rack of my jeep and paddle out into solitude. I hold it together. I keep my eyes open. I cherish what I have and keep the Hungry Ghosts of I want I want I want at bay. I do my best to live deeply, honestly, simply, and with grace, kindness, and compassion.
And, I hold out hope that the day will come when I’ll meet a man who will look me in the eye and see within me a rare thing of value, the pearl of great price, and I’ll find in him wisdom, courage, kindness, strength, and dignity. Together we’ll set off on a great adventure, and the road will go on forever.
I like architecture, welding, hot tubs, road trips, cooking, Compline, cigars, laughing, the desert, and feeling like I'm a part of something larger than myself. I hate mosquitos, materialism, whining, eggplant, clutter, acquisitiveness, pettiness, staying home, sedentary lifestyles, self-importance, condoms, arithmetic, commitment, being cold.
The SM list: singletail whips, chain bondage, edge play, flogging, piss, loving brutality, knives, big smoke fetish
So that's nice, right? Online profiles are interesting things. I remember Diabolique laboring for months over his before he signed up on Worldleathermen. It's an exercise in self-definition, one of those rare occasions where you actually get to choose--100%--how you want the world to see you. And if, as they say, you never get a second chance to make a first impression... I think I'm satisfied with this iteration of me. I believe it paints a fairly accurate picture. Or as accurate as these things can be when we're talking about a fleeting thing like the self.
Anyway.
Breakthrough on the cage front! My buddy UnFortunate called me yesterday, saying that he had to "salvage what was left of his family history" in Storrs, Connecticut. I had told him about my trip to Providence, and UnFortunate said that he'd be happy to accommodate my cage, and his father is paying for the van. Sweeeeet!
So by the end of June--right on schedule--I could very well have the most wonderful cage ever set up out in my garage.
I'm cooling to the idea of going to work for the Internationally Renowned Woodworker. There just seem to be so many problems at that shop. And I don't doubt that when I came in, everybody there would hate me, and there would be a lot of drama. And I'm looking for a job, not a vocation. If called upon, I will serve, but I don't know that I'm going to put myself out there to get it.
Even though I'm not going to IML, it looks like it's shaping up to be a pretty good weekend. I've got a date tonight with Papihaute down in Philadelphia. Tonight I have a date with one of my Inferno invitees. A great guy, whom I invited to Inferno on the basis of our first date. He's apparently a big muckety-muck in the Philadelphia leather community, throws a great fuck, and get this... loves getting flogged. Gets a hardon from it right away. (The man was sent by God!)
Tomorrow, I have a date with... Dang. I forget his nom de blog. Which probably means I haven't come up with one that's satisfying. Let's call him cowboy for now. Since I do. And since he likes when I do. (Note to self: before your date with cowboy tomorrow, trim fingernails!) And, I'll see about getting my kayak in the water this weekend, and take Faithful Companion over to the bark park in Montgomeryville.
Oh. And the weekend got off to a good start. I was totally looking forward to going to bed on Friday night, and not setting the alarm. Just sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. So my eyes opened, I was wide awake. And, although I was coming out of a deep sleep, words were running through my head. Words for... my profile on WorldLeathermen. (Say what?) So I got out of bed to commit them to paper--or laptop, or whatever--and noticed that it was 6:18 a.m. Which is five hours and eightteen minutes after I went to bed the night before. So much for catching up on my sleep! But the Muse called.
Anyway, I'm surprised and delighted with the results. And here they are...
Leather Is Battle Gear For Warriors Of Love
Being a man is all about holding back. Keep a steady hand. Put on your game face. Suck it up. Hold it in. And that’s a recipe for a heart attack at age 38.
What we want, what we need, every once in a while, is to not hold back. To give it all we’ve got, to just let it come. For me, that’s where SM comes into the picture.
When was the last time you had a man hold you in his arms while you let loose with all your grief and pain and sorrow? Wailing and howling like a trapped and cornered animal? When was the last time you held a weeping man in your arms, mustering all the strength you have, saying softly in his ear, “Yeah Buddy, yeah. Just let it come. I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m with you. You’re safe now.” When was the last time you allowed yourself to be helpless, naked, completely vulnerable? Trusting another man so much that you could take the risk of giving yourself up to him completely, going beyond your limits because you know that he holds your heart in his hands and you’ll emerge intact? When was the last time you contended with another man as though in battle, proving yourself, what you can do, what you’re worth, what you’re capable of, what you can dish out and what you can take, showing your Warrior Soul, in a contest to see which of you can love really Big, and both of you emerge victorious, and better men for it?
So maybe you’re due, Boss?
In 2003, I left behind my life in NYC to come back here to look after my father, not knowing at the time how much I was giving up, but also not knowing how much I was gaining. I find myself in a wilderness of materialistic, inebriate twinks. The opportunities are fewer and farther between, but I still get my licks in when I can. It’s a fallow period. I work hard at a woodshop. I unwind at Starbucks in Doylestown. I hit the gym. I kneel in prayer at church. I take the kayak off the roof rack of my jeep and paddle out into solitude. I hold it together. I keep my eyes open. I cherish what I have and keep the Hungry Ghosts of I want I want I want at bay. I do my best to live deeply, honestly, simply, and with grace, kindness, and compassion.
And, I hold out hope that the day will come when I’ll meet a man who will look me in the eye and see within me a rare thing of value, the pearl of great price, and I’ll find in him wisdom, courage, kindness, strength, and dignity. Together we’ll set off on a great adventure, and the road will go on forever.
I like architecture, welding, hot tubs, road trips, cooking, Compline, cigars, laughing, the desert, and feeling like I'm a part of something larger than myself. I hate mosquitos, materialism, whining, eggplant, clutter, acquisitiveness, pettiness, staying home, sedentary lifestyles, self-importance, condoms, arithmetic, commitment, being cold.
The SM list: singletail whips, chain bondage, edge play, flogging, piss, loving brutality, knives, big smoke fetish
So that's nice, right? Online profiles are interesting things. I remember Diabolique laboring for months over his before he signed up on Worldleathermen. It's an exercise in self-definition, one of those rare occasions where you actually get to choose--100%--how you want the world to see you. And if, as they say, you never get a second chance to make a first impression... I think I'm satisfied with this iteration of me. I believe it paints a fairly accurate picture. Or as accurate as these things can be when we're talking about a fleeting thing like the self.
Anyway.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
"Only For The Sickest Masochists And Sadists"
Yup.
That's how Yahoo Movies describes Hostel. And I'm watching it.
It's... it's... more than I hoped for.
Okay okay okay. I am down with Safe Sane and Consensual. I don't like violence. Torture, even that sanctioned by the United States Attorney General. is wrong. I'm not just talking. For real.
But this, in fact, is a movie. Not a real thing. And it's a movie featuring a hot college boy handcuffed in a chair with a ballgag shoved in his mouth being menaced with a gun by a sadist wearing a leather apron.
Remember I asked all of you to go and see every movie Vin Diesel makes to ensure that he'll always be able to get work and be in movies? Well, damn you! Oh that he were desperate for work and would take anything and be cast in this twisted movie! That would be so keen.
Hey! Maybe they'll make Hostel II! And Vin could be in it! It could be like XXX vs. the Hostel! How cool would that be?
Yup.
That's how Yahoo Movies describes Hostel. And I'm watching it.
It's... it's... more than I hoped for.
Okay okay okay. I am down with Safe Sane and Consensual. I don't like violence. Torture, even that sanctioned by the United States Attorney General. is wrong. I'm not just talking. For real.
But this, in fact, is a movie. Not a real thing. And it's a movie featuring a hot college boy handcuffed in a chair with a ballgag shoved in his mouth being menaced with a gun by a sadist wearing a leather apron.
Remember I asked all of you to go and see every movie Vin Diesel makes to ensure that he'll always be able to get work and be in movies? Well, damn you! Oh that he were desperate for work and would take anything and be cast in this twisted movie! That would be so keen.
Hey! Maybe they'll make Hostel II! And Vin could be in it! It could be like XXX vs. the Hostel! How cool would that be?
Barnstorming!
It's a good thing I'm a gentle, easy-going, forgiving soul.
Or else there would be hell to pay.
I had quite the weekend! For starters, I got up way early on Saturday morning, and drove up to NYC to have breakfast with a bunch of guys in town for the Tattoo Convention, organized by Whip Cracker from Atlanta GA. So I get into town, find parking, and head to French Roast at 6th Ave and 11th Street (thanks for the recommendation, Diabolique!). I walk in the door, and there's WC, a couple of tattoo boys, and none other than That Provincetown Guy I met at MAL.
That Provincetown Guy. 'Member him? He's amazing. A beautiful man. And he's got stuff in that handsome head of his. During MAL back in January, there I was at the Hot Ash social, and in he comes, introduces himself, and we proceed to make out like crazy. And it was wonderful. Sublime. We made plans to have lunch together the next day.
So I'm getting ready to leave to meet him for lunch, and the phone rings. And it's That Provincetown Guy. Calling from the road. He told me that he had had enough, and was heading home to Massachusetts.
Say what?
Since then, I've sent a couple messages his way, emailed him a couple of times. No reply.
And now here he is sitting next to Whip Cracker. And get this! He's giving me all these smoldering looks!
Looks like Schlitz has a contender for wearing the crown of Master Of Mixed Messages.
What up wid dat?
Overall, breakfast was fun. Afterwards, I thought these out-of-towners would appreciate a look at the grass pier. Unfortunately, while we were eating, the temperature dropped about fifteen degrees, so when we got there, icy winds were whipping off the Hudson. I was thoughtfully wearing my saved-my-sorry-butt orange hoodie, but the out-of-towners were underdressed. Although they showed a lot of pluck! Kudos there.
Then it was off to play softball. In Bloomfield, NJ.
I was one of only three of the original Ball Breakers there (I'm warming to the new guys, and I even know many of their names!). My teammate Ben and I took an immediate dislike to the other team. They were all so young and scrubbed and fun! And roughly evenly divided between men and women. And they had racial and ethnic diversity on their team. I swear, it was like they were sent by the Logo channel.
And they handed us our asses. (The Ball Breakers are not having a great season, win wise.)
I had two at bats. First time, I struck out. Second time, I hit a passable ground ball, and once again, flew like the wind down the baseline, beating the ball to first. There was a verrrrry bad call by the umpire--in my favor!--at second base. And eventually I ended up crossing home plate for a run scored.
But, I could ony stay for the first game, because Jersey Guy was whisking me away to shower and change at his nearby apartment so we could go to the NYC Tattoo Convention together.
Jersey Guy looked great as ever. Great to see him again after so many weeks.
We managed to get back into the city without too much of a hassle, and soon found outselves at the Tattoo Convention.
Okay. I've been wanting to make this for years, but haven't managed to. And at the softball game, I found out why. It's the same weekend as the NYC Erotic Art Fair, a benefit for the Tom of Finland Foundation. Of which I'm a member.
So how come I didn't get a "Hey You! Sign Up To Volunteer For The Erotic Art Fair!" email this year? Dang! Because the Erotic Art Fair means the very evil (in a good way!) Dirk guy is in town. And I've wanted him for as long as I can remember.
So the Tattoo Convention.
I have to say it was pretty ho hum. Not half as much eye candy as was to be beheld at the Bike Show. And I noticed that something about being heavily tattooed and lack of social skills go together in many cases. There you are, walking though this dense crowd, and nobody is meeting your eyes. A couple of times I said "Wow! Great ink!" to a couple of people as openers, but got blank stares or they mumbled something at me while looking at their feet, the way an 8th grader would respond. I did get woofed, thankfully, from a verrrry hot man with a dense pelt of fur on him, all but obscuring his many tattoos. I sure hope our paths cross again sometime.
Although it won't be at the NYC Tattoo Convention. Been there. Done that. Buncha ink nerds is what they are.
Jersey Guy was fun to hang out with though.
When we were watching the contest, one of the contestants explained that on his back he had tattooed portraits (I hate tattoo portraits) of everybody in his family who had died. I observed to Jersey Guy, "That would sort of be a downer when you were fucking him up the butt, huh?" To which Jersey Guy responded, "Oh my God! Uncle Sherman died! I didn't hear! When?" while pantomining giving it to the boy.
I decided to try and see if I could catch the tail end of the erotic art fair, so I left the Tattoo Convention at 6 pm, and didn't have too much trouble getting downtown or finding parking. I arrived at the Center about 6:45 and learned, to my horror, that the Erotic Art Fair and Evil Dirk had closed up shop at 6 pm.
As Stewie would say, "Blast!"
So I consoled myself with a few good hours of NYC Time.
I headed to Gray's Papaya at 6th Avenue and 11th Street, because I suddenly had an all but overwheling craving for hot dogs. I love Gray's Papaya. Although I always forget that their papaya juice has a faint aftertaste reminscent of the aroma of a three day old roadkill in midsummer. (I swear!) It's not too strong, but it's enough to notice. But the hot dogs--I like mine with mustard and saurkraut--were amazing. As always. And for $2.75, what's not to love?
Still a little bit hungry, I headed over to Gourmet Garage on Seventh Avenue and picked up some take out sushi. I found a nice stoop on a quiet block of West 10th Street and had myself a little picnic. Then, I walked up West 4th Street (I love West 4th Street! If you get from Christopher Street to West 13th Street by walking up Hudson, it takes forever, but West 4th Street is like some kind of wormhole. I've never been able to figure that out.) I stopped and got the Sunday New York Times (a day early, and including the City Section; when I buy it out here in the Howling Wilderness, I get some weird New Jersey section I couldn't give a rat's ass about). I went to Starbucks on Greenwich Avenue, got myself a latte and a chocolate cupcake, and took in a couple of sections of the Times. (Have you noticed that with the Same Sex Nuptuals listings, they always get a picture? Always! Even if it's bad and grainy and unflattering, like it was for two dykes who tied the knot recently.)
That was sweet.
Then, it was a long, long drive down the Jersey Turnpike to Philadelphia. I had a date with a worldleatherman guy from Fort Lauderdale.
Hmmm. Just a random thought. Y'know how they say that homosex is better than heterosex, because one man knows better than a woman what a man likes because he's a man, too? Well let's just say I have clear and convincing evidence that this is not always the case. Very clear evidence that's not always the case. Like, unimpeachable evidence. We're talkin' Iron Clad.
Get me?
'Kay.
Nuff said.
I did get a good night's sleep though, and woke up looking forward to having brunch with Young Doctor Cub. On whom I'm very sweet, and with whom I had a smokin hot date last weekend. (Missed softball! Worth it!)
I was driving up South Broad Street, got out my cell phone, and before I dialed I though, "He's not gonna pick up. He's 28 years old and it's 10 am on a Sunday morning. He's sound asleep.
And sure enough.
("Blast!")
So guess what I did! No, c'mon! Take a guess! Take a wild guess! C'mon! Just guess!
Did you guess, "Go to Starbucks"? Then you'd be right.
There's a new Starbucks (new to me anyhow) at 9th and South Street. Best Starbucks in Philadelphia that I've found. Some hot queer men passing by, doing their shopping at Whole Foods, tables out side, delightful.
The Baron's phone isn't working, it tends to go out whenever there's a storm, and we've had several. So I walked over to his place and rang the bell. No answer. So either the Baron was visiting his mom in Delaware or he was fast asleep and not answering the phone. And it had better have been the former.
But reading the rest of the Times was nice. And it was a good drive back.
About 2 pm, Young Doctor Cub called me. He had just woken up.
*sigh*
It's a good thing I'm a gentle, easy-going, forgiving soul.
Or else there would be hell to pay.
I had quite the weekend! For starters, I got up way early on Saturday morning, and drove up to NYC to have breakfast with a bunch of guys in town for the Tattoo Convention, organized by Whip Cracker from Atlanta GA. So I get into town, find parking, and head to French Roast at 6th Ave and 11th Street (thanks for the recommendation, Diabolique!). I walk in the door, and there's WC, a couple of tattoo boys, and none other than That Provincetown Guy I met at MAL.
That Provincetown Guy. 'Member him? He's amazing. A beautiful man. And he's got stuff in that handsome head of his. During MAL back in January, there I was at the Hot Ash social, and in he comes, introduces himself, and we proceed to make out like crazy. And it was wonderful. Sublime. We made plans to have lunch together the next day.
So I'm getting ready to leave to meet him for lunch, and the phone rings. And it's That Provincetown Guy. Calling from the road. He told me that he had had enough, and was heading home to Massachusetts.
Say what?
Since then, I've sent a couple messages his way, emailed him a couple of times. No reply.
And now here he is sitting next to Whip Cracker. And get this! He's giving me all these smoldering looks!
Looks like Schlitz has a contender for wearing the crown of Master Of Mixed Messages.
What up wid dat?
Overall, breakfast was fun. Afterwards, I thought these out-of-towners would appreciate a look at the grass pier. Unfortunately, while we were eating, the temperature dropped about fifteen degrees, so when we got there, icy winds were whipping off the Hudson. I was thoughtfully wearing my saved-my-sorry-butt orange hoodie, but the out-of-towners were underdressed. Although they showed a lot of pluck! Kudos there.
Then it was off to play softball. In Bloomfield, NJ.
I was one of only three of the original Ball Breakers there (I'm warming to the new guys, and I even know many of their names!). My teammate Ben and I took an immediate dislike to the other team. They were all so young and scrubbed and fun! And roughly evenly divided between men and women. And they had racial and ethnic diversity on their team. I swear, it was like they were sent by the Logo channel.
And they handed us our asses. (The Ball Breakers are not having a great season, win wise.)
I had two at bats. First time, I struck out. Second time, I hit a passable ground ball, and once again, flew like the wind down the baseline, beating the ball to first. There was a verrrrry bad call by the umpire--in my favor!--at second base. And eventually I ended up crossing home plate for a run scored.
But, I could ony stay for the first game, because Jersey Guy was whisking me away to shower and change at his nearby apartment so we could go to the NYC Tattoo Convention together.
Jersey Guy looked great as ever. Great to see him again after so many weeks.
We managed to get back into the city without too much of a hassle, and soon found outselves at the Tattoo Convention.
Okay. I've been wanting to make this for years, but haven't managed to. And at the softball game, I found out why. It's the same weekend as the NYC Erotic Art Fair, a benefit for the Tom of Finland Foundation. Of which I'm a member.
So how come I didn't get a "Hey You! Sign Up To Volunteer For The Erotic Art Fair!" email this year? Dang! Because the Erotic Art Fair means the very evil (in a good way!) Dirk guy is in town. And I've wanted him for as long as I can remember.
So the Tattoo Convention.
I have to say it was pretty ho hum. Not half as much eye candy as was to be beheld at the Bike Show. And I noticed that something about being heavily tattooed and lack of social skills go together in many cases. There you are, walking though this dense crowd, and nobody is meeting your eyes. A couple of times I said "Wow! Great ink!" to a couple of people as openers, but got blank stares or they mumbled something at me while looking at their feet, the way an 8th grader would respond. I did get woofed, thankfully, from a verrrry hot man with a dense pelt of fur on him, all but obscuring his many tattoos. I sure hope our paths cross again sometime.
Although it won't be at the NYC Tattoo Convention. Been there. Done that. Buncha ink nerds is what they are.
Jersey Guy was fun to hang out with though.
When we were watching the contest, one of the contestants explained that on his back he had tattooed portraits (I hate tattoo portraits) of everybody in his family who had died. I observed to Jersey Guy, "That would sort of be a downer when you were fucking him up the butt, huh?" To which Jersey Guy responded, "Oh my God! Uncle Sherman died! I didn't hear! When?" while pantomining giving it to the boy.
I decided to try and see if I could catch the tail end of the erotic art fair, so I left the Tattoo Convention at 6 pm, and didn't have too much trouble getting downtown or finding parking. I arrived at the Center about 6:45 and learned, to my horror, that the Erotic Art Fair and Evil Dirk had closed up shop at 6 pm.
As Stewie would say, "Blast!"
So I consoled myself with a few good hours of NYC Time.
I headed to Gray's Papaya at 6th Avenue and 11th Street, because I suddenly had an all but overwheling craving for hot dogs. I love Gray's Papaya. Although I always forget that their papaya juice has a faint aftertaste reminscent of the aroma of a three day old roadkill in midsummer. (I swear!) It's not too strong, but it's enough to notice. But the hot dogs--I like mine with mustard and saurkraut--were amazing. As always. And for $2.75, what's not to love?
Still a little bit hungry, I headed over to Gourmet Garage on Seventh Avenue and picked up some take out sushi. I found a nice stoop on a quiet block of West 10th Street and had myself a little picnic. Then, I walked up West 4th Street (I love West 4th Street! If you get from Christopher Street to West 13th Street by walking up Hudson, it takes forever, but West 4th Street is like some kind of wormhole. I've never been able to figure that out.) I stopped and got the Sunday New York Times (a day early, and including the City Section; when I buy it out here in the Howling Wilderness, I get some weird New Jersey section I couldn't give a rat's ass about). I went to Starbucks on Greenwich Avenue, got myself a latte and a chocolate cupcake, and took in a couple of sections of the Times. (Have you noticed that with the Same Sex Nuptuals listings, they always get a picture? Always! Even if it's bad and grainy and unflattering, like it was for two dykes who tied the knot recently.)
That was sweet.
Then, it was a long, long drive down the Jersey Turnpike to Philadelphia. I had a date with a worldleatherman guy from Fort Lauderdale.
Hmmm. Just a random thought. Y'know how they say that homosex is better than heterosex, because one man knows better than a woman what a man likes because he's a man, too? Well let's just say I have clear and convincing evidence that this is not always the case. Very clear evidence that's not always the case. Like, unimpeachable evidence. We're talkin' Iron Clad.
Get me?
'Kay.
Nuff said.
I did get a good night's sleep though, and woke up looking forward to having brunch with Young Doctor Cub. On whom I'm very sweet, and with whom I had a smokin hot date last weekend. (Missed softball! Worth it!)
I was driving up South Broad Street, got out my cell phone, and before I dialed I though, "He's not gonna pick up. He's 28 years old and it's 10 am on a Sunday morning. He's sound asleep.
And sure enough.
("Blast!")
So guess what I did! No, c'mon! Take a guess! Take a wild guess! C'mon! Just guess!
Did you guess, "Go to Starbucks"? Then you'd be right.
There's a new Starbucks (new to me anyhow) at 9th and South Street. Best Starbucks in Philadelphia that I've found. Some hot queer men passing by, doing their shopping at Whole Foods, tables out side, delightful.
The Baron's phone isn't working, it tends to go out whenever there's a storm, and we've had several. So I walked over to his place and rang the bell. No answer. So either the Baron was visiting his mom in Delaware or he was fast asleep and not answering the phone. And it had better have been the former.
But reading the rest of the Times was nice. And it was a good drive back.
About 2 pm, Young Doctor Cub called me. He had just woken up.
*sigh*
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
If You Only Knew
It's a Meme! From Lolita's blog. The idea is you present what you'd really like to tell ten people. But you don't list the names of whom you're addressing. Got it? Lolita explains it better.
So here we go.
1. Don't you feel that I'm due? Like you can maybe give for once instead of taking?
2. You better pull this one off.
3. It's never going to happen with us. And spending time with you would be a lot less awkward for me if you figured that out.
4. We would make such a good team. I would buddy up with you without any hesitation.
5. Do you ever think about me? Ever wonder what's going on with me? If I knew you were just going through the motions, that would wreck me.
6. I'm liking everything so far. A lot. What do you think the future might hold?
7. Yeah, but you just live too far away.
8. Gosh! You have no inner life at all, do you? What could that be like? I guess that's what makes it easy to be so casual with other men's hearts.
9. You know what I want. I know you know what I want. You know I know you know what I want. So... uh... wanna see about making it happen? You want to be the man to do it for me, right?
10. We could have been so great together. So how are things going with that vapid chucklehead you ended up with?
So there ya go.
Reading over these, it almost seems like it doesn't matter who they're addressed to, huh?
It's a Meme! From Lolita's blog. The idea is you present what you'd really like to tell ten people. But you don't list the names of whom you're addressing. Got it? Lolita explains it better.
So here we go.
1. Don't you feel that I'm due? Like you can maybe give for once instead of taking?
2. You better pull this one off.
3. It's never going to happen with us. And spending time with you would be a lot less awkward for me if you figured that out.
4. We would make such a good team. I would buddy up with you without any hesitation.
5. Do you ever think about me? Ever wonder what's going on with me? If I knew you were just going through the motions, that would wreck me.
6. I'm liking everything so far. A lot. What do you think the future might hold?
7. Yeah, but you just live too far away.
8. Gosh! You have no inner life at all, do you? What could that be like? I guess that's what makes it easy to be so casual with other men's hearts.
9. You know what I want. I know you know what I want. You know I know you know what I want. So... uh... wanna see about making it happen? You want to be the man to do it for me, right?
10. We could have been so great together. So how are things going with that vapid chucklehead you ended up with?
So there ya go.
Reading over these, it almost seems like it doesn't matter who they're addressed to, huh?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
No Way! Way!!! Like, Times Three
First off, my biscuits.
Grocery shopping yesterday, I found ten drumsticks for $3.08. Very cool. So what to do with them? I decided to coat them in flour and crushed red pepper, start off by frying them, and then roasting them at 450°. With the chicken, I made summer squash sauteed in butter, and biscuits.
Biscuits.
True story. I lived in a neighborhood called Lefferts Manor in Brooklyn. It holds the distinction of being the most integrated neighborhood in NYC. Once, for a block party, I made my biscuits. The ones with fresh rosemary and bacon. All the black women on my block were like, "Who made these biscuits? These are wonderful biscuits!"
True!
And weren't they surprised when it turned out that the white gay guy made the biscuits. And that nobody taught me, I taught myself.
We talked all about biscuits. I learned the importance of biscuits among African-Americans in the South. My neighbor Aline told me about how learning to make biscuits was the most traumatic event of her childhood. Her grandmother had her make biscuits. After they came out of the oven, her grandmother tasted one, and whalloped Aline hard. Then took Aline's biscuits and through them out in the yard with the chickens. And called Aline over to the window to show her how her biscuits were so bad that not even the chickens were eating them. And made Aline bake biscuits over and over and over again, whalloping Aline each time, each time tossing them out into the backyard, until Aline was able to make a passable batch of biscuits.
Right there on the spot, I invited everybody to my house for a biscuit feast. Everybody made their best biscuits, I served roast pork, coleslaw, and other stuff that goes well with biscuits.
It was amazing. The best biscuit you ever had in your life was the one in your mouth.
And everyone agreed, my biscuits rated.
So it's been years since I made biscuits. But my biscuits still rock.
That's number one.
Number two: Almost but not quite out of the blue, I got a call from the daughter of one of the foremost furniture designers of the 20th Century. Tomorrow I have an interview with her. She's looking for someone to help her manage her woodshop. I talked to her on the phone for about 45 minutes. She sounds wonderful. And the job sounds wonderful. And like something 2where I'd have a lot of opportunity to shine.
I'm a little bit unnerved at the idea of leaving Wuperior Soodcraft behind. At this point, if I left, I'd leave a big hole, y'know? They've all come to depend on me. And I make it a better place to work by being there.
But still.
It's a pretty amazing opportunity.
Just about right out of the blue.
And third?
On Saturday night, I had a date. With this smokin hot boy. Sling sex.
He's not Cigar Boy. He's about ten years older than cigar boy.
But I'm awfully sweet on him. And I think he's awfully sweet on me, too.
So that's three.
Oh. And three and a half. I just sent in the $300 that I've carefully saved to the tune of $20 per paycheck to secure myself space at Inferno in September.
I swear, I'm not used to all this good stuff.
I'll keep you posted.
First off, my biscuits.
Grocery shopping yesterday, I found ten drumsticks for $3.08. Very cool. So what to do with them? I decided to coat them in flour and crushed red pepper, start off by frying them, and then roasting them at 450°. With the chicken, I made summer squash sauteed in butter, and biscuits.
Biscuits.
True story. I lived in a neighborhood called Lefferts Manor in Brooklyn. It holds the distinction of being the most integrated neighborhood in NYC. Once, for a block party, I made my biscuits. The ones with fresh rosemary and bacon. All the black women on my block were like, "Who made these biscuits? These are wonderful biscuits!"
True!
And weren't they surprised when it turned out that the white gay guy made the biscuits. And that nobody taught me, I taught myself.
We talked all about biscuits. I learned the importance of biscuits among African-Americans in the South. My neighbor Aline told me about how learning to make biscuits was the most traumatic event of her childhood. Her grandmother had her make biscuits. After they came out of the oven, her grandmother tasted one, and whalloped Aline hard. Then took Aline's biscuits and through them out in the yard with the chickens. And called Aline over to the window to show her how her biscuits were so bad that not even the chickens were eating them. And made Aline bake biscuits over and over and over again, whalloping Aline each time, each time tossing them out into the backyard, until Aline was able to make a passable batch of biscuits.
Right there on the spot, I invited everybody to my house for a biscuit feast. Everybody made their best biscuits, I served roast pork, coleslaw, and other stuff that goes well with biscuits.
It was amazing. The best biscuit you ever had in your life was the one in your mouth.
And everyone agreed, my biscuits rated.
So it's been years since I made biscuits. But my biscuits still rock.
That's number one.
Number two: Almost but not quite out of the blue, I got a call from the daughter of one of the foremost furniture designers of the 20th Century. Tomorrow I have an interview with her. She's looking for someone to help her manage her woodshop. I talked to her on the phone for about 45 minutes. She sounds wonderful. And the job sounds wonderful. And like something 2where I'd have a lot of opportunity to shine.
I'm a little bit unnerved at the idea of leaving Wuperior Soodcraft behind. At this point, if I left, I'd leave a big hole, y'know? They've all come to depend on me. And I make it a better place to work by being there.
But still.
It's a pretty amazing opportunity.
Just about right out of the blue.
And third?
On Saturday night, I had a date. With this smokin hot boy. Sling sex.
He's not Cigar Boy. He's about ten years older than cigar boy.
But I'm awfully sweet on him. And I think he's awfully sweet on me, too.
So that's three.
Oh. And three and a half. I just sent in the $300 that I've carefully saved to the tune of $20 per paycheck to secure myself space at Inferno in September.
I swear, I'm not used to all this good stuff.
I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Saturday, May 13, 2006
I Was Cigar Boy! Maybe.
Something occurred to me while I was walking Faithful Companion this morning.
One of the coolest summer jobs I had back in my dewy youth was working at a local county park as a Deputy Park Ranger. I would literally get paid for walking around in the woods all day. Okay, so it wasn't a perfect situation. Deep Woods Off was my best friend.
Part of the job involved dealing with people staying at the various campsites in the park. They were a colorful bunch. A handful of hippies. Some people who were essentially living in the park. Retirees in their RVs. A particularly awful family called the McGettigan's who had a brood of monster children, the kind who took delight in torturing the wild creatures they were able to catch in their fat little hands, vandalism, and breaking tree branches.
And then there were the two guys in the tent.
They were from New York City. At that point in my life, this was a far off mystical place I had only visited a few times, and each time was like a Canto from Danté's Inferno. They were probably fiftyish. Total Marlboro men. Who at that time were probably best described as "clones."
And every three or four weeks or so, while making my rounds, I would find their sad, sagging little pup tent pitched in one of the campsites. While checking over their paperwork, making small talk with them, telling them about what I was planning for the Saturday evening Nature Program I was responsible for (and did a really really bad job with), I would have a raging hard on. The kind that made me feel light-headed because all the blood was going there instead of to my brain.
Once--okay, maybe more than once, maybe a half dozen times--I would stand off in the woods, looking at their little pup tent, and jerk off, shooting a gusher of jizz onto the ferns and mayapples.
It's a fond memory. And just that. I was never invited to spend any time in their little pup tent.
So anyway, this morning, walking my dog, I got to thinking about the pup tent guys. And for the first time ever, I wondered what they thought of me...
Blond Clone: Obviously, he's gay, right?
Black Haired Clone: Oh obviously.
Blond Clone: Did you see how he was tenting out the pants of his park ranger uniform? Oh honey!
Black Haired Clone: I saw. But puh-leeeeze, we do not want to go there.
Blond Clone: Why not? He's kind of humpy.
Black Haired Clone: He's a youngster! He might not even be legal! Trust me: we can look but we can't touch.
Blond Clone: But I started young...
Black Haired Clone: He lives with his parents! What if he freaks out? What if when his mother asks him why he's late he blurts out that he's been hiding the sausage with two queens from New York City who are staying at the local park? I can see the villagers lighting their torches and coming through the woods now. Trust me, we don't need that stress.
Blond Clone: But all that hot, repressed school boy longing... I bet he gives a great blow job! (Wrong! -ed.) All that enthusiasm.
Black Haired Clone: No. I think he'd probably be so scared he'd hardly let you touch him. (Wrong. -ed.)
Blond Clone: I guess you're right. Better to leave well enough alone. He's fun to talk to anyway.
Black Haired Clone: I'll tell you what, when I'm rimming you tonight, getting my tongue in you real deep like I know you love, I'll wear a khaki shirt and you can call me 'Park Ranger Boy,' okay?
Blond Clone: You're the best!
So see? I was Cigar Boy!
Something occurred to me while I was walking Faithful Companion this morning.
One of the coolest summer jobs I had back in my dewy youth was working at a local county park as a Deputy Park Ranger. I would literally get paid for walking around in the woods all day. Okay, so it wasn't a perfect situation. Deep Woods Off was my best friend.
Part of the job involved dealing with people staying at the various campsites in the park. They were a colorful bunch. A handful of hippies. Some people who were essentially living in the park. Retirees in their RVs. A particularly awful family called the McGettigan's who had a brood of monster children, the kind who took delight in torturing the wild creatures they were able to catch in their fat little hands, vandalism, and breaking tree branches.
And then there were the two guys in the tent.
They were from New York City. At that point in my life, this was a far off mystical place I had only visited a few times, and each time was like a Canto from Danté's Inferno. They were probably fiftyish. Total Marlboro men. Who at that time were probably best described as "clones."
And every three or four weeks or so, while making my rounds, I would find their sad, sagging little pup tent pitched in one of the campsites. While checking over their paperwork, making small talk with them, telling them about what I was planning for the Saturday evening Nature Program I was responsible for (and did a really really bad job with), I would have a raging hard on. The kind that made me feel light-headed because all the blood was going there instead of to my brain.
Once--okay, maybe more than once, maybe a half dozen times--I would stand off in the woods, looking at their little pup tent, and jerk off, shooting a gusher of jizz onto the ferns and mayapples.
It's a fond memory. And just that. I was never invited to spend any time in their little pup tent.
So anyway, this morning, walking my dog, I got to thinking about the pup tent guys. And for the first time ever, I wondered what they thought of me...
Blond Clone: Obviously, he's gay, right?
Black Haired Clone: Oh obviously.
Blond Clone: Did you see how he was tenting out the pants of his park ranger uniform? Oh honey!
Black Haired Clone: I saw. But puh-leeeeze, we do not want to go there.
Blond Clone: Why not? He's kind of humpy.
Black Haired Clone: He's a youngster! He might not even be legal! Trust me: we can look but we can't touch.
Blond Clone: But I started young...
Black Haired Clone: He lives with his parents! What if he freaks out? What if when his mother asks him why he's late he blurts out that he's been hiding the sausage with two queens from New York City who are staying at the local park? I can see the villagers lighting their torches and coming through the woods now. Trust me, we don't need that stress.
Blond Clone: But all that hot, repressed school boy longing... I bet he gives a great blow job! (Wrong! -ed.) All that enthusiasm.
Black Haired Clone: No. I think he'd probably be so scared he'd hardly let you touch him. (Wrong. -ed.)
Blond Clone: I guess you're right. Better to leave well enough alone. He's fun to talk to anyway.
Black Haired Clone: I'll tell you what, when I'm rimming you tonight, getting my tongue in you real deep like I know you love, I'll wear a khaki shirt and you can call me 'Park Ranger Boy,' okay?
Blond Clone: You're the best!
So see? I was Cigar Boy!
But Maybe The Stable Boy's Smokin' Hot?
So what all do you think about this?
Jean Genet--who has a special place in my heart dating from when, as a teenager, I fell asleep in a bathtub reading 'Our Lady Of The Flowers' and woke up having a wet dream about a merman servicing me--wrote at some point about Domination. He felt it only worked when the Dominant was of a rank lower than the Submissive. And that provided the erotic charge.
That, Genet believed, was why homosexuals hold sailors, tradesmen, criminals, and the like in such high regard. And why there really is no male equivalent of the term 'Dominatrix,' because she was a woman, and for most of human history in the West, women have been socially subordinate, so a "Dominant Male" would be redundant. And, these themes play into Maurice and Lady Chatterly's Lover and any number of other literary works that the intellectual classes of Europe have turned to for wanking.
With all due respect, I think M. Genet is off the mark.
I think what's really going on here is objectification.
Early on in my erotic career, my masturbatory fantasies far surpassed my actual experiences. And what I was looking for was the fulfilment--not the realization--of my JO dreams. (Parenthetically, I used to be stumped when I'd read about the 'DreamWorld' in discussions of the Shaman. I usually don't remember my dreams. But then I hit upon the idea that those images running through my head when I beat off are a kind of dreaming, and I was off to thhe races. Think about that. Neat, huh?) And so I wanted the men I was having sex and doing scenes with to be like the men I was beating off thinking about. To the extent that I paid attention to the "man behind the curtain," I wanted no part of it. I didn't want to know their names even.
But as my actual experiences caught up to and, I would say, came to surpass my jerk off fantasies... it became a whole new ballgame. I wanted to know all about those men I was having sex with and doing scenes with. Those foibles and contradictions--that "human, all too human" quality made it all the hotter. A guy once told me about how a second grade bully broke his glasses, and it was all I could do to stop myself from taking him in my arms, holding him tight, and telling him that I was never going to let that happen to him again.
So getting back to M. Genet--and did you know the David Bowie song, 'Jean Jeanie,' was written about the frenchman?--I think that's why all those titled Englishmen were hankering after their stable boys. Because they didn't know anything about them. They could only imagine what their lives were like. The stable boy was a blank white screen upon which M'Lord could project all his fantasies. It just so happened that the great chasm that separated the two was one of class.
Here in the New World, I think we see the equivalent of this in men who eroticize across the great racial divide. (I don't agree with my friend the Baron who thinks that the big political issue in the U.S. is class, I think it's race. Deep, deep racist animosities are at the root of all that ails our great nation.) It's not just the dark skin, it's the mystery. The exotic quality.
"Only connect," said E.M. Forrester, who authored Maurice, the Ur hot stable boy text. Only connect.
If your fantasies prevent you from connecting, then I would suggest you've got some work to do.
So what all do you think about this?
Jean Genet--who has a special place in my heart dating from when, as a teenager, I fell asleep in a bathtub reading 'Our Lady Of The Flowers' and woke up having a wet dream about a merman servicing me--wrote at some point about Domination. He felt it only worked when the Dominant was of a rank lower than the Submissive. And that provided the erotic charge.
That, Genet believed, was why homosexuals hold sailors, tradesmen, criminals, and the like in such high regard. And why there really is no male equivalent of the term 'Dominatrix,' because she was a woman, and for most of human history in the West, women have been socially subordinate, so a "Dominant Male" would be redundant. And, these themes play into Maurice and Lady Chatterly's Lover and any number of other literary works that the intellectual classes of Europe have turned to for wanking.
With all due respect, I think M. Genet is off the mark.
I think what's really going on here is objectification.
Early on in my erotic career, my masturbatory fantasies far surpassed my actual experiences. And what I was looking for was the fulfilment--not the realization--of my JO dreams. (Parenthetically, I used to be stumped when I'd read about the 'DreamWorld' in discussions of the Shaman. I usually don't remember my dreams. But then I hit upon the idea that those images running through my head when I beat off are a kind of dreaming, and I was off to thhe races. Think about that. Neat, huh?) And so I wanted the men I was having sex and doing scenes with to be like the men I was beating off thinking about. To the extent that I paid attention to the "man behind the curtain," I wanted no part of it. I didn't want to know their names even.
But as my actual experiences caught up to and, I would say, came to surpass my jerk off fantasies... it became a whole new ballgame. I wanted to know all about those men I was having sex with and doing scenes with. Those foibles and contradictions--that "human, all too human" quality made it all the hotter. A guy once told me about how a second grade bully broke his glasses, and it was all I could do to stop myself from taking him in my arms, holding him tight, and telling him that I was never going to let that happen to him again.
So getting back to M. Genet--and did you know the David Bowie song, 'Jean Jeanie,' was written about the frenchman?--I think that's why all those titled Englishmen were hankering after their stable boys. Because they didn't know anything about them. They could only imagine what their lives were like. The stable boy was a blank white screen upon which M'Lord could project all his fantasies. It just so happened that the great chasm that separated the two was one of class.
Here in the New World, I think we see the equivalent of this in men who eroticize across the great racial divide. (I don't agree with my friend the Baron who thinks that the big political issue in the U.S. is class, I think it's race. Deep, deep racist animosities are at the root of all that ails our great nation.) It's not just the dark skin, it's the mystery. The exotic quality.
"Only connect," said E.M. Forrester, who authored Maurice, the Ur hot stable boy text. Only connect.
If your fantasies prevent you from connecting, then I would suggest you've got some work to do.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Condolences, Guys
This must be a dark season for piss pigs. They must dread this time of year. They must greet the Spring flowers and nature coming back to life with dread.
Of course, I'm talking about Asparagus Season. Which is just superb this year. The stores are full of local stuff. A great crop. And every time I'm in the supermarket and I see it, I just gotta bring it home, steam it up, and serve it with a nice lump of butter on top.
But of course, I wouldn't inflict the foul smelling brew I'm serving from the tap on anybody.
This must be a dark season for piss pigs. They must dread this time of year. They must greet the Spring flowers and nature coming back to life with dread.
Of course, I'm talking about Asparagus Season. Which is just superb this year. The stores are full of local stuff. A great crop. And every time I'm in the supermarket and I see it, I just gotta bring it home, steam it up, and serve it with a nice lump of butter on top.
But of course, I wouldn't inflict the foul smelling brew I'm serving from the tap on anybody.
Eeeeewww!
Okay. This is why I don't flag Orange Left. Orange being my favorite color.
I don't like ManStank. As in, ripe pits and crotch situations.
I just... ...no.
Truth be told, I don't like any smells. Okay, maybe lemon, verbena, baking bread, fresh mint, garlic. But that's it. No perfume. No cologne. I've been holding my breath in elevators for my entire life. Since forever.
Now, I don't mind that just-got-out-of-the-gym bouquet. That sure works for me. But when it gets sour, I have to take a pass.
A few weeks ago I made a trip down to the Bike Stop in Philadelphia. It wasn't a great night. But there was this one verrrry hot man there. He had that look I can't resist: like he was up for anything. Total lowlife dirtbag cumdump. The kind of guy you couldn't take to your office picnic or introduce to your parents or you'd be written out of the will. We spotted each other, and made an immediate beeline for each other. He was visiting from SF, although he grew up in Philadelphia. Things were going great. I was all ready to head wherever and put it to this man with everything I got.
And then, I caught a whiff.
He hadn't showered for days.
Special Guy told me that a long time ago, when he worked at Daddies in the Castro, the guy who ran the bar never ever showered. Ever. He would get in the shower and wash his hair, but that was it. You could walk in the door and know whether or not he was in da house.
Hot, but not for me.
I think it's just a function of the fact that my mouth is my second favorite organ. After my brain. Whether it be Pho, tea, chevre, cigars, porkloin, latté, or whatever. Putting something in my mouth is the expressway to pleasure. And so I'm not big on getting anything in there that doesn't mean bliss. If we hook up, and I give you a blow job, that means I'm reeeeeally reeeeeeally into you. Most of the time, if I can get through the night without having to go down, I'm a happy man.
And I wish it could be otherwise, but I just don't eroticize smells. And when it comes to a really strong smell, like the ManStank thing, I have to pass.
So I had to tell that very hot man from SF that I had to get home.
It probably would have put a damper on things if I asked him to take a shower, right?
Okay. This is why I don't flag Orange Left. Orange being my favorite color.
I don't like ManStank. As in, ripe pits and crotch situations.
I just... ...no.
Truth be told, I don't like any smells. Okay, maybe lemon, verbena, baking bread, fresh mint, garlic. But that's it. No perfume. No cologne. I've been holding my breath in elevators for my entire life. Since forever.
Now, I don't mind that just-got-out-of-the-gym bouquet. That sure works for me. But when it gets sour, I have to take a pass.
A few weeks ago I made a trip down to the Bike Stop in Philadelphia. It wasn't a great night. But there was this one verrrry hot man there. He had that look I can't resist: like he was up for anything. Total lowlife dirtbag cumdump. The kind of guy you couldn't take to your office picnic or introduce to your parents or you'd be written out of the will. We spotted each other, and made an immediate beeline for each other. He was visiting from SF, although he grew up in Philadelphia. Things were going great. I was all ready to head wherever and put it to this man with everything I got.
And then, I caught a whiff.
He hadn't showered for days.
Special Guy told me that a long time ago, when he worked at Daddies in the Castro, the guy who ran the bar never ever showered. Ever. He would get in the shower and wash his hair, but that was it. You could walk in the door and know whether or not he was in da house.
Hot, but not for me.
I think it's just a function of the fact that my mouth is my second favorite organ. After my brain. Whether it be Pho, tea, chevre, cigars, porkloin, latté, or whatever. Putting something in my mouth is the expressway to pleasure. And so I'm not big on getting anything in there that doesn't mean bliss. If we hook up, and I give you a blow job, that means I'm reeeeeally reeeeeeally into you. Most of the time, if I can get through the night without having to go down, I'm a happy man.
And I wish it could be otherwise, but I just don't eroticize smells. And when it comes to a really strong smell, like the ManStank thing, I have to pass.
So I had to tell that very hot man from SF that I had to get home.
It probably would have put a damper on things if I asked him to take a shower, right?
Friday, May 05, 2006
Ink-A-Rama!
Not this weekend, but next weekend, is the NYC Tattoo Convention at the Roseland Ballroom.
And I'll be there!
That day, my softball team will be playing in Bloomfield, New Jersey, right down the street (literally) from Jersey Guy. Who is quite the illustrated man himself. (Over his dick, he has a tattoo that says "Daddy." Love that.) And, a verrrrrry heavily tattooed man from Atlanta I've been talking to for years will be in town, so I'm looking forward to meeting up with him, too.
Dig: I got a great nom de blogue for him: Whip Cracker.
Get it? He's a whipsman, and he's way into being a Rebel. As in, a southerner. As in, Cracker.
I'm meeting up with Whip Cracker for breakfast, then heading out to NJ to play softball, and Jersey Guy is going to come see the game, then Jersey Guy and I will head into the city to take in the tattoo convention and spend some time with Whip Cracker.
Totally looking forward to that.
This weekend, for those of you with keen memories, is the weekend of my father's birthday. (Lilacs, buttercups, dogwoods... Everything is in bloom here. My dad sure picked a great time of year to be born.) So not much of anything going on this weekend. I've got two softball games tomorrow, and afterwards I'm meeting up with UnFortunate for coffee, but then heading home. I've got to bake my father a birthday cake. Devils Food with buttercream frosting.
Tonight I'm heading into Doylestown. It's First Friday there, and I'm hoping that Cigar Boy will be out and about. And that he and I will get to talk some more.
*sigh*
And Sunday, I hope to steal away to take Faithful Companion to the dog run.
Oh. This is weird. My father reports that before he gets up in the morning, after I leave for work, Faithful Companion is ransacking the place. He knocks stuff off tables in my father's den. Like, clearing them off. Everything onto the floor.
I can't believe this. It's like nothing he's ever done before. I'm trying to come up with some alternate explanation. Remorseful burglars with second thoughts? Tremors? A poltergeist?
Hope you guys all have a good weekend, too.
Oh. And a note for any bootblacks who might be reading. My Wesco loggers have developed a squeak. Both of them. Really loud. You can probably hear it across the street. Anything I can do about that? Lemme know. Thanks!
Not this weekend, but next weekend, is the NYC Tattoo Convention at the Roseland Ballroom.
And I'll be there!
That day, my softball team will be playing in Bloomfield, New Jersey, right down the street (literally) from Jersey Guy. Who is quite the illustrated man himself. (Over his dick, he has a tattoo that says "Daddy." Love that.) And, a verrrrrry heavily tattooed man from Atlanta I've been talking to for years will be in town, so I'm looking forward to meeting up with him, too.
Dig: I got a great nom de blogue for him: Whip Cracker.
Get it? He's a whipsman, and he's way into being a Rebel. As in, a southerner. As in, Cracker.
I'm meeting up with Whip Cracker for breakfast, then heading out to NJ to play softball, and Jersey Guy is going to come see the game, then Jersey Guy and I will head into the city to take in the tattoo convention and spend some time with Whip Cracker.
Totally looking forward to that.
This weekend, for those of you with keen memories, is the weekend of my father's birthday. (Lilacs, buttercups, dogwoods... Everything is in bloom here. My dad sure picked a great time of year to be born.) So not much of anything going on this weekend. I've got two softball games tomorrow, and afterwards I'm meeting up with UnFortunate for coffee, but then heading home. I've got to bake my father a birthday cake. Devils Food with buttercream frosting.
Tonight I'm heading into Doylestown. It's First Friday there, and I'm hoping that Cigar Boy will be out and about. And that he and I will get to talk some more.
*sigh*
And Sunday, I hope to steal away to take Faithful Companion to the dog run.
Oh. This is weird. My father reports that before he gets up in the morning, after I leave for work, Faithful Companion is ransacking the place. He knocks stuff off tables in my father's den. Like, clearing them off. Everything onto the floor.
I can't believe this. It's like nothing he's ever done before. I'm trying to come up with some alternate explanation. Remorseful burglars with second thoughts? Tremors? A poltergeist?
Hope you guys all have a good weekend, too.
Oh. And a note for any bootblacks who might be reading. My Wesco loggers have developed a squeak. Both of them. Really loud. You can probably hear it across the street. Anything I can do about that? Lemme know. Thanks!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Meet Cigar Boy
Okay.
Dig.
It's Wednesday, so that means that church. So after my latte and the Times at Starbucks, I head over. Nice little service. Always gets my head together.
During the mass, right after communion, I put my head in my hands, quiet my mind, and just spend some time with God.
Now, I rarely make requests, but tonight, in a weak moment perhaps, I made a request: "Just let me meet him. Just let me meet him."
I felt sort of sheepish about it.
Church was over. I chatted with the priest, and headed out. The evening sun was streaming through the clouds. I took the long way back to my car. I came around the corner, through the parking lot behind the bookstore, and there he was. Cigar Boy.
He was with a small group of other kids. One of whom, luckily, I knew. Our local punk rocker. After punk rock boy and I hailed each other, I sidled over to hang and chat. Keeping my eyes on Cigar Boy.
Not too far into the blah-blah-blah, Cigar Boy made it clear that he was queer. And I just couldn't help but notice how totally adorable he is.
But how to procede? It was a little awkward. A bunch of teenagers standing around talking, and up strolls this old guy. (Although one of the girls admired my tattoo. Cool.) And then, I ended up talking to Cigar Boy. We chatted.
He was telling me that--now get this--how sometimes he just wanted to break away. As in, from the human race. Because he thought that if he could just strip all of it away, he'd be left with something pure and true.
Okay, I knew exactly what he was talking aobut. I totally did. I used to have thoughts like that. I filled up journals mulling things like that.
I told him a story from one of the books I read on Shamanism. About a young man who was spending some time with shaman at a retreat center in the mountains. Every night, the man had a dream. He dreamt that he was running uphill at top speed on a hiking trail near where they were all staying. As he got higher and higher, he started to panic, because he knew that at the top of the trail was a cliff. And he knew that when he reached the top, he'd run right off the cliff. His panick would grow greater and greater, and just before he reached the top, he'd wake up, sweating and afraid. He told the shaman about the dream.
"The next time you have this dream," the shaman replied, keep running. Go off the cliff."
The young man did, right out into space, flying.
When he woke up, he realized something. He was in medical school, but he didn't want to be a doctor. His father wanted him to be a doctor. And that's why he was in med school. He decided right then and there that he had to quit med school.
He told the shaman about his decision. The shaman explained What It All Meant. "At least once in your life, you've got to kill yourself. The person you are when you're starting out in your life is your attempt to live up to the expectations of others. But it's not you. And the only way out is to kill that person."
Cigar Boy was impressed. And obviously nervous. Fidgety. I made sure there was lots of eye contact coming from me. And a warm, admiring smile.
So. We're off to the races, huh?
Well, not quite. I've been hunting him for three weeks, so no telling when he'll next show up. And then there's the hard cold fact that I'm an old guy. Eeeeeewwww!
And there's one other thing. He dropped a total bomb: "The other day, in homeroom..."
Homeroom!
Aaaaaaaaaaagghhhh!!!
Either he's repeated several grades, or he hasn't graduated from high school.
Now when I was graduated from high school in 1983 (at least five years before Cigar Boy was born), I had been eighteen for eight months. And, the age of consent in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is sixteen.
But c'mon. I can only imagine that his parents would be something less than thrilled. I mean, they're probably my age.
But still.
Cigar boy was so sweet when we were talking. Looking up at me. This great half smile he has. And cigar boy has these beautiful gray eyes. I would sure like to be the guy that makes Cigar Boy feel good. Feel good about himself. About his life. His future. Himself.
*gasp* But what if he wants to take me to the prom? That would make the local papers for sure.
Okay.
Dig.
It's Wednesday, so that means that church. So after my latte and the Times at Starbucks, I head over. Nice little service. Always gets my head together.
During the mass, right after communion, I put my head in my hands, quiet my mind, and just spend some time with God.
Now, I rarely make requests, but tonight, in a weak moment perhaps, I made a request: "Just let me meet him. Just let me meet him."
I felt sort of sheepish about it.
Church was over. I chatted with the priest, and headed out. The evening sun was streaming through the clouds. I took the long way back to my car. I came around the corner, through the parking lot behind the bookstore, and there he was. Cigar Boy.
He was with a small group of other kids. One of whom, luckily, I knew. Our local punk rocker. After punk rock boy and I hailed each other, I sidled over to hang and chat. Keeping my eyes on Cigar Boy.
Not too far into the blah-blah-blah, Cigar Boy made it clear that he was queer. And I just couldn't help but notice how totally adorable he is.
But how to procede? It was a little awkward. A bunch of teenagers standing around talking, and up strolls this old guy. (Although one of the girls admired my tattoo. Cool.) And then, I ended up talking to Cigar Boy. We chatted.
He was telling me that--now get this--how sometimes he just wanted to break away. As in, from the human race. Because he thought that if he could just strip all of it away, he'd be left with something pure and true.
Okay, I knew exactly what he was talking aobut. I totally did. I used to have thoughts like that. I filled up journals mulling things like that.
I told him a story from one of the books I read on Shamanism. About a young man who was spending some time with shaman at a retreat center in the mountains. Every night, the man had a dream. He dreamt that he was running uphill at top speed on a hiking trail near where they were all staying. As he got higher and higher, he started to panic, because he knew that at the top of the trail was a cliff. And he knew that when he reached the top, he'd run right off the cliff. His panick would grow greater and greater, and just before he reached the top, he'd wake up, sweating and afraid. He told the shaman about the dream.
"The next time you have this dream," the shaman replied, keep running. Go off the cliff."
The young man did, right out into space, flying.
When he woke up, he realized something. He was in medical school, but he didn't want to be a doctor. His father wanted him to be a doctor. And that's why he was in med school. He decided right then and there that he had to quit med school.
He told the shaman about his decision. The shaman explained What It All Meant. "At least once in your life, you've got to kill yourself. The person you are when you're starting out in your life is your attempt to live up to the expectations of others. But it's not you. And the only way out is to kill that person."
Cigar Boy was impressed. And obviously nervous. Fidgety. I made sure there was lots of eye contact coming from me. And a warm, admiring smile.
So. We're off to the races, huh?
Well, not quite. I've been hunting him for three weeks, so no telling when he'll next show up. And then there's the hard cold fact that I'm an old guy. Eeeeeewwww!
And there's one other thing. He dropped a total bomb: "The other day, in homeroom..."
Homeroom!
Aaaaaaaaaaagghhhh!!!
Either he's repeated several grades, or he hasn't graduated from high school.
Now when I was graduated from high school in 1983 (at least five years before Cigar Boy was born), I had been eighteen for eight months. And, the age of consent in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is sixteen.
But c'mon. I can only imagine that his parents would be something less than thrilled. I mean, they're probably my age.
But still.
Cigar boy was so sweet when we were talking. Looking up at me. This great half smile he has. And cigar boy has these beautiful gray eyes. I would sure like to be the guy that makes Cigar Boy feel good. Feel good about himself. About his life. His future. Himself.
*gasp* But what if he wants to take me to the prom? That would make the local papers for sure.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Bliss
Once again, the Starbucks in Doylestown put the cafe tables and chairs out on their porch. So I no longer have to sit on the cold concrete while I enjoy my latte and cigar. And, the old gang is starting to drift back and take up their positions. Nice.
Alas, Cigar Boy still has not surfaced.
I'm still enjoying this ride. The cool Zen feeling of being both the actor in the melodrama unfolding on stage and somewhat disinterested observer in the audience endures.
But I've been thinking. If, in fact, things don't pan out with Cigar Boy (it could happen!), maybe... maybe... this is the leathergods way of communicating to me that I should be thinking about collaring a boy. All the things that Cigar Boy has me thinking about would be transferable. To some special boy.
First and foremost, giving him the assurance of my abiding devotion. "I'll always be there for you, boy. I'll always be in your corner. I've always got your back. No matter where your journey takes you in life, you can always be sure of that."
What boy wouldn't love to hear that?
Once again, the Starbucks in Doylestown put the cafe tables and chairs out on their porch. So I no longer have to sit on the cold concrete while I enjoy my latte and cigar. And, the old gang is starting to drift back and take up their positions. Nice.
Alas, Cigar Boy still has not surfaced.
I'm still enjoying this ride. The cool Zen feeling of being both the actor in the melodrama unfolding on stage and somewhat disinterested observer in the audience endures.
But I've been thinking. If, in fact, things don't pan out with Cigar Boy (it could happen!), maybe... maybe... this is the leathergods way of communicating to me that I should be thinking about collaring a boy. All the things that Cigar Boy has me thinking about would be transferable. To some special boy.
First and foremost, giving him the assurance of my abiding devotion. "I'll always be there for you, boy. I'll always be in your corner. I've always got your back. No matter where your journey takes you in life, you can always be sure of that."
What boy wouldn't love to hear that?
Baseball My Life
Sooooo good to have baseball back in season. Lately, it seems that the Philadelphia Phillies are exclusively playing the Florida Marlins.
Much to my father's chagrin, I'm rooting for the Marlins.
Why?
Because of their new manager. Joe Girardi.
Way back when I was loving the Yankees (Yes! It's true!) I was pretty smitten with their catcher, Joe Girardi. You could stand four beer mugs on that man's ass. I can still see, in my mind's eye, the outline of his voluptouos butt and meaty thighs when he was squatting down behind home plate.
A buddy of mine once reported that he had seen Joe Girardi at a cigar bar in lower Manhattan.
I'm glad I didn't. I would have gone to prison.
It was indeed a dark day when Girardi went to the White Sox. But now, there he is, right there on my television screen.
Unfortunately, as a manager, we don't get to see Joe squatting any more. Or standing up much for that matter. Mostly he's brooding on the bench in the dugout, Joe Torre style.
But even brooding... He gets this great look on his face: intense concentratin mingled with incomprehension. I've always found that winning. Sort of the look I'd hope he'd get when I explain to him that the crate is so I can ship him down to the slave training facility in Central America because I decided that he looked so good naked and in chains that I thought it only right that he spend the rest of his life that way.
*sigh*
Welcome back to my masturbatory fantasies, Joe!
Sooooo good to have baseball back in season. Lately, it seems that the Philadelphia Phillies are exclusively playing the Florida Marlins.
Much to my father's chagrin, I'm rooting for the Marlins.
Why?
Because of their new manager. Joe Girardi.
Way back when I was loving the Yankees (Yes! It's true!) I was pretty smitten with their catcher, Joe Girardi. You could stand four beer mugs on that man's ass. I can still see, in my mind's eye, the outline of his voluptouos butt and meaty thighs when he was squatting down behind home plate.
A buddy of mine once reported that he had seen Joe Girardi at a cigar bar in lower Manhattan.
I'm glad I didn't. I would have gone to prison.
It was indeed a dark day when Girardi went to the White Sox. But now, there he is, right there on my television screen.
Unfortunately, as a manager, we don't get to see Joe squatting any more. Or standing up much for that matter. Mostly he's brooding on the bench in the dugout, Joe Torre style.
But even brooding... He gets this great look on his face: intense concentratin mingled with incomprehension. I've always found that winning. Sort of the look I'd hope he'd get when I explain to him that the crate is so I can ship him down to the slave training facility in Central America because I decided that he looked so good naked and in chains that I thought it only right that he spend the rest of his life that way.
*sigh*
Welcome back to my masturbatory fantasies, Joe!
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Yes We Are!
My former Senator, Chuck Schumer, is on This Week with George Stephanopoulos. Love that guy. Mostly.
When he was first elected to the Senate, the Times interviewed some of his constituents in his congressional district about what they thought of him. A couple of moms, sitting in a coffee place on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, had this to say: "We are a recycling, breast-feeding, non-spanking people, and Chuck Schumer is our congressman!"
God I miss Brooklyn. Best place I ever lived.
My former Senator, Chuck Schumer, is on This Week with George Stephanopoulos. Love that guy. Mostly.
When he was first elected to the Senate, the Times interviewed some of his constituents in his congressional district about what they thought of him. A couple of moms, sitting in a coffee place on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, had this to say: "We are a recycling, breast-feeding, non-spanking people, and Chuck Schumer is our congressman!"
God I miss Brooklyn. Best place I ever lived.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Crazy, Right?
Softball today.
It is sooooo good to be back in D Division. All about having a good time. Cheering on your team, and wishing the other team well, too. Because we're all struggling up the mountain called softball together.
And, of course, today was my pitching debut.
Yeah. Well.
It's a good thing there were no major league baseball scouts there.
They walked and they walked and they walked.
Pitching is hard! I mean, really hard!
It's weird though. I can do it. Perfect arc, and it just drops right into the glove of the catcher. And the thing is, I know before the ball even leaves my hand that that's gonna happen. But other times... Well, it's short, it's long it's outside, it's inside. Ball One. Ball Two. Ball Three. Take your base, batter.
Nowhere to go but up, I guess.
Hopefully, with some practice, I'll see some improvement.
We played in Bloomfield, New Jersey. Home of Jersey Guy, who's in Palm Springs this weekend. As I learned from my visits to Jersey Guy, Watsessing Park is an easy shot from home. Out I-78 to the Parkway, north on the Parkway to Exit 148, and the exit spits you out right there at the park. So, I decided not to use the gas to head into NYC with my fellow Ball Breakers after the game.
Instead, I went to hang out at Starbucks in Doylestown to see if Cigar Boy might show up.
And he didn't.
Where is he?
I know I know I know I know what you're thinking.
What is this all about? Am I nuts? I don't even know his name, for pete's sake.
Has the Good Ship Reality gone chugging out of my port?
Relax.
I did a check-in on all this with the Baron. And realized something interesting. Iven though I'm having this whole deal going on with Cigar Boy, at the same time, I have this sense of watching myself--safely--from a distance. So it's like I'm both heading down the rapids in my canoe and watching safely from the shore.
And I've gotta tell you, this feels great.
As careful readers know, I was getting seriously worried. I used to fall in love all the time. Get all crushed out on a guy. But then it stopped. Because Special Guy gave me so much, and raised the bar so high. Because when I was able to give my heart to Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer, it turned out that he's pretty careless with hearts. So maybe it was spent. Worn out. Gone.
Maybe what I was looking at from here on in was just going through the motions. Hoping that next time will be different.
But no.
Here I am. Pouring all my energies into this smokin hot boy. Imagining him and me, me and him. Trying to read him, from the little I know. Figure him out. Wondering what might go down.
And I realize it might come to nothing.
The Baron verrrry helpfully brought to my attention the many reasons why I didn't have a hope of this going anywhere. And overall, made some good points.
But something might come of it.
Well, that's not correct. Something already has.
I'm having fun.
Softball today.
It is sooooo good to be back in D Division. All about having a good time. Cheering on your team, and wishing the other team well, too. Because we're all struggling up the mountain called softball together.
And, of course, today was my pitching debut.
Yeah. Well.
It's a good thing there were no major league baseball scouts there.
They walked and they walked and they walked.
Pitching is hard! I mean, really hard!
It's weird though. I can do it. Perfect arc, and it just drops right into the glove of the catcher. And the thing is, I know before the ball even leaves my hand that that's gonna happen. But other times... Well, it's short, it's long it's outside, it's inside. Ball One. Ball Two. Ball Three. Take your base, batter.
Nowhere to go but up, I guess.
Hopefully, with some practice, I'll see some improvement.
We played in Bloomfield, New Jersey. Home of Jersey Guy, who's in Palm Springs this weekend. As I learned from my visits to Jersey Guy, Watsessing Park is an easy shot from home. Out I-78 to the Parkway, north on the Parkway to Exit 148, and the exit spits you out right there at the park. So, I decided not to use the gas to head into NYC with my fellow Ball Breakers after the game.
Instead, I went to hang out at Starbucks in Doylestown to see if Cigar Boy might show up.
And he didn't.
Where is he?
I know I know I know I know what you're thinking.
What is this all about? Am I nuts? I don't even know his name, for pete's sake.
Has the Good Ship Reality gone chugging out of my port?
Relax.
I did a check-in on all this with the Baron. And realized something interesting. Iven though I'm having this whole deal going on with Cigar Boy, at the same time, I have this sense of watching myself--safely--from a distance. So it's like I'm both heading down the rapids in my canoe and watching safely from the shore.
And I've gotta tell you, this feels great.
As careful readers know, I was getting seriously worried. I used to fall in love all the time. Get all crushed out on a guy. But then it stopped. Because Special Guy gave me so much, and raised the bar so high. Because when I was able to give my heart to Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer, it turned out that he's pretty careless with hearts. So maybe it was spent. Worn out. Gone.
Maybe what I was looking at from here on in was just going through the motions. Hoping that next time will be different.
But no.
Here I am. Pouring all my energies into this smokin hot boy. Imagining him and me, me and him. Trying to read him, from the little I know. Figure him out. Wondering what might go down.
And I realize it might come to nothing.
The Baron verrrry helpfully brought to my attention the many reasons why I didn't have a hope of this going anywhere. And overall, made some good points.
But something might come of it.
Well, that's not correct. Something already has.
I'm having fun.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Cigar Boy Update
Cigar Boy was a no show again today. When I pulled up, I saw, from a distance, a guy who could have been Cigar Boy and got all excited, but alas, it wasn't.
Dang.
And it wasn't all that warm today, so I wasn't very comfortable keeping my lonely vigil.
But some good news: this Monday, Starbucks is putting the chairs and tables out on the porch. So, I won't have to sit on the ground any more. And, that always brings out the crowds, thus upping my chances of meeting up with Cigar Boy and asking him out on a date.
Okay okay okay! Enough pissing and moaning, right? Not what you all tuned in for, I'm sure.
I'm not that bad off. I had church tonight. And I thanked God for the gift of my life. Things are good here. Just kinda maybe sorta hoping they get better. Cigar Boy better.
Oh. And speaking of prayer, send out a prayer for our friend Diabolique, who is recovering from having his spleen removed.
Cigar Boy was a no show again today. When I pulled up, I saw, from a distance, a guy who could have been Cigar Boy and got all excited, but alas, it wasn't.
Dang.
And it wasn't all that warm today, so I wasn't very comfortable keeping my lonely vigil.
But some good news: this Monday, Starbucks is putting the chairs and tables out on the porch. So, I won't have to sit on the ground any more. And, that always brings out the crowds, thus upping my chances of meeting up with Cigar Boy and asking him out on a date.
Okay okay okay! Enough pissing and moaning, right? Not what you all tuned in for, I'm sure.
I'm not that bad off. I had church tonight. And I thanked God for the gift of my life. Things are good here. Just kinda maybe sorta hoping they get better. Cigar Boy better.
Oh. And speaking of prayer, send out a prayer for our friend Diabolique, who is recovering from having his spleen removed.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Krush
Again today--as yesterday--Cigar Boy was a no show at Starbucks.
Giving me more time to think, and make connections.
"For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone."
I want to be loved. By someone I think worthy of loving.
In part, it's about affirmation. And it has everything to do with the difficulty I seem to be having in getting a new job. I thought it would be easy. Heck, with my resume? But for a couple of jobs where it would be something of a step down from what I've done in the past, I don't even get a call for an interview.
Am I, at age 41, over the hill? Are my best days behind me? Has my act grown tired? Am I played out?
And same with me getting all subby lately on Worldleathermen: "Pick me, Sir! Pick me!"
Cigar Boy looms largest. If I could just get him to get as crushed out on me as I seem to be getting on him.
How I would value that. How I would work to be worthy of that. I'd give everything.
Everything for the kind of love that prompts tattoos of names inscribed on hearts.
And part of the allure of Cigar Boy is the fact that in my experience, the young are particularly susceptible to that. I could do with some shooting fish in a barrel. So all day long at work, I'm dreaming about Cigar Boy.
Taking Cigar Boy to Beer Blast at the Dugout on Sunday afternoon. To Folsom Street East (maybe on a leash!). Explaining to him. Showing him. Encouraging him. Curling up next to him in bed. Seeing if I could talk him into tying him up tight, lighting up a cigar for him, and watching him smoke it.
Dreaming dreams.
"Your old men will dream dreams."
Is that all that's left for old men though? Like Ulysses, longing for one more voyage? One more opportunity to set sail for adventure? I'm getting tired of dating. I want to be struck by lightening.
How well I remember that day at the corner of Christopher and Bleecker. The sudden summer downpour. Special Guy and I taking shelter under the awning of the fresh cut flower stand. The woman asking me directions to the subway, and while I answered, Special Guy bought me a single red rose. He gave it to me, kissed me deeply and passionately, and asked, "Will you be boyfriends with me?"
What if I knew then what's becoming clear to me now: I may never feel that way again.
And guiding the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center through perilous waters. I may never know that success again either.
Like being an actor. You meet with incredible success, but it's no guarantee. You never know if your critically acclaimed performance in a hit play will be the last time you ever work.
I've learned my lesson. If I ever have another chance, I'll give my life to hold on to it.
Again today--as yesterday--Cigar Boy was a no show at Starbucks.
Giving me more time to think, and make connections.
"For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone."
I want to be loved. By someone I think worthy of loving.
In part, it's about affirmation. And it has everything to do with the difficulty I seem to be having in getting a new job. I thought it would be easy. Heck, with my resume? But for a couple of jobs where it would be something of a step down from what I've done in the past, I don't even get a call for an interview.
Am I, at age 41, over the hill? Are my best days behind me? Has my act grown tired? Am I played out?
And same with me getting all subby lately on Worldleathermen: "Pick me, Sir! Pick me!"
Cigar Boy looms largest. If I could just get him to get as crushed out on me as I seem to be getting on him.
How I would value that. How I would work to be worthy of that. I'd give everything.
Everything for the kind of love that prompts tattoos of names inscribed on hearts.
And part of the allure of Cigar Boy is the fact that in my experience, the young are particularly susceptible to that. I could do with some shooting fish in a barrel. So all day long at work, I'm dreaming about Cigar Boy.
Taking Cigar Boy to Beer Blast at the Dugout on Sunday afternoon. To Folsom Street East (maybe on a leash!). Explaining to him. Showing him. Encouraging him. Curling up next to him in bed. Seeing if I could talk him into tying him up tight, lighting up a cigar for him, and watching him smoke it.
Dreaming dreams.
"Your old men will dream dreams."
Is that all that's left for old men though? Like Ulysses, longing for one more voyage? One more opportunity to set sail for adventure? I'm getting tired of dating. I want to be struck by lightening.
How well I remember that day at the corner of Christopher and Bleecker. The sudden summer downpour. Special Guy and I taking shelter under the awning of the fresh cut flower stand. The woman asking me directions to the subway, and while I answered, Special Guy bought me a single red rose. He gave it to me, kissed me deeply and passionately, and asked, "Will you be boyfriends with me?"
What if I knew then what's becoming clear to me now: I may never feel that way again.
And guiding the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center through perilous waters. I may never know that success again either.
Like being an actor. You meet with incredible success, but it's no guarantee. You never know if your critically acclaimed performance in a hit play will be the last time you ever work.
I've learned my lesson. If I ever have another chance, I'll give my life to hold on to it.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Obsessed
Where did this come from?
I've always liked men. Bearded, beergutted, hirsute men.
Is it a function of getting older? Or just the company I keep at Starbucks?
Or maybe it's just Him.
But lately, now I'm noticing boys. As in "young men."
My friend The Baron has always been a fan of them. With their little bicep muscles like scoops of ice cream. I would scoff. "But there's no there there. What are you going to talk to him about, his course load at college?" The Baron wanted the boys, I wanted their dads.
But since I moved out here to the Howling Wilderness, perhaps I'm reliving in some ways the time I spent here growing up. The kind of boys that enthralled me in high school are doing it to me again. Only in high school they were a couple of years older than me, and now, I'm old enough to have sired them.
For example.
He's so hot! Mohawk. Baby fat over muscles. His eyes lit up when I told him how I helped the Circle Jerks unload their equipment from their van and they bought me a beer. And then one day at Starbucks we were talking. He was telling me about how he was learning machining at tech school. I asked him if he was graduating this year and looking for a job. And he said, "Nah, I'm a sophmore."
???
"How old are you?" I asked.
"I'm fifteen," he answered.
I backed off. Immediately. Not that I've ever been a master of seduction with anybody.
But now He happened on the scene.
Get this. A total little fireplug of a guy. Stocky. Big full lips. And He's been seen on the rialto (as I call the parking lot of Starbucks in Doylestown) smoking cigars.
You bet I've been eyeing Him.
So then, the other day, it was a beautiful day, and I'm sitting on the porch of Starbucks, reading the Times and enjoying my cigar. He was nearby, talking to his friends. They were talking about the current brouhaha over MySpace: kids putting too much information on their profiles and getting stalked by pervy 40 year olds. And they were pretty sure that what was behind the whole thing is the fact that kids use MySpace for the same reason that grownups have been using the internet for. Namely, hooking up. And then, He said it... "MySpace rocks! I met this guy on MySpace and damn! We had like fifty orgasms that night."
!!!
He's queer.
This smokin' hot boy is likes guys.
Okay. And dig. He must be at least 18 if he gets his cigars at the Classic Cigar Parlor where I do, because I know they card mercilessly.
And I can't stop thinking about Him. As in, planning the rest of my life around Him. I mean, what if He's not just gay, but kinky? And what if He's not just gay and kinky, but submissive??? Imagine the possibilities. Me with this hot cigar smoking boy on a leash...
Yeah I know I know I know.
Not like we haven't been down this road before, right? But all the same, I'd be grateful for the opportunity to sit and talk with him someday this summer, smoking cigars together. And letting him know that he's going to have a such a great time starting the moment he walks into his first bear bar.
Where did this come from?
I've always liked men. Bearded, beergutted, hirsute men.
Is it a function of getting older? Or just the company I keep at Starbucks?
Or maybe it's just Him.
But lately, now I'm noticing boys. As in "young men."
My friend The Baron has always been a fan of them. With their little bicep muscles like scoops of ice cream. I would scoff. "But there's no there there. What are you going to talk to him about, his course load at college?" The Baron wanted the boys, I wanted their dads.
But since I moved out here to the Howling Wilderness, perhaps I'm reliving in some ways the time I spent here growing up. The kind of boys that enthralled me in high school are doing it to me again. Only in high school they were a couple of years older than me, and now, I'm old enough to have sired them.
For example.
He's so hot! Mohawk. Baby fat over muscles. His eyes lit up when I told him how I helped the Circle Jerks unload their equipment from their van and they bought me a beer. And then one day at Starbucks we were talking. He was telling me about how he was learning machining at tech school. I asked him if he was graduating this year and looking for a job. And he said, "Nah, I'm a sophmore."
???
"How old are you?" I asked.
"I'm fifteen," he answered.
I backed off. Immediately. Not that I've ever been a master of seduction with anybody.
But now He happened on the scene.
Get this. A total little fireplug of a guy. Stocky. Big full lips. And He's been seen on the rialto (as I call the parking lot of Starbucks in Doylestown) smoking cigars.
You bet I've been eyeing Him.
So then, the other day, it was a beautiful day, and I'm sitting on the porch of Starbucks, reading the Times and enjoying my cigar. He was nearby, talking to his friends. They were talking about the current brouhaha over MySpace: kids putting too much information on their profiles and getting stalked by pervy 40 year olds. And they were pretty sure that what was behind the whole thing is the fact that kids use MySpace for the same reason that grownups have been using the internet for. Namely, hooking up. And then, He said it... "MySpace rocks! I met this guy on MySpace and damn! We had like fifty orgasms that night."
!!!
He's queer.
This smokin' hot boy is likes guys.
Okay. And dig. He must be at least 18 if he gets his cigars at the Classic Cigar Parlor where I do, because I know they card mercilessly.
And I can't stop thinking about Him. As in, planning the rest of my life around Him. I mean, what if He's not just gay, but kinky? And what if He's not just gay and kinky, but submissive??? Imagine the possibilities. Me with this hot cigar smoking boy on a leash...
Yeah I know I know I know.
Not like we haven't been down this road before, right? But all the same, I'd be grateful for the opportunity to sit and talk with him someday this summer, smoking cigars together. And letting him know that he's going to have a such a great time starting the moment he walks into his first bear bar.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
A Cry For Help
Help!!!
Okay.
Does anybody out there live in New England and have a truck with a decent sized bed? (At least 6'x6'.) Or, does anybody out there know anybody who has a truck who lives in New England?
Here's the deal.
Look at this beautiful cage...
I mean, Look at that!
Bet you've never seen one like that before, have you? Notice how the ample space on top can be used as a bondage table. And that classy pentagonal shape, huh? What a beauty!
And it's mine! All mine!
And for the past two years and eight months, it's been sitting--empty!--in a garage in Providence, Rhode Island.
I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to get it down here from Providence. (Pretty unprovidential, right?) And since I have the garage all cleaned out, I have a place to put it.
And put it to use.
Surely there must be some truck driving Good Samaritan out there who would be willing to help me out here. I'll give you gas money! I'll make you a dinner that will blow you away! I'll put you in the cage! I'll let you put me in the cage!
Anybody? Anybody?
If'n you can help out, drop something into the comments section below, or email me at drewkramer (at) mac (dot) com.
Please.
Please help.
I'll thank you. Countless boys will thank you.
My undying gratitude awaits!
Help!!!
Okay.
Does anybody out there live in New England and have a truck with a decent sized bed? (At least 6'x6'.) Or, does anybody out there know anybody who has a truck who lives in New England?
Here's the deal.
Look at this beautiful cage...
I mean, Look at that!
Bet you've never seen one like that before, have you? Notice how the ample space on top can be used as a bondage table. And that classy pentagonal shape, huh? What a beauty!
And it's mine! All mine!
And for the past two years and eight months, it's been sitting--empty!--in a garage in Providence, Rhode Island.
I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to get it down here from Providence. (Pretty unprovidential, right?) And since I have the garage all cleaned out, I have a place to put it.
And put it to use.
Surely there must be some truck driving Good Samaritan out there who would be willing to help me out here. I'll give you gas money! I'll make you a dinner that will blow you away! I'll put you in the cage! I'll let you put me in the cage!
Anybody? Anybody?
If'n you can help out, drop something into the comments section below, or email me at drewkramer (at) mac (dot) com.
Please.
Please help.
I'll thank you. Countless boys will thank you.
My undying gratitude awaits!
Hail Thee Festival Day!
When it comes to Holy Week, the Episcopal Church is just second to none. Positively wagnerian. Thursday through Saturday, every night is an increasing blow out. Liturgically speaking, that is. And I was down for the whole thing. I was in church last week way more than I was in the gym. (Although my weight is starting to climb back up, and on Tuesday, I did Astanga Yoga. I was sweating like a pig! It was literally pouring off me. My gym clothes were soaked. And the instructor, Bob, is a total hottie.)
Saturday, I managed to squeeze in both softball practice and the Great Vigil of Easter. After a cigar and an iced coffee on the grass pier, I sped home, changed clothes, and made it to church in plenty of time to get a good seat.
And I spent the bulk of softball practice on the pitcher's mound. And my fellow Ball Breakers were duly impressed with my efforts. I love being a pitcher. It's that center-of-attention thing, I think. Also, I look really mean. (!) And I seem to be unflusterable. Hope that lasts. If'n you know anything about baseball, you know that pitchers are prone to psychological terrors. One minute you're throwing 96 mile-per-hour fastballs, and the next minute you aren't sure you'll ever be able to put one over the plate again.
It's so much like whipping. Just like whipping. Just focus your attention on what you're aiming at, relax, wind up, throw. Don't let your mind get in the way, your body knows how to do it. Just like whipping.
And, NorskyBear presented me with the fabulous orange watch cap he knitted for me! I love my new orange watch cap. Alas, it does a really good job of keeping my head warm, so I won't be sporting it for several months (I hope). But look for me when I do!
And, Norsky and I talked about me sponsoring him for Inferno. Which I would gladly do. He's a great guy, and I've been a fan of his for years. In fact, if he were to ride out with me, I would be quite the speed demon. Having an Ossiffer in the car must have some privileges. Out on Randall's Island where we play, there seem to be no restrooms to speak of. I always keep a sharp lookout for when Norsky heads for the banks of the Bronx Kill to take a piss. I figure no cop is going to bust me for public urination as long as I'm doing it with another member of the force.
Sunday, I made a nice easter dinner for my dad (lambchops à la moutarde, bake potatoe, brussels sprouts). And actually managed to get some housecleaning done around here! Then, I headed for Montclair NJ for another date (that's four!) with Jersey Guy. We talked. We smoked cigars watching HGTV (Jersey is addicted to design, too). We got naked. It was so sweet. I sure am developing quite the soft spot for Jersey Guy.
So, despite the fact that with taxes and all, I have thirty two dollars left over of my paycheck and it's two weeks till the next payday, things are very good here.
Opening day is on Saturday! Wish me luck!
When it comes to Holy Week, the Episcopal Church is just second to none. Positively wagnerian. Thursday through Saturday, every night is an increasing blow out. Liturgically speaking, that is. And I was down for the whole thing. I was in church last week way more than I was in the gym. (Although my weight is starting to climb back up, and on Tuesday, I did Astanga Yoga. I was sweating like a pig! It was literally pouring off me. My gym clothes were soaked. And the instructor, Bob, is a total hottie.)
Saturday, I managed to squeeze in both softball practice and the Great Vigil of Easter. After a cigar and an iced coffee on the grass pier, I sped home, changed clothes, and made it to church in plenty of time to get a good seat.
And I spent the bulk of softball practice on the pitcher's mound. And my fellow Ball Breakers were duly impressed with my efforts. I love being a pitcher. It's that center-of-attention thing, I think. Also, I look really mean. (!) And I seem to be unflusterable. Hope that lasts. If'n you know anything about baseball, you know that pitchers are prone to psychological terrors. One minute you're throwing 96 mile-per-hour fastballs, and the next minute you aren't sure you'll ever be able to put one over the plate again.
It's so much like whipping. Just like whipping. Just focus your attention on what you're aiming at, relax, wind up, throw. Don't let your mind get in the way, your body knows how to do it. Just like whipping.
And, NorskyBear presented me with the fabulous orange watch cap he knitted for me! I love my new orange watch cap. Alas, it does a really good job of keeping my head warm, so I won't be sporting it for several months (I hope). But look for me when I do!
And, Norsky and I talked about me sponsoring him for Inferno. Which I would gladly do. He's a great guy, and I've been a fan of his for years. In fact, if he were to ride out with me, I would be quite the speed demon. Having an Ossiffer in the car must have some privileges. Out on Randall's Island where we play, there seem to be no restrooms to speak of. I always keep a sharp lookout for when Norsky heads for the banks of the Bronx Kill to take a piss. I figure no cop is going to bust me for public urination as long as I'm doing it with another member of the force.
Sunday, I made a nice easter dinner for my dad (lambchops à la moutarde, bake potatoe, brussels sprouts). And actually managed to get some housecleaning done around here! Then, I headed for Montclair NJ for another date (that's four!) with Jersey Guy. We talked. We smoked cigars watching HGTV (Jersey is addicted to design, too). We got naked. It was so sweet. I sure am developing quite the soft spot for Jersey Guy.
So, despite the fact that with taxes and all, I have thirty two dollars left over of my paycheck and it's two weeks till the next payday, things are very good here.
Opening day is on Saturday! Wish me luck!
Monday, April 10, 2006
Cool Thought From Our Indigenous Folks
Heard this on NPR...
The Innuit (I think it's the Innuit) believe that men and the animals were once pretty much all the brothers, all of the same tribe. But then, a chasm opened up in the earth, separating man from the animals. The chasm grew wider and wider, men on one side, and animals on the other. At the last moment, the dog abandoned his cousin, the wolf, and leapt across the chasm to join man.
Of course the did did!
For that, I'm gonna give Faithful Companion some lovin'!
Heard this on NPR...
The Innuit (I think it's the Innuit) believe that men and the animals were once pretty much all the brothers, all of the same tribe. But then, a chasm opened up in the earth, separating man from the animals. The chasm grew wider and wider, men on one side, and animals on the other. At the last moment, the dog abandoned his cousin, the wolf, and leapt across the chasm to join man.
Of course the did did!
For that, I'm gonna give Faithful Companion some lovin'!
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Arrividerci, Olney!
Forgot to tell you all about this.
Last weekend, I went down to Philadelphia to hang with the Baron. My route from here in the Howling Wilderness is to take 263 to 611, which turns into North Broad Street. It's pretty much a straight shot, thirty-five miles door to door.
And it takes me through North Philadelphia. A neighborhood that's largely African-American. Okay, almost entirely African-American.
So there I am, going from stoplight to stop light--back in the day, the lights were synchronized so if you went thirty miles per hour, you'd only hit every seventh or so--and I pull up next to this big SUV. And I notice that the driver of the SUV is totally hot. Fiftyish, chiseled features, steel gray hair... just a beautiful man.
And he caught me lookin'. And he smiled. And I smiled back at him. And he grinned at me and nodded hello. And I grinned at him, and gave him a woof.
And thought to myself... Well this is cool!
The light turns green, he takes off, I take off. But then, a couple of lights later, guess who pulls up next to me again.
He smiles at me. I smile at him. And then he gestures for me to roll down my window.
Okay. I'm game. So I roll down the window.
And hot SUV guy says to me... "Buon' Giorno! Parle italiano?"
???
I replied, "Si... parlo poco d'italiano, na molto."
"Bene! Vogli comprare una giubba? Una giubba bella! Di Giorgio Armani!"
Uh... "Giubba." Uh... Scarpe, cravate... Jacket! "Giubba" means jacket! He has a Giorgio Armani jacket he wants me to comprare. But I don't need a Giorgio Armani giubba.
"Ah Signor, mille grazie ma no. Per mi, no Giubba."
"Certo?"
"Si, certo, ma grazie."
The light turned green. A couple of blocks later he turned and I went straight.
And then it sort of dawned on me... I just had a conversation in Italian on North Broad Street.
What the hell?
When was the last time you negotiated for the purchase of a jacket in Italian? And how did he know I spoke Italian? And does he just do business with people who speak Italian? Does he drive through Philadelphia all day asking random strangers if they parle italiano? And wouldn't South Philadelphia, Land of Cheesesteaks And Organized Crime, be a better place to try that?
A mystery.
But I have to admit I felt pretty damned good about those three semesters of Italian I had in college. Verrrrry cosmopolitan.
It's a shame that in my three semesters of Italian, we didn't cover "get laid."
Forgot to tell you all about this.
Last weekend, I went down to Philadelphia to hang with the Baron. My route from here in the Howling Wilderness is to take 263 to 611, which turns into North Broad Street. It's pretty much a straight shot, thirty-five miles door to door.
And it takes me through North Philadelphia. A neighborhood that's largely African-American. Okay, almost entirely African-American.
So there I am, going from stoplight to stop light--back in the day, the lights were synchronized so if you went thirty miles per hour, you'd only hit every seventh or so--and I pull up next to this big SUV. And I notice that the driver of the SUV is totally hot. Fiftyish, chiseled features, steel gray hair... just a beautiful man.
And he caught me lookin'. And he smiled. And I smiled back at him. And he grinned at me and nodded hello. And I grinned at him, and gave him a woof.
And thought to myself... Well this is cool!
The light turns green, he takes off, I take off. But then, a couple of lights later, guess who pulls up next to me again.
He smiles at me. I smile at him. And then he gestures for me to roll down my window.
Okay. I'm game. So I roll down the window.
And hot SUV guy says to me... "Buon' Giorno! Parle italiano?"
???
I replied, "Si... parlo poco d'italiano, na molto."
"Bene! Vogli comprare una giubba? Una giubba bella! Di Giorgio Armani!"
Uh... "Giubba." Uh... Scarpe, cravate... Jacket! "Giubba" means jacket! He has a Giorgio Armani jacket he wants me to comprare. But I don't need a Giorgio Armani giubba.
"Ah Signor, mille grazie ma no. Per mi, no Giubba."
"Certo?"
"Si, certo, ma grazie."
The light turned green. A couple of blocks later he turned and I went straight.
And then it sort of dawned on me... I just had a conversation in Italian on North Broad Street.
What the hell?
When was the last time you negotiated for the purchase of a jacket in Italian? And how did he know I spoke Italian? And does he just do business with people who speak Italian? Does he drive through Philadelphia all day asking random strangers if they parle italiano? And wouldn't South Philadelphia, Land of Cheesesteaks And Organized Crime, be a better place to try that?
A mystery.
But I have to admit I felt pretty damned good about those three semesters of Italian I had in college. Verrrrry cosmopolitan.
It's a shame that in my three semesters of Italian, we didn't cover "get laid."
"Does A Bear Knit In The Woods?"
See! I really do read your comments!
And catching up on them today, I make the wonderful discovery that the cop on my softball team--not that one, the other one, the queer one who's smokin hot and seriously kinky, that one!--has a weblog!
Now, what would be the obsession of this hot, uniformed, world-class athlete, and exceptional pig?
Did you guess Knitting? Then you'd be right! Guess who's gonna be sporting an orange silk watch cap in the not too distant future? And you can see pictures of it on Norsky Bear's blog.
Read.
Drop to your knees.
Worship.
Do what the nice Norsky Bear tells you.
See! I really do read your comments!
And catching up on them today, I make the wonderful discovery that the cop on my softball team--not that one, the other one, the queer one who's smokin hot and seriously kinky, that one!--has a weblog!
Now, what would be the obsession of this hot, uniformed, world-class athlete, and exceptional pig?
Did you guess Knitting? Then you'd be right! Guess who's gonna be sporting an orange silk watch cap in the not too distant future? And you can see pictures of it on Norsky Bear's blog.
Read.
Drop to your knees.
Worship.
Do what the nice Norsky Bear tells you.
Slacking Is Wasted On The Young
An internet acquaintance, whom I'm sponsoring for Inferno this year, sent me email commenting on my Slacker piece. And he got me thinking more about the subject. Here, in part, is my reply email...
"As for the Slacker piece, there's a book that's really big in France right now, written by a 20-something française, called 'Bonjour Paresse.' (Paresse is the french word for laziness, although it has connotations more along the lines of languid. I love the wordplay, referencing 'Bonjour Tristesse,' or, as it's usually put in english, "Goodmorning, Heartache." I only saw a reference to it in an article about the student demonstrations over there right now, but it got me thinking.
"When I first moved to NYC, I was working for Ernst & Young, the largest professional services (mostly accounting) firm worldwide, in the legal department, as a paralegal. It didn't pay very well--althhough interestingly, I was making more there than I am now, almost twenty years later. I was a really good paralegal, which I used to say is like being the tallest building in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. So what? At one point, one of the lawyers I worked with took me aside and said she was really impressed with me, she knew I didn't make a lot there, and with a phone call she could get me a job working for a Big NYC Law Firm where I'd be making about $55,000/year. It took me no time at all to decline her offer. I just knew that if I was making $55,000/year, I'd be trapped in that dead-end job until I died. I'd be stuck, since you quickly get used to however much money you're making. And, as luck would have it, a year and a half later, I had what was probably the most satisfying job I've ever had, working for a member of the New York City Council. And I took a pay cut to go and work for him [g].
"So I think that these are ideas that have been kicking around in my head for a while now.
"And I think that I was moved in part to write because the same thoughts that you're thinking I've thought, too. In her late forties, my sister developed a strange, slowly debilitating, and ultimately fatal illness called Primary Pulmonary Hypertension. After she died, I found her diary among her effects. At one point, she was writing about how the worst part of what was happening to her was that slowly possibilities were being taken away: "I'll never be able to ride a horse again; I'll never be able to swim across Lake Nockamixon again; I'll never be able to fall in love again; I'll never be able to have sex again." It was heartbreaking to read, but I think that time does that to all of us. But, by way of compensation, we get the gift that we don't have when we're young: the present moment. (Young people only have the future.)
"I had a wonderful day today. After a slightly abbreviated night at the Bike Stop, the leather bar in Philadelphia, I managed to get six hours of sleep. Yesterday was cold and rainy, but today we have warm sun and clear blue Spring skies. I went to church for Palm Sunday, and then sat in Starbucks for a few hours and read the New York Times. Now, I'm going to make myself something to eat: split pea and ham soup (out of a can), to which I add toast and bleu cheese. A younger version of myself would be feeling bored and rammy. But I can let go of all the things I'm not doing, and haven't done. (Mostly. I have my eras of wistfulness.)"
An internet acquaintance, whom I'm sponsoring for Inferno this year, sent me email commenting on my Slacker piece. And he got me thinking more about the subject. Here, in part, is my reply email...
"As for the Slacker piece, there's a book that's really big in France right now, written by a 20-something française, called 'Bonjour Paresse.' (Paresse is the french word for laziness, although it has connotations more along the lines of languid. I love the wordplay, referencing 'Bonjour Tristesse,' or, as it's usually put in english, "Goodmorning, Heartache." I only saw a reference to it in an article about the student demonstrations over there right now, but it got me thinking.
"When I first moved to NYC, I was working for Ernst & Young, the largest professional services (mostly accounting) firm worldwide, in the legal department, as a paralegal. It didn't pay very well--althhough interestingly, I was making more there than I am now, almost twenty years later. I was a really good paralegal, which I used to say is like being the tallest building in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. So what? At one point, one of the lawyers I worked with took me aside and said she was really impressed with me, she knew I didn't make a lot there, and with a phone call she could get me a job working for a Big NYC Law Firm where I'd be making about $55,000/year. It took me no time at all to decline her offer. I just knew that if I was making $55,000/year, I'd be trapped in that dead-end job until I died. I'd be stuck, since you quickly get used to however much money you're making. And, as luck would have it, a year and a half later, I had what was probably the most satisfying job I've ever had, working for a member of the New York City Council. And I took a pay cut to go and work for him [g].
"So I think that these are ideas that have been kicking around in my head for a while now.
"And I think that I was moved in part to write because the same thoughts that you're thinking I've thought, too. In her late forties, my sister developed a strange, slowly debilitating, and ultimately fatal illness called Primary Pulmonary Hypertension. After she died, I found her diary among her effects. At one point, she was writing about how the worst part of what was happening to her was that slowly possibilities were being taken away: "I'll never be able to ride a horse again; I'll never be able to swim across Lake Nockamixon again; I'll never be able to fall in love again; I'll never be able to have sex again." It was heartbreaking to read, but I think that time does that to all of us. But, by way of compensation, we get the gift that we don't have when we're young: the present moment. (Young people only have the future.)
"I had a wonderful day today. After a slightly abbreviated night at the Bike Stop, the leather bar in Philadelphia, I managed to get six hours of sleep. Yesterday was cold and rainy, but today we have warm sun and clear blue Spring skies. I went to church for Palm Sunday, and then sat in Starbucks for a few hours and read the New York Times. Now, I'm going to make myself something to eat: split pea and ham soup (out of a can), to which I add toast and bleu cheese. A younger version of myself would be feeling bored and rammy. But I can let go of all the things I'm not doing, and haven't done. (Mostly. I have my eras of wistfulness.)"
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Slacker: A Manifesto
(Something I wrote t'other day at Starbucks. Enjoy!>
Technically, I'm a Baby boomer, albeit born on the cust. And if slacking is a generational experience, than technically I'm not one.
But I am, and I always have been, appauled by materialism, by conspicuous consumption. And, when I meet people who seem so driven, out to make a mint, to rise to the top of their professions like a comet lighting up the sky... I always think that somehow I didn't get that gene.
However, after considering the matter, I've come to the conclusion that this is a virtue rather than a vice. So now, I'm wondering, having embraced it, how can I do it well?
What does the Good Life look like for a slacker? And so, in no particular order...
Slacker Vacations
Forget about fabulous vacations with delux accommodations. For the most part, a slacker doesn't need to take a vacation because slackers live in cool places where there's already a lot to do. there's plenty to occupy you at home. But visiting friends who live in some other cool place makes a nice change.
Slacker Love
Mom: So thhis guy you've been dating for the past six months that's coming to your sister's wedding with you... what does he do for a living.
You: Hmmm... I'm not really sure.
Mom: ???
Slacker Threads
Clothes are practically disposable. Slackers buy at Old Navy. However, a few things in your closet that you really care about--basically works of art that your wear--that's cool.
Slacker Crib
Rent and share, baby! Rent and share. Talk to somebody with a mortgage and ask, 'Do you own the house, or does the house own you?' You wouldn't believe the work involved. There's always got to do something to the place. So much easier to just call the super. Dig? With the exception of books and music, there's not a lot of reason to have much stuff.
Slacker Work
It's means to an end. And the end had better be good. Like you get to see bands for free. Or you get to spend all your time outside. Or free coffee.
What if your job is fun? Careful! There's danger there. "Disengaged" is the usual slacker pose at work. If you're doing something fun, you risk compromising that. And you might get the soul sucked right out of you.
Slacker Eats
Hello, Burritos! Hello, Pho! Hello, Allou Mottor Gobi! Hello, Lasagna!
Don't go overboard with the foodie thing. Around the globe, people have devised healthy, nutritious, simple, flavorful things they eat every day. and in today's world, they're probably selling them for not a lot of money down the block from you. Mangia, Caro!
Slacker Ride
Stand clear of the closing doors! That's right: public transportation is way cool. Or something used. If it costs more than $1000 to fix it, get a new one. And run that one into the ground.
Slacker Hobbies
Slackers totally don't have hobbies. A hobby is a marketing device: you pay money and get the illusion that you have an interesting life. Who has time for that?
Slacker Retirement
Oh hell. I was having so much fun with this. Okay. How about this? Every year, try to get by on less and less. That way, when you're sixty-five, your monthly social security check will be like winning the lottery.
Slacker Toys
If you totally fall in love with something--a really cool watch, a vintage Indian, the kayak of your dreams, custom made boots... go for it. Don't feel bad. But you're not allowed if you know anybody else whho's got one. Or if you'll want everybody else to know you've got it. It's gotta be just for you.
Slacker Married With Children
Oh. Don't. Go. There.
You can't afford it.
Seriously.
It's so much work having a dog, and having a child is like Dog(1023 ). Truth! And that much more expensive, too. Okay. If you really feel like you have to have kids, you have to earn it. You hhave to go to law school, work for a big corporate defense firm, and when you're pulling down $250,000 and working eighty hour weeks and all your student loans are paid off, then you can go ahead and fulfill your urge for offspring.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I guess maybe I've been reading too much Vice Magazine lately.
(Something I wrote t'other day at Starbucks. Enjoy!>
Technically, I'm a Baby boomer, albeit born on the cust. And if slacking is a generational experience, than technically I'm not one.
But I am, and I always have been, appauled by materialism, by conspicuous consumption. And, when I meet people who seem so driven, out to make a mint, to rise to the top of their professions like a comet lighting up the sky... I always think that somehow I didn't get that gene.
However, after considering the matter, I've come to the conclusion that this is a virtue rather than a vice. So now, I'm wondering, having embraced it, how can I do it well?
What does the Good Life look like for a slacker? And so, in no particular order...
Slacker Vacations
Forget about fabulous vacations with delux accommodations. For the most part, a slacker doesn't need to take a vacation because slackers live in cool places where there's already a lot to do. there's plenty to occupy you at home. But visiting friends who live in some other cool place makes a nice change.
Slacker Love
Mom: So thhis guy you've been dating for the past six months that's coming to your sister's wedding with you... what does he do for a living.
You: Hmmm... I'm not really sure.
Mom: ???
Slacker Threads
Clothes are practically disposable. Slackers buy at Old Navy. However, a few things in your closet that you really care about--basically works of art that your wear--that's cool.
Slacker Crib
Rent and share, baby! Rent and share. Talk to somebody with a mortgage and ask, 'Do you own the house, or does the house own you?' You wouldn't believe the work involved. There's always got to do something to the place. So much easier to just call the super. Dig? With the exception of books and music, there's not a lot of reason to have much stuff.
Slacker Work
It's means to an end. And the end had better be good. Like you get to see bands for free. Or you get to spend all your time outside. Or free coffee.
What if your job is fun? Careful! There's danger there. "Disengaged" is the usual slacker pose at work. If you're doing something fun, you risk compromising that. And you might get the soul sucked right out of you.
Slacker Eats
Hello, Burritos! Hello, Pho! Hello, Allou Mottor Gobi! Hello, Lasagna!
Don't go overboard with the foodie thing. Around the globe, people have devised healthy, nutritious, simple, flavorful things they eat every day. and in today's world, they're probably selling them for not a lot of money down the block from you. Mangia, Caro!
Slacker Ride
Stand clear of the closing doors! That's right: public transportation is way cool. Or something used. If it costs more than $1000 to fix it, get a new one. And run that one into the ground.
Slacker Hobbies
Slackers totally don't have hobbies. A hobby is a marketing device: you pay money and get the illusion that you have an interesting life. Who has time for that?
Slacker Retirement
Oh hell. I was having so much fun with this. Okay. How about this? Every year, try to get by on less and less. That way, when you're sixty-five, your monthly social security check will be like winning the lottery.
Slacker Toys
If you totally fall in love with something--a really cool watch, a vintage Indian, the kayak of your dreams, custom made boots... go for it. Don't feel bad. But you're not allowed if you know anybody else whho's got one. Or if you'll want everybody else to know you've got it. It's gotta be just for you.
Slacker Married With Children
Oh. Don't. Go. There.
You can't afford it.
Seriously.
It's so much work having a dog, and having a child is like Dog(10
* * * * * * * * * * *
I guess maybe I've been reading too much Vice Magazine lately.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
When A Young Middle Aged Man's Fancy
Maybe it's the season. Maybe it's the fact that I'm getting laid lately. Maybe it's that damn final episode of 'Sex In The City.'
But lately I've been thinking about how nice it would be to buddy up. Have a steady eddie. Fall in love. All that.
At Starbucks this afternoon, after work, and before church (church rocks!), I spent some time doing... uh... some "Creative Visualization."
I don't think I'm being unreasonable here. Summoning as much modesty as I can, I think it's a mostly accurate description of me. So maybe I'll meet a guy whom it would also describe. And maybe he'll find something worthwhile in me...
Here's the list...
Smoke tolerant, at least • Sensualist • Kink appreciative • Kind, and a man who values kindness • Happy, as in, constitutionally • Laughs easily • Cowboy • Embodies masculine archetypes • Self-reliant and independent • Leatherman • Athletic... Physical... that kind of thing • Enjoys learning, trying new things, going new places • Top/Vers • Plucky • Open-minded • Sexually adventurous • Vivid, larger than life • Risk taker • Christian, or at least religious • Extraordinary looking (Not the same as "VGL." VGL doesn't do a lot for me. But ugly-hot makes me break a sweat) • Wearer of boots • Shaved head • Slacker/non-materialist, non-consumer values • Verbal • Unfussy • Outdoorsy
Now, I think that's casting the net pretty wide! And as a matter of fact, I met a man not so long ago that seems to be batting .100 so far.
So maybe it will be an interesting Spring and Summer.
Maybe it's the season. Maybe it's the fact that I'm getting laid lately. Maybe it's that damn final episode of 'Sex In The City.'
But lately I've been thinking about how nice it would be to buddy up. Have a steady eddie. Fall in love. All that.
At Starbucks this afternoon, after work, and before church (church rocks!), I spent some time doing... uh... some "Creative Visualization."
I don't think I'm being unreasonable here. Summoning as much modesty as I can, I think it's a mostly accurate description of me. So maybe I'll meet a guy whom it would also describe. And maybe he'll find something worthwhile in me...
Here's the list...
Smoke tolerant, at least • Sensualist • Kink appreciative • Kind, and a man who values kindness • Happy, as in, constitutionally • Laughs easily • Cowboy • Embodies masculine archetypes • Self-reliant and independent • Leatherman • Athletic... Physical... that kind of thing • Enjoys learning, trying new things, going new places • Top/Vers • Plucky • Open-minded • Sexually adventurous • Vivid, larger than life • Risk taker • Christian, or at least religious • Extraordinary looking (Not the same as "VGL." VGL doesn't do a lot for me. But ugly-hot makes me break a sweat) • Wearer of boots • Shaved head • Slacker/non-materialist, non-consumer values • Verbal • Unfussy • Outdoorsy
Now, I think that's casting the net pretty wide! And as a matter of fact, I met a man not so long ago that seems to be batting .100 so far.
So maybe it will be an interesting Spring and Summer.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Oh man.
On TBS, they're showing the final episode of 'Sex In The City.' The one where that incredible line is uttered...
""But the most exciting, challenging, and satisfying relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you meet someone who loves the you you love, then that's just fabulous."
Still floors me.
It's never the love you're looking for, it's the love that finds you.
On TBS, they're showing the final episode of 'Sex In The City.' The one where that incredible line is uttered...
""But the most exciting, challenging, and satisfying relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you meet someone who loves the you you love, then that's just fabulous."
Still floors me.
It's never the love you're looking for, it's the love that finds you.
Monday, April 03, 2006
A Couple Of Items
...I Like A Man In Uniform
In the All New, All Improved Ball Breakers (and man, did we have a great practice on Saturday!), there are now two cops and one firefighter. Bravest and Finest are In Da House!
(I'm beginning to wonder if there are cops and firefighters who aren't gay. At any rate, there can't be many.)
...This Is Your Brain. This Is Your Brain In Love
I'm finishing up a great book. It's "Why We Love: The Nature And Chemistry Of Romantic Love," by Helen Fisher. So dense I'm missing three quarters of it, so easily readable I keep on going. Did you know that if you want someone to fall in love with you, a good way to get that to happen is to do something scary and novel?
...Astrology? Biorhythms? Kiehl's Products? Yeah, Probably Kiehl's Products.
I got laid TWO WEEKENDS IN A ROW! And really good both times! That's just about unprecedented.
...Don't Get No Cooler
The non-profit agency I used to run, the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, is mentioned in the current Vice magazine. Mentioned in an authorative "if they say it's true, then it must be legit" kind of way. I hope the current folks in charge are getting in touch with Vice about some kind of fundraising opportunity. I sure would. Like Hansel in Zoolander, Vice is so Hot right now.
...Hail Thee Festival Day!
Next week is Holy Week! So that means that the Great Vigil Of Easter is coming up! The Easter Vigil service is to Episcopalians what the Super Bowl is to football fans. And isn't it interesting that when episcopalians go All Out, it involves bells and a dimmer switch?
...On A Somber Note
The Yankees look like they're gonna do really well this year. Uh oh.
...Inferno Countdown: Six Months
I have a sponsee! And unlike all my other sponsees, this one is actually going to show up at the event! It's a shame to break a perfect record, but still... And, by putting aside $20 a week, I have just about half the money I'll need for Session A this year. If I have to walk there, I'm going. And without all the Sturm und Drang of last year's financial panic.
...I Like A Man In Uniform
In the All New, All Improved Ball Breakers (and man, did we have a great practice on Saturday!), there are now two cops and one firefighter. Bravest and Finest are In Da House!
(I'm beginning to wonder if there are cops and firefighters who aren't gay. At any rate, there can't be many.)
...This Is Your Brain. This Is Your Brain In Love
I'm finishing up a great book. It's "Why We Love: The Nature And Chemistry Of Romantic Love," by Helen Fisher. So dense I'm missing three quarters of it, so easily readable I keep on going. Did you know that if you want someone to fall in love with you, a good way to get that to happen is to do something scary and novel?
...Astrology? Biorhythms? Kiehl's Products? Yeah, Probably Kiehl's Products.
I got laid TWO WEEKENDS IN A ROW! And really good both times! That's just about unprecedented.
...Don't Get No Cooler
The non-profit agency I used to run, the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, is mentioned in the current Vice magazine. Mentioned in an authorative "if they say it's true, then it must be legit" kind of way. I hope the current folks in charge are getting in touch with Vice about some kind of fundraising opportunity. I sure would. Like Hansel in Zoolander, Vice is so Hot right now.
...Hail Thee Festival Day!
Next week is Holy Week! So that means that the Great Vigil Of Easter is coming up! The Easter Vigil service is to Episcopalians what the Super Bowl is to football fans. And isn't it interesting that when episcopalians go All Out, it involves bells and a dimmer switch?
...On A Somber Note
The Yankees look like they're gonna do really well this year. Uh oh.
...Inferno Countdown: Six Months
I have a sponsee! And unlike all my other sponsees, this one is actually going to show up at the event! It's a shame to break a perfect record, but still... And, by putting aside $20 a week, I have just about half the money I'll need for Session A this year. If I have to walk there, I'm going. And without all the Sturm und Drang of last year's financial panic.
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