The Big Day!
Howard is awash in birthday greetings! He has even received some cards from people he knows! He and I both extend our sincere thank-yous for everyone who took the time to send a card.
I met my brother, up from Florida, tan and (newly) buff at Starbucks for coffee. I told my father that in fact I wouldn't be going up to NYC to play softball tomorrow, but I'd be staying here with him, and he was actually grateful for that.
Now, all I have to do is get ready for the forty old people who will be showing up at 4 pm tomorrow. This means cleaning the house, and the yard, and making all the food.
For the food, I've decided to go with hors d'oeuvres that harken back to the early 70s, when these folks were young and spry and entertaining. I'm making pigs-in-the-blanket, rumaki (remember rumaki? It's chicken liver wrapped in bacon, doused with barbeque sauce, and cooked in a hot oven), shrimp cocktail, roasted vegetables en brochette, and a cheese board. In deference to my vegan sister-in-law, I'm also having humous. Since at least half the room will be Baptists (my father's senior citizens group meets at the local Baptist church; when I was little we used to go down and watch them do submersions in the Delaware River), I'm serving some iced tea along with the California Zinfandel I picked out.
Oh.
And I wanted some flowers. Lilacs! I love lilacs! They're my favorites. When I was working at the needle exchange, I would bring in a bunch this time of year and put them on the counter. The latin name for lilac is 'Syringa,' so I thought that was appropriate.
Anyways, I stopped at a florist, so-called, in Doylestown. Not only did the florist, so-called, not have any lilacs, but she told me that "they aren't in season yet; maybe we'll have them in a few weeks."
Uh huh.
I picked out some orange gerbera daisies and drove home with my booty, passing probably a dozen lilac bushes in full flower as I went the eight miles to the Humble Abode.
And now, at the late late hour of ten o'clock, I'm headed to bed. I have a verrrrry full day tomorrow. First I've got to clean this place, then I've got to make all that food. I'll be way too frazzled to do much in the way of socializing, so I'll busy myself passing around trays of rumaki and the like.
I think my father will be pleased. Especially when all the little old ladies present him with fudge and such.
And then it will be over. Praise be to God!
For the next decade, I should be able to make due with just baking a cake.
Hope for the best, folks!
And thanks again for the cards.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Email Problems
I don't know what the problem is.
Okay. Actually I do. My account with .Mac ran out, and I took my old sweet time renewing it. And I couldn't get the krrrush email address up and going again.
So, I'll have to spend countless hours on the phone with chirpy tech support people to solve that problem.
In the mean time, if'n you want to contact me, you can do so at raisedbywolves-at-mac-dot-com.
Cool?
Sorry about that.
I don't know what the problem is.
Okay. Actually I do. My account with .Mac ran out, and I took my old sweet time renewing it. And I couldn't get the krrrush email address up and going again.
So, I'll have to spend countless hours on the phone with chirpy tech support people to solve that problem.
In the mean time, if'n you want to contact me, you can do so at raisedbywolves-at-mac-dot-com.
Cool?
Sorry about that.
Hit By A Truck
"The point of life," reads a profile on WorldLeathermen, "is not to arrive at your grave intact, but to slide in leaving a trail of your own sweat and blood, screaming, 'Holy Fuck! What a great ride!'"
I would be much closer to approximating that Dionysian ideal if every weekend of my life was like this weekend. And, probably, the 'sliding into the grave' would go down a lot quicker, too.
First, the context. I have to be at work at 7 am. That means, I get up around 5:30 am. After work, I hit Starbucks, hit the gym, and go grocery shopping. Sometimes picking up a video at Lackluster. I get home around 8 pm, get dinner on the table for my father, and finally get to bed around 11:30. So, monday through friday is all about Sleep Deprivation, and I do my best to make up for that on the weekends. I tend to avoid making plans for Friday night, because by the time 11 pm rolls around, I'm yawning like Carlsbad Cavern. But, I opted to make an exception to this rule of thumb.
Y'see, on Thursday, I was invited to Dine Out For Life. (The name of this apparently national fundraising event for AIDS organizations hits my ears as though it was a sentence passed down on someone who has recklessly abused the kitchen in his home... "You are hereby sentenced to Dine Out For Life!!!" Considering the lives of many New Yorkers I know, it's almost the standard.) Anyway, the deal is that you go out to a restaurant, and a portion of your tab goes to local organizations doing good work in the fight against HIV/AIDS.
The kind and wonderful men who thought of poor li'l ol' me, alone and barely stirring from my hearth in the Howling Wilderness of Bucks County, were two guys I know slightly, one from Inferno, and his boyfriend, a recent import to Philadelphia from the West Coast. They were planning on having their Dining Out For Life (...for Life!!!) experience up here in New Hope, and invited me to join them.
So, after work, I ran home, got my father all set with dinner, and headed down to meet them at the Starbucks in New Hope. The drive down the river was wonderful. Bucks County is all but unbearably gorgeous this time of year. The dogwoods and the cherry trees and apple trees and daffodils and everything are in bloom, and I was treated to breathtaking displays of bucolic beauty in the gathering dusk all the way there. We wandered the town for a while, unfortunately finding that Le Chateau Exotique (oops! gender agreement problems in that nomenclature!) shuttered for the night. Then, we repaired to the Raven.
Now, back in December, my Sir and I ate at the Raven when we made our tour of Pennsylvania. The meal we had then was absolutely extraordinary. My venison was outstanding. It was truly a meal to write home about. The Raven is now under new management, and it seems that there's been some kind of turnover in the kitchen staff. I had a corn chowder with bacon and halibut with Spring vegetables. The corn chowder was a disaster. Y'see, when soups made with cream sit too long, they "break," taking on the flavor and consistency of wallpaper paste. And this chowder had defenitely passed that point. And the halibut was nothing special. And the vegetables were undercooked. Alas.
But, the company and the conversation was wonderful. Absolutely nothing old or pastey there. And how cool to hang with other leathermen, just enjoying one another's company.
After dinner, go home, go to bed, get up at 5:30, go to work, work all day, go tearing outta there when the bell rang at 3:30... because I was driving down to Philadelphia to meet up with Icarus, a longtime internet correspondent who was in Philadelphia for the weekend to do some family stuff.
I packed a toybag, and I've been thinking all week about how I might make Icarus' trip to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection a memorable one. I had all my chains in the back of the jeep, and threw my padlocks and boxing gloves in the bag.
Icarus and I met up at Milennium Coffee. And it worked kinda well. I got there first, ordered up my latte, and then asked for the key to the bathroom. Like the bathroom pass in high school, Milennium attaches the key to something big and bulky, to minimize the chances that you'll slip their bathroom key in your pocket and walk off into the night with it. In this case, it's a wooden stick, about 1 3/8" in diameter, and maybe eighteen inches long. When I emerged from the bathroom, there was a man I took to be Icarus standing at the counter. As he was engrossed in ordering his coffee (and probably wondering how disappointing that was going to be so far from Seattle), I walked behind him and gave his firm, luscious rump a good thwack with the bathroom key stick. And then we greeted each other warmly.
Icarus and I had met, briefly, years and years ago, when I spent a sublime night in the cage of Master Aubrey Sparks. As I remember it, while I was passing through the kitchen on my way down to the basement dungeon, Aubrey briefly introduced us. Icarus, as I recall, was bareass naked, standing there fixing himself a snack or something.
Icarus and I plunged right in to conversation. Blah blah blah blah blah. His keen intellectual acumen, spirited pessimism, omnivorous quest for Things To Know, and filthy filthy mind made him an interlocutory feast.
What Ho! Who should wander past Milennium while we were sitting talking but my Dining Out For Life ("...for Life!!!") companions from the previous evening!
Both being hungry, Icarus and I headed to the restaurant I had in mind, El Vez. But alas, El Vez had the Philadelphia equivalent of Bright Young Things spilling out onto the sidewalk. So we headed to a really good place called Villani, on Spruce Street. The food is good, and the crowd tends to be on the Bright Young Things end of the spectrum, but I've never had to wait more than a few minutes for a table.
And the food was sooooo much better than at the Raven. I had the cuban bread salad, which I've had before, and when I finish it, I have to fight down the urge to order up a second helping right away, and the a fish dish with Pacific rim spices that I also couldn't get enough of. And we split a chocolate pôt de crème for desert.
And, of course, much more of the blah-blah-blah. I couldn't get enough of Icarus and his thoughts and ideas. Such a great guy. Such great connection. I'll offer this one wee tidbit: at one point, it occured to me that SM presents the possibility of holding the Dionysian and Appollonian aspects of the erotic in perfect balance, so that neither one can subsume the other one. Sure beats yacking about Bush's plans to gut Social Security, huh?
But, alas, when I checked my watch as we were leaving, I was dismayed to realize that the hour was late. I would not have time to chain up Icarus and beat him senseless, as much as I dearly wanted to do that. I had to get in my jeep and drive home. I made this announcement, which was received with dismay equal to mine.
But... But... Icarus will be at Infernon this year! And although I'm flying rather than driving, so I won't have my chains with me, I got a raincheck and I'll make sure to cook up something special for him there.
And a side note, how much am I totally looking forward to going to Inferno??? Alpha will be there! Edge Play Guy from LA will be there! Mountain Climbing Guy will be there! And Icarus will be there! It looks like my dance card is full, and I haven't even sent in my check yet.
Fighting sleep on the way home wasn't too much of an issue. Thank the Lord for Rosenberger's Iced Tea! And all the singalong songs on my iPod.
The next morning, Saturday, was all about softball.
Last weekend, my father convinced me that since my enemies at the Weather Channel were predicting rain, there would be no softball, so I ended up staying home. Meanwhile, my team, the Ballbreakers, were playing and winning two games. Albeit in the rain. So this weekend, I told my father that even if the Weather Channel was predicting sleet, thunderstorms, and hailstones the size of canned hams, I was going to NYC to play softball.
Luckily, the games we were scheduled to play were at noon and 1:30, so I didn't have to leave the house until 8:30 instead of the crack of dawn, as is the case when we have 10 am games. The ride up through the drizzle, under grey skies, went smoothely. I didn't make it in time to meet up with the Ballbreakers outside the Dugout at 10:30, but I got to the fields at the East River Park about the same time they did.
Ah... the first softball game of the season.
Y'know, I have to admit, that faced with the prospect of getting up at an ungodly early hour on saturdays and driving two hours up and two hours back from now through August, I am tempted to just hang up my spikes and bat and glove and pack it in. But all it takes is some time spent on the field of dreams, and I'm committted again.
We had two games yesterday against the Wings. Not only are they sponsored by that pathetic excuse for a leatherbar called the Eagle, but they're kind of our arch rivals. Y'see, they're sort of the 1980 World Series Toronto Blue Jays, and we're the 1980 World Series Phillies. They have practice during the week. They have Team Meetings. They do Drills. And we're sort of a pudgey bunch of unkempt loveable wrecks with our shirt tails hanging out. And we have this knack for beating the pants off them. So it's not so much that we hate them, it's more like, they hate us and we hate them back. And, being the Ballbreakers, we do it with panache that they can't hope to aspire to.
Okay. First game. First inning. We win the coin toss and get to be the visiting team (last at-bat). I'm playing right field. The first guy up at bat hits the ball, a beautiful line drive, right at me. And the ball sails right by me. By the time I retrieved it, he had crossed home plate.
I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!
I have no business playing softball! I suck! Can't hit, can't throw, can't catch. I suck suck suck suck suck.
Luckily, I was taken out of the field and became EP after that debacle. So I'd just be batting. Hopefully I wouldn't be making the out that loses the game for us at the plate. The Wings scored 4 in the first inning. We were demoralized.
At one point, we were down 9 to 3. Things were looking bad.
But then, we got our heads in the game, and started playing good ball.
Okay. So my first at-bat. We had two outs and hadn't scored in the inning. Their pitcher was inconsistent. She walked a few of our guys. So everybody up at bat would take at least one strike before looking for one that looked pretty. However, she seemed to find her stuff with me. I think I got one ball on her, before she sent one right over the plate. S-s-s-strike!!! Panicky, I went for the next one. I fouled. Strike two. So she was way ahead of me in the count.
Here comes the ball. Looks good. No-it-doesn't-yes-it-does. I swing. Crack. Solid connection. I hit easily get to first base. And after that, our bats come alive. I round the bases and cross home plate, and so do two more Ballbreakers. It's a two-out rally.
Cool.
And I did pretty well in my subsequent at-bats, too.
So in the first game, we managed to claw our way back from a 9-3 deficit. We're only one down. Final inning of the game. They're up by two. Winning the game. I come up at bat. Again, I get down in the count. Two strikes on me.
I could lose the game for the Ballbreakers.
Here comes the ball. I swing. Crack! I fly down the line to first base. Broken ankle and all. I'm on base, and I'm the tying run. The guy after me gets a hit. I advance to second. He's on first. So the tying run and the get-ahead run are now on base. Next batter gets an out. It's make or break. Our next guy hits a beauty. Finds the hole. I head for home. The runner behind me follows me around the bases.
We've won the game.
But wait! What's this? It seems that our third base coach, who totally knows better, touched the runner, the guy behind me, when he was crossing third. That means the runner doesn't score. That means it's a tie game.
Oh hell.
So, we won, but we didn't win. I know I know I know. Almost only counts in horseshoes. But still. What a great goddamn game it was!
Second game, once again, we had to fight back from losing in the early innings, but we ended up solidly beating the Wings by 13-7. And making some amazing plays along the way.
Oh. And you gotta hear this.
Our coach pulled a muscle in his calf. He needed a courtesy runner. This was in the first game. So at one point, while everybody else is on the field, I offered to massage his calf for him. He gratefully accepted. So my magic fingers are going to work on his calf.
"No, a little to the right. No, wait, back to the left! Agh! Yeah! Right there! Oh man yeah! Right there! Oh that really hurts!"
"Yeah?" I said, with an evil glint in my eye, "I'm making you hurt? Tell me about how I'm making you hurt?"
Although in agony, he laughed, and got right into it. And so did I. "Yeah... You wanna hurt for me, buddy? You wanna take some hurtin' from me, huh? Yeah, tell me how you want to hurt for me."
So after that, whenever I was up at bat, to cheer me on, my coach would be yelling out, "It hurts! It hurts! Oh you're hurting me!"
And considering my performance at bat, it seemed to do the trick.
And another great thing happened yesterday. Y'see, we're big on nicknames. One of our guys, very early on the first season we played, somehow got the incongruous appelation of "Filthy Whore." Whenever he's up at bat, we start in with his personal cheer: "Fill Thee Whore! Fill Thee Whore!" This always serves to totally psyche out the other team. Gosh, if that's how they treat their own guys, what are we in for? And there's Oompah (from the Oompah Loompahs), and one of our number who had a drug problem was Dana Plato for awhile, after the star of Diff'rent Strokes who was arrested robbing a liquor store so she could get money for crack, and Eve for a newcomer who aspired to strip a player from the original Ballbreakers of his position of catcher, and Gilligan and Skipper for a couple who... uh... bear an eerie resemblance.
Now I've been called FistFest, which is the name my team has given to Inferno, although as I've explained, fisting is not a big thing for me there. And they called me Jeffrey Dahmer when we played in the tournement in Milwaukee, but quit it when they feared it would upset the locals.
So a few weeks ago, when it was announced that the Nickname Committee had come up with a Good One for one of our members who has put on some pounds in the off season (He's now Fat Actress), I opined that I feel I've been slighted by the efforts of the Nickname Committee. They've never quite come up with a nickname that suits me.
So yesterday, broken ankle and all, I hit the ball and fly down the baseline to first. I'm arguably the best base runner on our team. I can move. Fly! Fly like the wind! On many occasions, I have literally beaten the ball to first base. Watching me run from the dugout, one of my teammates said something like, 'Look at him run! Damn! He's like a gazelle! Like a deer!'
And thus was I christened Bambi.
And I love that!
Besides the innocent young fawn with the huge eyes of Disney fame, there's all of those Sex Kitten associations.
So Bambi it is.
Okay. So after winning the second game, we retired to Ty's on Christopher Street to celebrate.
And as I was walking from my jeep to the bar, my hurting set in. Oh man. All my parts hurt. My moustache hurt. But especially, my lower back, my ankle, and muscles I pulled in my thighs. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. And sitting in the bar, I just started to stiffen up. So that when it was time to shift position or go and refill my plate with complementary hotwings, I would just about cry. Ouch ouch ouch ouch.
Uh oh.
Y'see, last night GMSMA held a dungeon demo. And I had a longstanding date to flog one of the founding members of that august organization, a man who is a member of my SM and Spirituality Discussion Group. And no matter how good you are, you just can't flog someone from a supine position. And I absolutely positively would not back out.
So what to do.
I hobbled down the street to the Factory Cafe and had a latte to think it over.
Walk it off. That'll help. Walk it off.
So I did. I walked up to Dave's Army Navy at 6th Ave and 16th Street. As I went, it got easier and easier to move. But it still hurt a lot. And at Dave's, which fortuitously was having a sale, when I would drop a shirt I was looking at on the floor, it would take some planning to negotiate how I was going to pick it up. But, I found three pairs of shorts at good prices. Then I walked back to my jeep.
I was still not sure if I would be able to pull this off. Ankle, thighs, and back were all giving me a lot of trouble. But I decided to persevere.
The GMSMA dungeon demo was being held at Paddles. After the LURE closed, GMSMA would hold them at the Eagle. This just didn't work. The space just didn't lend it'self to it. And the crowd of chelsea boys in flip-flops were much more interested in tossing back appletinis than they were in SM.
The big question about Paddles is that it's largely a het club. Would gay men turn out for it?
Well, lemme tell ya, if they don't they're fools. Paddles totally rocks. It's an amazing space. Great feel, great equipement, and you can get banana splits at their ice cream bar.
I greeted the men of GMSMA whom I knew, staked out a piece of equipment for the scene I was going to do, and then--with excrutiating pain--changed from my softball uniform into my leathers.
Well, when the doors opened, the place really started to fill up. Attendance was really good. There was a nice whipping scene, Diabolique did a great scene with a verrrry hot boy up in the loft, lots of good bondage, a really beautiful sculputre made with clothespins, candlewax, and a guy, and the like.
My partner for the evening, founder, arrived in due time. We had to wait for a bondage scene to conclude before we could start in, so we sat and talked. He is such a wonderful, wonderful man. When he asked me if I would flog him at the dungeon demo, I said yes without hesitation. When I first met him, I was pretty awed by him. Founder of GMSMA, founder of MAsT, author of an amazing book (I still haven't read the final chapter because I don't want it to end, to have to say goodbye to the characters) keynote speaker at the recent Leather Leadership Conference in Phoenix, he is one of the great minds of mondo BDSM.
Then, we started in on our journey together. founder has bad knees, so standing for that length of time wouldn't be an option. So, I found a nice piece of dungeon furniture that would allow him to sit, braced with some borrowed sofa pillows (I playfully batted him with the sofa pillows at the git go, suggesting that we do a scene that would confirm the suspicious of the critics of the ethos of Safe Sane and Consensual, which he had a hand in authoring), and restrained his wrists.
Okay. First off.
founder is not quite the regular gym goer.
But man oh man! The back on that man! This wonderful canvas for me! Brutish proportions! I was slavering! At the starting point of pure physical, animal flesh, this was definitely going to work.
My biorhythms must be peaking or something.
I had played some great softball that afternoon, and speaking as objectively and as humbly as I can, I gave a great flogging that evening. I just felt so on top of my game. Every stroke I laid was just where I wanted it, and with exactly the intensity that I was after. Because the light was dim, I asked founder to be vocal. And he was. All manner of moans and grunts and growls were coming out of him. Such wonderful poetry.
And we just went to this amazing place together. It was beautiful. I didn't want it to end. He just gave me so much. It was positively one of the best flogging experiences I have known.
When it was over, I caressed him, thanked him, and reluctantly removed my restraints from his wrists. And we returned the sofa pillows. He got to his knees, and thanked me properly, by kissing my boots.
And it was over. We had gone to that amazing place. Visited SM land, and jarringly came back to planet earth. At this point, the place was packed. Other scenes were wrapping up. The Paddles regulars were starting to come in.
Time to grab a quad venti latte before the Starbucks at 16th and 8th closed, and drive home.
My back was bothering me some on the drive home. When I got into the driveway, I could barely get out of the car.
"Bed!" I thought. "Bed."
Slowly shuffling, I managed to take Faithful Companion for his final walk of the night. "Please don't pull, buddy... okay? Daddy's hurting really bad when you do that..." I brushed my teeth, stiffled my groans and ows as I stripped, climbed into bed, and I was out like a light.
And so this morning.
I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Everything hurts. Ow ow ow ow ow!
But my head is filled with joyous images. The flowers of early Spring in Bucks County; big built Icarus smiling at me as we kissed goodbye in Philadelphia; the ball I hit sailing over the heads of the opposing players; my foot slapping home plate as I score; founder's wonderful back reddening under the ministrations of my floggers; the warm smiles of welcome from my fellow leathermen...
I'll welcome that truck turning down my street anytime.
"The point of life," reads a profile on WorldLeathermen, "is not to arrive at your grave intact, but to slide in leaving a trail of your own sweat and blood, screaming, 'Holy Fuck! What a great ride!'"
I would be much closer to approximating that Dionysian ideal if every weekend of my life was like this weekend. And, probably, the 'sliding into the grave' would go down a lot quicker, too.
First, the context. I have to be at work at 7 am. That means, I get up around 5:30 am. After work, I hit Starbucks, hit the gym, and go grocery shopping. Sometimes picking up a video at Lackluster. I get home around 8 pm, get dinner on the table for my father, and finally get to bed around 11:30. So, monday through friday is all about Sleep Deprivation, and I do my best to make up for that on the weekends. I tend to avoid making plans for Friday night, because by the time 11 pm rolls around, I'm yawning like Carlsbad Cavern. But, I opted to make an exception to this rule of thumb.
Y'see, on Thursday, I was invited to Dine Out For Life. (The name of this apparently national fundraising event for AIDS organizations hits my ears as though it was a sentence passed down on someone who has recklessly abused the kitchen in his home... "You are hereby sentenced to Dine Out For Life!!!" Considering the lives of many New Yorkers I know, it's almost the standard.) Anyway, the deal is that you go out to a restaurant, and a portion of your tab goes to local organizations doing good work in the fight against HIV/AIDS.
The kind and wonderful men who thought of poor li'l ol' me, alone and barely stirring from my hearth in the Howling Wilderness of Bucks County, were two guys I know slightly, one from Inferno, and his boyfriend, a recent import to Philadelphia from the West Coast. They were planning on having their Dining Out For Life (...for Life!!!) experience up here in New Hope, and invited me to join them.
So, after work, I ran home, got my father all set with dinner, and headed down to meet them at the Starbucks in New Hope. The drive down the river was wonderful. Bucks County is all but unbearably gorgeous this time of year. The dogwoods and the cherry trees and apple trees and daffodils and everything are in bloom, and I was treated to breathtaking displays of bucolic beauty in the gathering dusk all the way there. We wandered the town for a while, unfortunately finding that Le Chateau Exotique (oops! gender agreement problems in that nomenclature!) shuttered for the night. Then, we repaired to the Raven.
Now, back in December, my Sir and I ate at the Raven when we made our tour of Pennsylvania. The meal we had then was absolutely extraordinary. My venison was outstanding. It was truly a meal to write home about. The Raven is now under new management, and it seems that there's been some kind of turnover in the kitchen staff. I had a corn chowder with bacon and halibut with Spring vegetables. The corn chowder was a disaster. Y'see, when soups made with cream sit too long, they "break," taking on the flavor and consistency of wallpaper paste. And this chowder had defenitely passed that point. And the halibut was nothing special. And the vegetables were undercooked. Alas.
But, the company and the conversation was wonderful. Absolutely nothing old or pastey there. And how cool to hang with other leathermen, just enjoying one another's company.
After dinner, go home, go to bed, get up at 5:30, go to work, work all day, go tearing outta there when the bell rang at 3:30... because I was driving down to Philadelphia to meet up with Icarus, a longtime internet correspondent who was in Philadelphia for the weekend to do some family stuff.
I packed a toybag, and I've been thinking all week about how I might make Icarus' trip to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection a memorable one. I had all my chains in the back of the jeep, and threw my padlocks and boxing gloves in the bag.
Icarus and I met up at Milennium Coffee. And it worked kinda well. I got there first, ordered up my latte, and then asked for the key to the bathroom. Like the bathroom pass in high school, Milennium attaches the key to something big and bulky, to minimize the chances that you'll slip their bathroom key in your pocket and walk off into the night with it. In this case, it's a wooden stick, about 1 3/8" in diameter, and maybe eighteen inches long. When I emerged from the bathroom, there was a man I took to be Icarus standing at the counter. As he was engrossed in ordering his coffee (and probably wondering how disappointing that was going to be so far from Seattle), I walked behind him and gave his firm, luscious rump a good thwack with the bathroom key stick. And then we greeted each other warmly.
Icarus and I had met, briefly, years and years ago, when I spent a sublime night in the cage of Master Aubrey Sparks. As I remember it, while I was passing through the kitchen on my way down to the basement dungeon, Aubrey briefly introduced us. Icarus, as I recall, was bareass naked, standing there fixing himself a snack or something.
Icarus and I plunged right in to conversation. Blah blah blah blah blah. His keen intellectual acumen, spirited pessimism, omnivorous quest for Things To Know, and filthy filthy mind made him an interlocutory feast.
What Ho! Who should wander past Milennium while we were sitting talking but my Dining Out For Life ("...for Life!!!") companions from the previous evening!
Both being hungry, Icarus and I headed to the restaurant I had in mind, El Vez. But alas, El Vez had the Philadelphia equivalent of Bright Young Things spilling out onto the sidewalk. So we headed to a really good place called Villani, on Spruce Street. The food is good, and the crowd tends to be on the Bright Young Things end of the spectrum, but I've never had to wait more than a few minutes for a table.
And the food was sooooo much better than at the Raven. I had the cuban bread salad, which I've had before, and when I finish it, I have to fight down the urge to order up a second helping right away, and the a fish dish with Pacific rim spices that I also couldn't get enough of. And we split a chocolate pôt de crème for desert.
And, of course, much more of the blah-blah-blah. I couldn't get enough of Icarus and his thoughts and ideas. Such a great guy. Such great connection. I'll offer this one wee tidbit: at one point, it occured to me that SM presents the possibility of holding the Dionysian and Appollonian aspects of the erotic in perfect balance, so that neither one can subsume the other one. Sure beats yacking about Bush's plans to gut Social Security, huh?
But, alas, when I checked my watch as we were leaving, I was dismayed to realize that the hour was late. I would not have time to chain up Icarus and beat him senseless, as much as I dearly wanted to do that. I had to get in my jeep and drive home. I made this announcement, which was received with dismay equal to mine.
But... But... Icarus will be at Infernon this year! And although I'm flying rather than driving, so I won't have my chains with me, I got a raincheck and I'll make sure to cook up something special for him there.
And a side note, how much am I totally looking forward to going to Inferno??? Alpha will be there! Edge Play Guy from LA will be there! Mountain Climbing Guy will be there! And Icarus will be there! It looks like my dance card is full, and I haven't even sent in my check yet.
Fighting sleep on the way home wasn't too much of an issue. Thank the Lord for Rosenberger's Iced Tea! And all the singalong songs on my iPod.
The next morning, Saturday, was all about softball.
Last weekend, my father convinced me that since my enemies at the Weather Channel were predicting rain, there would be no softball, so I ended up staying home. Meanwhile, my team, the Ballbreakers, were playing and winning two games. Albeit in the rain. So this weekend, I told my father that even if the Weather Channel was predicting sleet, thunderstorms, and hailstones the size of canned hams, I was going to NYC to play softball.
Luckily, the games we were scheduled to play were at noon and 1:30, so I didn't have to leave the house until 8:30 instead of the crack of dawn, as is the case when we have 10 am games. The ride up through the drizzle, under grey skies, went smoothely. I didn't make it in time to meet up with the Ballbreakers outside the Dugout at 10:30, but I got to the fields at the East River Park about the same time they did.
Ah... the first softball game of the season.
Y'know, I have to admit, that faced with the prospect of getting up at an ungodly early hour on saturdays and driving two hours up and two hours back from now through August, I am tempted to just hang up my spikes and bat and glove and pack it in. But all it takes is some time spent on the field of dreams, and I'm committted again.
We had two games yesterday against the Wings. Not only are they sponsored by that pathetic excuse for a leatherbar called the Eagle, but they're kind of our arch rivals. Y'see, they're sort of the 1980 World Series Toronto Blue Jays, and we're the 1980 World Series Phillies. They have practice during the week. They have Team Meetings. They do Drills. And we're sort of a pudgey bunch of unkempt loveable wrecks with our shirt tails hanging out. And we have this knack for beating the pants off them. So it's not so much that we hate them, it's more like, they hate us and we hate them back. And, being the Ballbreakers, we do it with panache that they can't hope to aspire to.
Okay. First game. First inning. We win the coin toss and get to be the visiting team (last at-bat). I'm playing right field. The first guy up at bat hits the ball, a beautiful line drive, right at me. And the ball sails right by me. By the time I retrieved it, he had crossed home plate.
I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!
I have no business playing softball! I suck! Can't hit, can't throw, can't catch. I suck suck suck suck suck.
Luckily, I was taken out of the field and became EP after that debacle. So I'd just be batting. Hopefully I wouldn't be making the out that loses the game for us at the plate. The Wings scored 4 in the first inning. We were demoralized.
At one point, we were down 9 to 3. Things were looking bad.
But then, we got our heads in the game, and started playing good ball.
Okay. So my first at-bat. We had two outs and hadn't scored in the inning. Their pitcher was inconsistent. She walked a few of our guys. So everybody up at bat would take at least one strike before looking for one that looked pretty. However, she seemed to find her stuff with me. I think I got one ball on her, before she sent one right over the plate. S-s-s-strike!!! Panicky, I went for the next one. I fouled. Strike two. So she was way ahead of me in the count.
Here comes the ball. Looks good. No-it-doesn't-yes-it-does. I swing. Crack. Solid connection. I hit easily get to first base. And after that, our bats come alive. I round the bases and cross home plate, and so do two more Ballbreakers. It's a two-out rally.
Cool.
And I did pretty well in my subsequent at-bats, too.
So in the first game, we managed to claw our way back from a 9-3 deficit. We're only one down. Final inning of the game. They're up by two. Winning the game. I come up at bat. Again, I get down in the count. Two strikes on me.
I could lose the game for the Ballbreakers.
Here comes the ball. I swing. Crack! I fly down the line to first base. Broken ankle and all. I'm on base, and I'm the tying run. The guy after me gets a hit. I advance to second. He's on first. So the tying run and the get-ahead run are now on base. Next batter gets an out. It's make or break. Our next guy hits a beauty. Finds the hole. I head for home. The runner behind me follows me around the bases.
We've won the game.
But wait! What's this? It seems that our third base coach, who totally knows better, touched the runner, the guy behind me, when he was crossing third. That means the runner doesn't score. That means it's a tie game.
Oh hell.
So, we won, but we didn't win. I know I know I know. Almost only counts in horseshoes. But still. What a great goddamn game it was!
Second game, once again, we had to fight back from losing in the early innings, but we ended up solidly beating the Wings by 13-7. And making some amazing plays along the way.
Oh. And you gotta hear this.
Our coach pulled a muscle in his calf. He needed a courtesy runner. This was in the first game. So at one point, while everybody else is on the field, I offered to massage his calf for him. He gratefully accepted. So my magic fingers are going to work on his calf.
"No, a little to the right. No, wait, back to the left! Agh! Yeah! Right there! Oh man yeah! Right there! Oh that really hurts!"
"Yeah?" I said, with an evil glint in my eye, "I'm making you hurt? Tell me about how I'm making you hurt?"
Although in agony, he laughed, and got right into it. And so did I. "Yeah... You wanna hurt for me, buddy? You wanna take some hurtin' from me, huh? Yeah, tell me how you want to hurt for me."
So after that, whenever I was up at bat, to cheer me on, my coach would be yelling out, "It hurts! It hurts! Oh you're hurting me!"
And considering my performance at bat, it seemed to do the trick.
And another great thing happened yesterday. Y'see, we're big on nicknames. One of our guys, very early on the first season we played, somehow got the incongruous appelation of "Filthy Whore." Whenever he's up at bat, we start in with his personal cheer: "Fill Thee Whore! Fill Thee Whore!" This always serves to totally psyche out the other team. Gosh, if that's how they treat their own guys, what are we in for? And there's Oompah (from the Oompah Loompahs), and one of our number who had a drug problem was Dana Plato for awhile, after the star of Diff'rent Strokes who was arrested robbing a liquor store so she could get money for crack, and Eve for a newcomer who aspired to strip a player from the original Ballbreakers of his position of catcher, and Gilligan and Skipper for a couple who... uh... bear an eerie resemblance.
Now I've been called FistFest, which is the name my team has given to Inferno, although as I've explained, fisting is not a big thing for me there. And they called me Jeffrey Dahmer when we played in the tournement in Milwaukee, but quit it when they feared it would upset the locals.
So a few weeks ago, when it was announced that the Nickname Committee had come up with a Good One for one of our members who has put on some pounds in the off season (He's now Fat Actress), I opined that I feel I've been slighted by the efforts of the Nickname Committee. They've never quite come up with a nickname that suits me.
So yesterday, broken ankle and all, I hit the ball and fly down the baseline to first. I'm arguably the best base runner on our team. I can move. Fly! Fly like the wind! On many occasions, I have literally beaten the ball to first base. Watching me run from the dugout, one of my teammates said something like, 'Look at him run! Damn! He's like a gazelle! Like a deer!'
And thus was I christened Bambi.
And I love that!
Besides the innocent young fawn with the huge eyes of Disney fame, there's all of those Sex Kitten associations.
So Bambi it is.
Okay. So after winning the second game, we retired to Ty's on Christopher Street to celebrate.
And as I was walking from my jeep to the bar, my hurting set in. Oh man. All my parts hurt. My moustache hurt. But especially, my lower back, my ankle, and muscles I pulled in my thighs. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. And sitting in the bar, I just started to stiffen up. So that when it was time to shift position or go and refill my plate with complementary hotwings, I would just about cry. Ouch ouch ouch ouch.
Uh oh.
Y'see, last night GMSMA held a dungeon demo. And I had a longstanding date to flog one of the founding members of that august organization, a man who is a member of my SM and Spirituality Discussion Group. And no matter how good you are, you just can't flog someone from a supine position. And I absolutely positively would not back out.
So what to do.
I hobbled down the street to the Factory Cafe and had a latte to think it over.
Walk it off. That'll help. Walk it off.
So I did. I walked up to Dave's Army Navy at 6th Ave and 16th Street. As I went, it got easier and easier to move. But it still hurt a lot. And at Dave's, which fortuitously was having a sale, when I would drop a shirt I was looking at on the floor, it would take some planning to negotiate how I was going to pick it up. But, I found three pairs of shorts at good prices. Then I walked back to my jeep.
I was still not sure if I would be able to pull this off. Ankle, thighs, and back were all giving me a lot of trouble. But I decided to persevere.
The GMSMA dungeon demo was being held at Paddles. After the LURE closed, GMSMA would hold them at the Eagle. This just didn't work. The space just didn't lend it'self to it. And the crowd of chelsea boys in flip-flops were much more interested in tossing back appletinis than they were in SM.
The big question about Paddles is that it's largely a het club. Would gay men turn out for it?
Well, lemme tell ya, if they don't they're fools. Paddles totally rocks. It's an amazing space. Great feel, great equipement, and you can get banana splits at their ice cream bar.
I greeted the men of GMSMA whom I knew, staked out a piece of equipment for the scene I was going to do, and then--with excrutiating pain--changed from my softball uniform into my leathers.
Well, when the doors opened, the place really started to fill up. Attendance was really good. There was a nice whipping scene, Diabolique did a great scene with a verrrry hot boy up in the loft, lots of good bondage, a really beautiful sculputre made with clothespins, candlewax, and a guy, and the like.
My partner for the evening, founder, arrived in due time. We had to wait for a bondage scene to conclude before we could start in, so we sat and talked. He is such a wonderful, wonderful man. When he asked me if I would flog him at the dungeon demo, I said yes without hesitation. When I first met him, I was pretty awed by him. Founder of GMSMA, founder of MAsT, author of an amazing book (I still haven't read the final chapter because I don't want it to end, to have to say goodbye to the characters) keynote speaker at the recent Leather Leadership Conference in Phoenix, he is one of the great minds of mondo BDSM.
Then, we started in on our journey together. founder has bad knees, so standing for that length of time wouldn't be an option. So, I found a nice piece of dungeon furniture that would allow him to sit, braced with some borrowed sofa pillows (I playfully batted him with the sofa pillows at the git go, suggesting that we do a scene that would confirm the suspicious of the critics of the ethos of Safe Sane and Consensual, which he had a hand in authoring), and restrained his wrists.
Okay. First off.
founder is not quite the regular gym goer.
But man oh man! The back on that man! This wonderful canvas for me! Brutish proportions! I was slavering! At the starting point of pure physical, animal flesh, this was definitely going to work.
My biorhythms must be peaking or something.
I had played some great softball that afternoon, and speaking as objectively and as humbly as I can, I gave a great flogging that evening. I just felt so on top of my game. Every stroke I laid was just where I wanted it, and with exactly the intensity that I was after. Because the light was dim, I asked founder to be vocal. And he was. All manner of moans and grunts and growls were coming out of him. Such wonderful poetry.
And we just went to this amazing place together. It was beautiful. I didn't want it to end. He just gave me so much. It was positively one of the best flogging experiences I have known.
When it was over, I caressed him, thanked him, and reluctantly removed my restraints from his wrists. And we returned the sofa pillows. He got to his knees, and thanked me properly, by kissing my boots.
And it was over. We had gone to that amazing place. Visited SM land, and jarringly came back to planet earth. At this point, the place was packed. Other scenes were wrapping up. The Paddles regulars were starting to come in.
Time to grab a quad venti latte before the Starbucks at 16th and 8th closed, and drive home.
My back was bothering me some on the drive home. When I got into the driveway, I could barely get out of the car.
"Bed!" I thought. "Bed."
Slowly shuffling, I managed to take Faithful Companion for his final walk of the night. "Please don't pull, buddy... okay? Daddy's hurting really bad when you do that..." I brushed my teeth, stiffled my groans and ows as I stripped, climbed into bed, and I was out like a light.
And so this morning.
I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Everything hurts. Ow ow ow ow ow!
But my head is filled with joyous images. The flowers of early Spring in Bucks County; big built Icarus smiling at me as we kissed goodbye in Philadelphia; the ball I hit sailing over the heads of the opposing players; my foot slapping home plate as I score; founder's wonderful back reddening under the ministrations of my floggers; the warm smiles of welcome from my fellow leathermen...
I'll welcome that truck turning down my street anytime.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Rebounding
Public Service Announcement: Absolutely there is still time to take part in my father's eightieth birthday festivities! My sincere thanks to everybody who has sent email with the subject line "I'm Not A Vicious Psychopath, I Swear" and received the mailing address in response! The email address is krrrush-at-mac-dot-com. And there's three r's in krrrush.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled SingleTails posting
I am feeling good!
Okay, first off, tonight at the gym, when I jumped on the scale, I all but gave a squeal when the digital read out said 190.1. All those months of hard work have been rewarded.
A big change I've made is keeping a training log. I have my routine all written out. In a grid, I keep track of the weights I use for each set. If I fail (and when you're lifting weights, failure is what you want to happen), I circle the number. If I get through the movement without any problem, I draw a little up arrow indicating that next time I want to up the weights. And the weights I'm lifting have gone up and up and up.
So that's cool.
But wait, there's more!
At work, one of my sandinista boys has spread his tiny wings and flown the coop! A few weeks ago, Zen boy came to me with the lastest idea of what he wants to do with the rest of his life. His plan was for him to go to restaurant school and be a chef. My advice to him was that restaurant work is really really tough work. And before he decided to make a career of it, he should get a job in a restaurant and see what it's like to do it for a living. And so he did! Oh man, I'm so proud of my little Zen boy.
...but that's not all!
What a great weekend I have coming up! On Thursday, I'm getting together with a guy I know from Inferno and his new boyfriend. We're going to have dinner at the Raven, which is participating in Dining Out For Life, to benefit local AIDS organizations. Then on Friday, this amazing man from Seattle, one of my favorite email correspondents, is going to be in Philadelphia. So I'm gonna go down and meet him, and then beat him! Saturday is softball with the Ballbreakers (we're playing at a reasonable hour, and in the fields in East River Park). That night, I'll be attending the GMSMA dungeon demo at Paddles (adieu, Spiegel!), and flogging a man who is... well, let's just say I'm awfully fond of the ground on which he walks.
...and if you think that's all, you're wrong!!!
So Saturday, my father convinced me that it was raining buckets in NYC and there was no point in me going up there to play softball. (Wrong!) But I took the opportunity to head down to the Bike Stop. And... And... I met this man! It was one of those we-talked-and-talked-and-talked experiences, totally hitting it off. He's absolutely impressive in the intelect department, and seriously kinky.
And hot?
Okay.
Deep breath.
Of all the men who have appeared on Sex In The City, my hands down favorite is Harry Goldenblatt. From his first appearance as Charlotte's divorce lawyer, I though he was all that. And this... this... Man totally reminds me of Harry. Although thankfully not as pale as Harry.
Okay. And here's the skinny. I feel myself once again to be comfortably in the driver's seat.
Maybe that's not the best thing for me in terms... y'know... of Growing As A Person or whatever, but I am not complaining.
Now don't go and get all excited. We just met. Is all. Who knows where it's gonna go.
Oh, and lest you're concerned about me breaking with tradition and getting interested in a man who lives close enough to me that I can get to him on a tank of gas or less, he's off to Sunny San Diego for the next six months.
So it's all good here.
Over and out.
Public Service Announcement: Absolutely there is still time to take part in my father's eightieth birthday festivities! My sincere thanks to everybody who has sent email with the subject line "I'm Not A Vicious Psychopath, I Swear" and received the mailing address in response! The email address is krrrush-at-mac-dot-com. And there's three r's in krrrush.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled SingleTails posting
I am feeling good!
Okay, first off, tonight at the gym, when I jumped on the scale, I all but gave a squeal when the digital read out said 190.1. All those months of hard work have been rewarded.
A big change I've made is keeping a training log. I have my routine all written out. In a grid, I keep track of the weights I use for each set. If I fail (and when you're lifting weights, failure is what you want to happen), I circle the number. If I get through the movement without any problem, I draw a little up arrow indicating that next time I want to up the weights. And the weights I'm lifting have gone up and up and up.
So that's cool.
But wait, there's more!
At work, one of my sandinista boys has spread his tiny wings and flown the coop! A few weeks ago, Zen boy came to me with the lastest idea of what he wants to do with the rest of his life. His plan was for him to go to restaurant school and be a chef. My advice to him was that restaurant work is really really tough work. And before he decided to make a career of it, he should get a job in a restaurant and see what it's like to do it for a living. And so he did! Oh man, I'm so proud of my little Zen boy.
...but that's not all!
What a great weekend I have coming up! On Thursday, I'm getting together with a guy I know from Inferno and his new boyfriend. We're going to have dinner at the Raven, which is participating in Dining Out For Life, to benefit local AIDS organizations. Then on Friday, this amazing man from Seattle, one of my favorite email correspondents, is going to be in Philadelphia. So I'm gonna go down and meet him, and then beat him! Saturday is softball with the Ballbreakers (we're playing at a reasonable hour, and in the fields in East River Park). That night, I'll be attending the GMSMA dungeon demo at Paddles (adieu, Spiegel!), and flogging a man who is... well, let's just say I'm awfully fond of the ground on which he walks.
...and if you think that's all, you're wrong!!!
So Saturday, my father convinced me that it was raining buckets in NYC and there was no point in me going up there to play softball. (Wrong!) But I took the opportunity to head down to the Bike Stop. And... And... I met this man! It was one of those we-talked-and-talked-and-talked experiences, totally hitting it off. He's absolutely impressive in the intelect department, and seriously kinky.
And hot?
Okay.
Deep breath.
Of all the men who have appeared on Sex In The City, my hands down favorite is Harry Goldenblatt. From his first appearance as Charlotte's divorce lawyer, I though he was all that. And this... this... Man totally reminds me of Harry. Although thankfully not as pale as Harry.
Okay. And here's the skinny. I feel myself once again to be comfortably in the driver's seat.
Maybe that's not the best thing for me in terms... y'know... of Growing As A Person or whatever, but I am not complaining.
Now don't go and get all excited. We just met. Is all. Who knows where it's gonna go.
Oh, and lest you're concerned about me breaking with tradition and getting interested in a man who lives close enough to me that I can get to him on a tank of gas or less, he's off to Sunny San Diego for the next six months.
So it's all good here.
Over and out.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Howard Is Eighty
Well, not yet.
On May 7th, my father will celebrate his eightieth birthday. And I'm planning a surprise birthday part for him. It should be pretty cool. My brother and his wife are coming up from Florida and will make a surprise visit. I've called all the folks from his senior citizens group, neighbors, friends who live in the area, and they'll all be coming by here around 4 pm.
Thus far, the preparation has involved a lot of phone conversations with elderly people. Who just talk and talk and talk and talk. On and on. Blah blah blah blah blah. "Oh I haven't seen you since you were seven years old! Now I guess you would have been seven... Let's see now, when Jane your mother died... Oh she was a wonderful woman, I guess you never knew her really, why I remember once she..."
Although there was one interesting thing that came to light. Apparently, my mother, who died from cancer when I was three and a half, would tell me that she wouldn't be around to raise me. Things like, "Now I want you to finish all your peas, so you'll grow up big and strong, because after all, I'm not going to be around to see that."
Uh huh.
That's interesting on several levels.
For one thing, the long-time therapy goer in me wonders if that might have sewn the seeds for all kinds of abandonment issues. Or whatever.
For another, my parents made the decision not to let my brother and sister (fifteen and thirteen years my senior respectively) know that my mother was dying. They were just told that mother was "sick." My brother said he figured it out, but my sister didn't. Therefore, my mother's death was a huge shock to them. This lead to a sort of movie-made-for-television situation whereby in the last conversation that my sister had with my mother, my mother told her that she was a tramp and an embarrassment. And in the last conversation my brother had with my mother, she told him that no good son would disgrace his family by being a homosexual. And then, y'know, she up and died.
Traumatizing, no?
My sister ran away from home to go and live with a rock band on a commune (this was 1969), and my brother started this odd process of doing a census of the little village of our train set. He would spend hours down in the basement where it was set up, scrupulously recording the deaths and births and weddings and divorces of the imaginary families who lived in the little plastic houses served by the Lionel Train that whizzed around in an endless circle through their neighborhood. And once a week, every Saturday, he would clean his room, a process that involved taking every stick of furniture out of the room and stacking it up in the hallway, then vacuuming and sweeping and scrubbing, and then thoroughly cleaning the bed and dresser and chair and carpet and nightstand as he replaced them.
My father imported his parents to come and look after me. And my Nana and Pop proceeded to do their best to Spoil Me Rotten.
And most of these people that I'm inviting to the party haven't seen me since this wacky wacky period.
And here I am, all grown up, living here again, and serving up shrimp cocktail and pigs-in-blankets for them. (I want the party to have a sort of Early Seventies feel to it so I'm planning the hors d'oeuvres accordingly. Desert is gonna be jello cubes topped with a dollop of Cool-Whip®.)
And, I've got a hell of a lot of work to do in getting the house cleaned up. And, the yard. I'm worried that the "Shucks, We're Just Two Guys Batchin' It Here And We're Not Much Good With Housework" schtick will only cover so many sins.
Oh. Listen up. Here's where you come in, Dear Reader...
Y'see, my father loves to get mail. When someone sends him a postcard, I hear about it for the next three weeks. And birthday cards are just the greatest thing ever.
So I know it's a pain in the butt and all, and I know you've never met the man (and possibly never met me), but would you do me a favor and send a birthday card to my father?
My inclination would be to just post our mailing address here. Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, but this is the World Wide Internet afterall, and Lord knows what kind of viscious psychopaths might be lurking out there. (And if you're a single viscious psychopath who appreciates... Well, I'll save that for another time.) But I guess I ought to vet you all.
So we'll work it this way.
Step One: Send me an email to krrrush(at)mac.com (that's three r's in krrrush) and put "I Am Not A Viscious Psychopath, I Swear!" in the subject line.
Step Two: Wait for me to send you our mailing address by return email.
Step Three: On your next trip to the supermarket or the drug store, pick up a birthday card appropriate for an eighty year old man. Note that my father is heterosexual. So if you want to send one of those Zany Wacky Sexy cards with messages like, "I hope you have a Hot Time on your birthday!!!" that's fine, but make sure it's a scantily clad female rather than a male that's featured. We're serving cheesecake, not beefcake.
Step Four: Inscribe "Happy Birthday, Howard!" with the writing implement of your choice. Maybe adding something like "I understand that you hate it when your son goes away for the weekend, but I hope you appreciate how much I like to have him come visit, and after all, he is a forty year old man" or whatever.
Step Five: Slap a stamp on the envelope, write out the address, and drop it in the nearest mailbox.
I see a hand in the back. Is there a question?
"Uh yeah... Could I send an email bearing birthday greetings to your father?"
No. No that wouldn't work. You see, my father refers to my trusty laptop as "That Thing Of Yours" and is forever peppering me with questions about How Do Movies Get On That Thing Of Yours and How Much Does It Cost When You Send A Letter To Someone From That Thing Of Yours and Do You Have Problems With Getting A Lot Of Spiced Ham On That Thing Of Yours (investigation here revealed that my father had seen something on the news about "Spam." We're talking about a man who has never used an ATM card. Email would not be appropriate in this situation.
Oh. And Step Six: Earn my undying gratitude!
T'anks!
Well, not yet.
On May 7th, my father will celebrate his eightieth birthday. And I'm planning a surprise birthday part for him. It should be pretty cool. My brother and his wife are coming up from Florida and will make a surprise visit. I've called all the folks from his senior citizens group, neighbors, friends who live in the area, and they'll all be coming by here around 4 pm.
Thus far, the preparation has involved a lot of phone conversations with elderly people. Who just talk and talk and talk and talk. On and on. Blah blah blah blah blah. "Oh I haven't seen you since you were seven years old! Now I guess you would have been seven... Let's see now, when Jane your mother died... Oh she was a wonderful woman, I guess you never knew her really, why I remember once she..."
Although there was one interesting thing that came to light. Apparently, my mother, who died from cancer when I was three and a half, would tell me that she wouldn't be around to raise me. Things like, "Now I want you to finish all your peas, so you'll grow up big and strong, because after all, I'm not going to be around to see that."
Uh huh.
That's interesting on several levels.
For one thing, the long-time therapy goer in me wonders if that might have sewn the seeds for all kinds of abandonment issues. Or whatever.
For another, my parents made the decision not to let my brother and sister (fifteen and thirteen years my senior respectively) know that my mother was dying. They were just told that mother was "sick." My brother said he figured it out, but my sister didn't. Therefore, my mother's death was a huge shock to them. This lead to a sort of movie-made-for-television situation whereby in the last conversation that my sister had with my mother, my mother told her that she was a tramp and an embarrassment. And in the last conversation my brother had with my mother, she told him that no good son would disgrace his family by being a homosexual. And then, y'know, she up and died.
Traumatizing, no?
My sister ran away from home to go and live with a rock band on a commune (this was 1969), and my brother started this odd process of doing a census of the little village of our train set. He would spend hours down in the basement where it was set up, scrupulously recording the deaths and births and weddings and divorces of the imaginary families who lived in the little plastic houses served by the Lionel Train that whizzed around in an endless circle through their neighborhood. And once a week, every Saturday, he would clean his room, a process that involved taking every stick of furniture out of the room and stacking it up in the hallway, then vacuuming and sweeping and scrubbing, and then thoroughly cleaning the bed and dresser and chair and carpet and nightstand as he replaced them.
My father imported his parents to come and look after me. And my Nana and Pop proceeded to do their best to Spoil Me Rotten.
And most of these people that I'm inviting to the party haven't seen me since this wacky wacky period.
And here I am, all grown up, living here again, and serving up shrimp cocktail and pigs-in-blankets for them. (I want the party to have a sort of Early Seventies feel to it so I'm planning the hors d'oeuvres accordingly. Desert is gonna be jello cubes topped with a dollop of Cool-Whip®.)
And, I've got a hell of a lot of work to do in getting the house cleaned up. And, the yard. I'm worried that the "Shucks, We're Just Two Guys Batchin' It Here And We're Not Much Good With Housework" schtick will only cover so many sins.
Oh. Listen up. Here's where you come in, Dear Reader...
Y'see, my father loves to get mail. When someone sends him a postcard, I hear about it for the next three weeks. And birthday cards are just the greatest thing ever.
So I know it's a pain in the butt and all, and I know you've never met the man (and possibly never met me), but would you do me a favor and send a birthday card to my father?
My inclination would be to just post our mailing address here. Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, but this is the World Wide Internet afterall, and Lord knows what kind of viscious psychopaths might be lurking out there. (And if you're a single viscious psychopath who appreciates... Well, I'll save that for another time.) But I guess I ought to vet you all.
So we'll work it this way.
Step One: Send me an email to krrrush(at)mac.com (that's three r's in krrrush) and put "I Am Not A Viscious Psychopath, I Swear!" in the subject line.
Step Two: Wait for me to send you our mailing address by return email.
Step Three: On your next trip to the supermarket or the drug store, pick up a birthday card appropriate for an eighty year old man. Note that my father is heterosexual. So if you want to send one of those Zany Wacky Sexy cards with messages like, "I hope you have a Hot Time on your birthday!!!" that's fine, but make sure it's a scantily clad female rather than a male that's featured. We're serving cheesecake, not beefcake.
Step Four: Inscribe "Happy Birthday, Howard!" with the writing implement of your choice. Maybe adding something like "I understand that you hate it when your son goes away for the weekend, but I hope you appreciate how much I like to have him come visit, and after all, he is a forty year old man" or whatever.
Step Five: Slap a stamp on the envelope, write out the address, and drop it in the nearest mailbox.
I see a hand in the back. Is there a question?
"Uh yeah... Could I send an email bearing birthday greetings to your father?"
No. No that wouldn't work. You see, my father refers to my trusty laptop as "That Thing Of Yours" and is forever peppering me with questions about How Do Movies Get On That Thing Of Yours and How Much Does It Cost When You Send A Letter To Someone From That Thing Of Yours and Do You Have Problems With Getting A Lot Of Spiced Ham On That Thing Of Yours (investigation here revealed that my father had seen something on the news about "Spam." We're talking about a man who has never used an ATM card. Email would not be appropriate in this situation.
Oh. And Step Six: Earn my undying gratitude!
T'anks!
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Blue Moon
In New York City, relationships are tricky things. I always used to say that the big problem in New York is that there's always someone standing behind you. A reasonably attractive gay man in possession of an income and a place to live must be in search of a partner. (Apologies to Jane Austen there.) So you go out and meet a guy who you like a lot, but wait... who's that standing behind him? Someone with a better body and a better job and a cooler apartment. And meanwhile, he's looking over your shoulder at the guy with the better body and the better job and the cooler apartment than you have, and so you just exchange "see ya around, be well"'s with each other and you're once again plunged into the maelstrom.
When I moved out here to the Howling Wilderness, I viewed with jaundiced eye the rural homo phenomenon of coupling. They're like oxygen atoms out here, always in dyads. But it's a matter of magnetic attraction. They come close to each other, and fffthoop they combine to form a couple. But as soon as a free radical comes to close, they part and a new coupling is formed.
Okay.
Perhaps I was a wee bit too free with my derision. (I know... Me??? Unbelievable.) Because what I've come to understand is that being single here in the Howling Wilderness is way way way different than being single in Gotham.
Y'see, it can be crushingly and excruciatingly lonely.
We're talking, No one to go to the movies with ever. Nobody to make dinner with. Nobody to go canoeing with. When you see friends and acquaintances, it's out at the local watering hole, and that's because you're all there hunting up the next Little Mister.
The obvious answer is to lower your standards. If he has a pulse, he's Mr. Right. But I spent way too much time as New Yorker to have that meet with much success. Be an asshole to our waiter or dis Starbucks and I'm punching my fists through the arms of my leather jacket as I head out the door.
And, I'm soooo leery of making an Unwise Choice. (Jane Austen again. I really ought to re-read some of her stuff. Or, y'know, watch some of thhe movie adaptations. Decision: Rent Clueless!) Things just seem so much more frought out here. I mean, in Gotham, you meet, you fuck, you date, you hang out, he mistreats a waiter or bemoans a Starbucks opening up on his block and you're gone. But out here, it would probably require A Conversation and stuff. And they're probably all about monogamy out here.
So, y'know, I have nobody to go to the movies with.
But I make due. I've got the krew at Starbucks, I've got trips to NYC for softball and such, I've got the Bike Stop down in Philadelphia. I've got a garage to clear out.
And I've got a Blockbuster membership card.
Remember the Carrie Bradshaw principle: "The most important relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And in the event that you find someone who appreciates everything about you that you do, then that's just fabulous."
In New York City, relationships are tricky things. I always used to say that the big problem in New York is that there's always someone standing behind you. A reasonably attractive gay man in possession of an income and a place to live must be in search of a partner. (Apologies to Jane Austen there.) So you go out and meet a guy who you like a lot, but wait... who's that standing behind him? Someone with a better body and a better job and a cooler apartment. And meanwhile, he's looking over your shoulder at the guy with the better body and the better job and the cooler apartment than you have, and so you just exchange "see ya around, be well"'s with each other and you're once again plunged into the maelstrom.
When I moved out here to the Howling Wilderness, I viewed with jaundiced eye the rural homo phenomenon of coupling. They're like oxygen atoms out here, always in dyads. But it's a matter of magnetic attraction. They come close to each other, and fffthoop they combine to form a couple. But as soon as a free radical comes to close, they part and a new coupling is formed.
Okay.
Perhaps I was a wee bit too free with my derision. (I know... Me??? Unbelievable.) Because what I've come to understand is that being single here in the Howling Wilderness is way way way different than being single in Gotham.
Y'see, it can be crushingly and excruciatingly lonely.
We're talking, No one to go to the movies with ever. Nobody to make dinner with. Nobody to go canoeing with. When you see friends and acquaintances, it's out at the local watering hole, and that's because you're all there hunting up the next Little Mister.
The obvious answer is to lower your standards. If he has a pulse, he's Mr. Right. But I spent way too much time as New Yorker to have that meet with much success. Be an asshole to our waiter or dis Starbucks and I'm punching my fists through the arms of my leather jacket as I head out the door.
And, I'm soooo leery of making an Unwise Choice. (Jane Austen again. I really ought to re-read some of her stuff. Or, y'know, watch some of thhe movie adaptations. Decision: Rent Clueless!) Things just seem so much more frought out here. I mean, in Gotham, you meet, you fuck, you date, you hang out, he mistreats a waiter or bemoans a Starbucks opening up on his block and you're gone. But out here, it would probably require A Conversation and stuff. And they're probably all about monogamy out here.
So, y'know, I have nobody to go to the movies with.
But I make due. I've got the krew at Starbucks, I've got trips to NYC for softball and such, I've got the Bike Stop down in Philadelphia. I've got a garage to clear out.
And I've got a Blockbuster membership card.
Remember the Carrie Bradshaw principle: "The most important relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And in the event that you find someone who appreciates everything about you that you do, then that's just fabulous."
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Where The Hell Have I Been?
Okay.
Nothing cataclysmic has gone down here.
Be reassured, life is much the same. With a few new additions. Fr'instance, I now have a kayak. On hot summer days (and maybe this summer we'll have a couple of those), I'll be paddling around at nearby Lake Galena after a long, hard day at the unairconditioned woodshop. And maybe getting arms like anacondas and deltoids like cantaloup in the process.
And I am making a lot of progress cleaning out the garage. I've decided everything must go. And I'm pricing welding machines. And then I'll just have to take possession of my St. Andrew's Cross and my amazing cage--still in Providence, RI--and then I'll be all set up to whip local boys.
So.
Why the prolonged silence?
Okay. I'll spill.
There was the guy from LA that I met the last night of MAL. And we did this incredible, mind-roasting edge play scene. And then, a couple of months later, he was in NYC, so I went up, and we spent an incredible weekend together. More edge play. And I whipped him. And I just run out of superlatives and favorable adjectives describing that and don't manage to do it justice.
And about this time I made The Error. And what was The Error?
Simple.
Y'see, I mistook connection and intensity in the context of a scene with emotional availability.
In pretty short order, I was all kinds of obsessive. Things had that Life Is Elsewhere quality, so detrimental to peace of mind when you're living out here in this howling wilderness.
It was bleak, lemme tell ya. And I was hurtin'.
I was feeling disregarded, and unappreciated.
So I gave a call to Special Guy. Now living in San Francisco. My purpose in calling was to thank him. Because all the time we were together, and even still, Special Guy made me feel like I was something special.
So I offered that little pronouncement, and then Special Guy asked what was up. And I told him. And he had some words of wisdom to offer.
"Look at it from his point of view..." began those words of wisdom.
Oh. Right.
Imagine the boot was on the other foot.
Let's say it's a few years back. I've got this great, busy life going in NYC. And I meet a guy whom I like a lot at MAL. And he lives in... let's say a small town in Eastern Oregon. With his aged father. Whom he takes care of. And there he'll be for the next half decade or so.
I probably wouldn't be busying myself picking out patterns for the diamond plate to install in my relocated dungeon in Puyallup, OR, now would I?
I'd let the guy know I like him, and if further opportunities to get together present themselves, I'd jump at it, but I'd make sure that both of us were being realistic about expectations of where this is going. Cuz in the short run, it's not going much of anywhere.
With this in mind, reflecting back on my interactions with Edge Player, he's been nothing but perfect. Always honest, considerate, thoughtful, and filthy minded.
So now that things have snapped back into focus, now that I have a little bit of perspective, I'm ready to move on.
Clean out the garage and set up a dungeon and welding studio. Spend as much time as I can this summer on the water in my new kayak. Meet men. Tend my garden. Get krushes. Play softball.
And, post a little bit more frequently now that I'm not a whirling vortex of emotional turmoil!
Okay.
Nothing cataclysmic has gone down here.
Be reassured, life is much the same. With a few new additions. Fr'instance, I now have a kayak. On hot summer days (and maybe this summer we'll have a couple of those), I'll be paddling around at nearby Lake Galena after a long, hard day at the unairconditioned woodshop. And maybe getting arms like anacondas and deltoids like cantaloup in the process.
And I am making a lot of progress cleaning out the garage. I've decided everything must go. And I'm pricing welding machines. And then I'll just have to take possession of my St. Andrew's Cross and my amazing cage--still in Providence, RI--and then I'll be all set up to whip local boys.
So.
Why the prolonged silence?
Okay. I'll spill.
There was the guy from LA that I met the last night of MAL. And we did this incredible, mind-roasting edge play scene. And then, a couple of months later, he was in NYC, so I went up, and we spent an incredible weekend together. More edge play. And I whipped him. And I just run out of superlatives and favorable adjectives describing that and don't manage to do it justice.
And about this time I made The Error. And what was The Error?
Simple.
Y'see, I mistook connection and intensity in the context of a scene with emotional availability.
In pretty short order, I was all kinds of obsessive. Things had that Life Is Elsewhere quality, so detrimental to peace of mind when you're living out here in this howling wilderness.
It was bleak, lemme tell ya. And I was hurtin'.
I was feeling disregarded, and unappreciated.
So I gave a call to Special Guy. Now living in San Francisco. My purpose in calling was to thank him. Because all the time we were together, and even still, Special Guy made me feel like I was something special.
So I offered that little pronouncement, and then Special Guy asked what was up. And I told him. And he had some words of wisdom to offer.
"Look at it from his point of view..." began those words of wisdom.
Oh. Right.
Imagine the boot was on the other foot.
Let's say it's a few years back. I've got this great, busy life going in NYC. And I meet a guy whom I like a lot at MAL. And he lives in... let's say a small town in Eastern Oregon. With his aged father. Whom he takes care of. And there he'll be for the next half decade or so.
I probably wouldn't be busying myself picking out patterns for the diamond plate to install in my relocated dungeon in Puyallup, OR, now would I?
I'd let the guy know I like him, and if further opportunities to get together present themselves, I'd jump at it, but I'd make sure that both of us were being realistic about expectations of where this is going. Cuz in the short run, it's not going much of anywhere.
With this in mind, reflecting back on my interactions with Edge Player, he's been nothing but perfect. Always honest, considerate, thoughtful, and filthy minded.
So now that things have snapped back into focus, now that I have a little bit of perspective, I'm ready to move on.
Clean out the garage and set up a dungeon and welding studio. Spend as much time as I can this summer on the water in my new kayak. Meet men. Tend my garden. Get krushes. Play softball.
And, post a little bit more frequently now that I'm not a whirling vortex of emotional turmoil!
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Out = Through
A tough few days.
My father has been making me crazy. Lots of 'do this, do that," and ne'er a thank you to be heard.
And then there's work.
I know! A rare thing I'm griping about work, right?
Well, a few weeks ago, we had these meetings. Every guy in the shop, in groups of five, sat down with the vice president. He opened by explaining that his job was to be "the communicator," and these meetings were to keep the lines of communication open. We did a couple of motivational exercises, rededicating ourselves to excellence or something. Then we reviewed some copies of material obtained from the American Association of Cabinet Makers or something. Lots of stuff about productivity. And about average salaries industry-wide. I learned that I'm making ten cents more than the average hardware guy makes. And we closed with glad handing all around.
I've heard that brontosauri, with their walnut sized brains, had difficulty with sensory stimuli. (Yo! Two latinate nouns successfully rendered in the plural in one sentence!) So if you jump on the tail of a brontosaurus, it would take a few hours before the signal reached its brain and registered.
And I had a brontosaurus experience.
About a week later, I'm putting drawer slides into base cabinets when it dawns on me. What that meeting was "about" was we're not getting raises this year. By industry standards, we're already doing fine.
I ran this idea by a few of my co-workers, and the universal reply was, "No kidding, Dutch."
Now, that really burns me up. Y'see, I try really hard. I do my best to stay focused all day long, to exceed expectations, to work hard all day long, be a good guy to work with, help out co workers when I can, and when asked to go the extra yard--or seven--I'll say 'yes' if I can. And why do I do this? Wellll... because I get a lot of satisfaction out of being a good worker. But of course the other reason is I'd like recognition. And in an employment relationship, that recognition comes by way of your paycheck. So without that incentive provided... ...well, I'm pretty much being taken advantage of, huh?
Okay. So that thought has been percolating for a little while. Add to that my low grade frustrations with my dad.
So yesterday, after lunch, I went out on a service call. Our installer needed some help installing a hood. Namely, that thing with the blowers and vents that goes over a range. Service calls: always exciting! I was definitely up for it.
Well, the hood turned out to be a huge stainless steel affair. The designer was on hand, because there were some problems with the measurements: it was five inches longer than the manufacturer said it was. And at one point, the designer let it be known how much the hood costs.
The hood costs $23,000.
Now, that number sort of hit me. Y'see, the night before I had been getting stuff together to file my income taxes. In 2004, I made less than $23,000. That hood costs more than I make in a year.
Okay. So it all sort of collapsed in on me. Father, low pay, no future.
And the thought crossed my mind for the umpteenth time, "George Bush and I made the same mistake; we went in without an exit strategy."
So... what? Run away from home, maybe?
So as I was spiraling down to that dark place, a thought came to my head. I think I'll attribute this to Master Wolf, my spirit guide. The thought was, "Be where you are."
Right. Be where you are.
Today at work, I was still kinda peevish. But, it's just a solid fact that I enjoy my work. Just the business of it. Busy all day, working with my hands, seeing progress. It's good for me. Therapeutic.
And my partner and I have been having some great discussions while we work. He being a fundamentalist Christian, there are a lot of possibilities. Today, we continued to two thousand year discussion on Faith and Works. And the whole question of salvation. And what gets you into hell.
And, I'm headed to LA this weekend. Spending the weekend with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer. I'm bringing my whip. He'll have his knives. So it should be a good weekend.
And today.
Today was the first nice day of the year. For the past couple of of nights, I've been hearing the spring peepers. The dafodils and crocuses my dad planted years ago are all coming up. And today I was outside of Starbucks in Doylestown, enjoying my latte and a cigar and the passing boys. It rocked.
Not out of it yet, but I'm getting there.
A tough few days.
My father has been making me crazy. Lots of 'do this, do that," and ne'er a thank you to be heard.
And then there's work.
I know! A rare thing I'm griping about work, right?
Well, a few weeks ago, we had these meetings. Every guy in the shop, in groups of five, sat down with the vice president. He opened by explaining that his job was to be "the communicator," and these meetings were to keep the lines of communication open. We did a couple of motivational exercises, rededicating ourselves to excellence or something. Then we reviewed some copies of material obtained from the American Association of Cabinet Makers or something. Lots of stuff about productivity. And about average salaries industry-wide. I learned that I'm making ten cents more than the average hardware guy makes. And we closed with glad handing all around.
I've heard that brontosauri, with their walnut sized brains, had difficulty with sensory stimuli. (Yo! Two latinate nouns successfully rendered in the plural in one sentence!) So if you jump on the tail of a brontosaurus, it would take a few hours before the signal reached its brain and registered.
And I had a brontosaurus experience.
About a week later, I'm putting drawer slides into base cabinets when it dawns on me. What that meeting was "about" was we're not getting raises this year. By industry standards, we're already doing fine.
I ran this idea by a few of my co-workers, and the universal reply was, "No kidding, Dutch."
Now, that really burns me up. Y'see, I try really hard. I do my best to stay focused all day long, to exceed expectations, to work hard all day long, be a good guy to work with, help out co workers when I can, and when asked to go the extra yard--or seven--I'll say 'yes' if I can. And why do I do this? Wellll... because I get a lot of satisfaction out of being a good worker. But of course the other reason is I'd like recognition. And in an employment relationship, that recognition comes by way of your paycheck. So without that incentive provided... ...well, I'm pretty much being taken advantage of, huh?
Okay. So that thought has been percolating for a little while. Add to that my low grade frustrations with my dad.
So yesterday, after lunch, I went out on a service call. Our installer needed some help installing a hood. Namely, that thing with the blowers and vents that goes over a range. Service calls: always exciting! I was definitely up for it.
Well, the hood turned out to be a huge stainless steel affair. The designer was on hand, because there were some problems with the measurements: it was five inches longer than the manufacturer said it was. And at one point, the designer let it be known how much the hood costs.
The hood costs $23,000.
Now, that number sort of hit me. Y'see, the night before I had been getting stuff together to file my income taxes. In 2004, I made less than $23,000. That hood costs more than I make in a year.
Okay. So it all sort of collapsed in on me. Father, low pay, no future.
And the thought crossed my mind for the umpteenth time, "George Bush and I made the same mistake; we went in without an exit strategy."
So... what? Run away from home, maybe?
So as I was spiraling down to that dark place, a thought came to my head. I think I'll attribute this to Master Wolf, my spirit guide. The thought was, "Be where you are."
Right. Be where you are.
Today at work, I was still kinda peevish. But, it's just a solid fact that I enjoy my work. Just the business of it. Busy all day, working with my hands, seeing progress. It's good for me. Therapeutic.
And my partner and I have been having some great discussions while we work. He being a fundamentalist Christian, there are a lot of possibilities. Today, we continued to two thousand year discussion on Faith and Works. And the whole question of salvation. And what gets you into hell.
And, I'm headed to LA this weekend. Spending the weekend with Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer. I'm bringing my whip. He'll have his knives. So it should be a good weekend.
And today.
Today was the first nice day of the year. For the past couple of of nights, I've been hearing the spring peepers. The dafodils and crocuses my dad planted years ago are all coming up. And today I was outside of Starbucks in Doylestown, enjoying my latte and a cigar and the passing boys. It rocked.
Not out of it yet, but I'm getting there.
Monday, March 28, 2005
From Russia, With Liubya
See... This is why I love the Russians. Diabolique sent me the link for this. It's from the English language version of Pravda, the paper of record in the Russian Republic.
Notice the interjection of black humor at the end. Russians love black humor. Anyway, the Russians have discovered something that many (if not most) dear friends of mine have known for quite some time...
Whipping Therapy Cures Depression And Suicide Crises
03/26/2005 13:06
The effect is astounding: a patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world
Russian scientists from the city of Novosibirsk, Siberia, made a sensational report at the international conference devoted to new methods of treatment and rehabilitation in narcology. The report was called "Methods of painful impact to treat addictive behavior."
Siberian scientists believe that addiction to alcohol and narcotics, as well as depression, suicidal thoughts and psychosomatic diseases occur when an individual loses his or her interest in life. The absence of the will to live is caused with decreasing production of endorphins - the substance, which is known as the hormone of happiness. If a depressed individual receives a physical punishment, whipping that is, it will stir up endorphin receptors, activate the "production of happiness" and eventually remove depressive feelings.
Russian scientists recommend the following course of the whipping therapy: 30 sessions of 60 whips on the buttocks in every procedure. A group of drug addicts volunteered to test the new method of treatment: the results can be described as good and excellent.
Doctor of Biological Sciences, Sergei Speransky, is a very well known figure in Novosibirsk. The doctor became one of the authors of the shocking whipping therapy. The professor used the self-flagellation method to cure his own depression; he also recovered from two heart attacks with the help of physical tortures too.
"The whipping therapy becomes much more efficient when a patients receives the punishment from a person of the opposite sex. The effect is astounding: the patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world, the heartache disappears, although it will take a certain time for the buttocks to heal, of course," Sergei Speransky told the Izvestia newspaper.
The whipping therapy has not become a new discovery in the history of medicine. Tibetan monks widely used it for medical purposes too. Soviet specialists used a special method of torturing therapy at mental hospitals. They made injections of brimstone and peach oil mixture to inspire mentally unbalanced patience with a will to live. A patient would suffer from horrible pain in the body after such an injection, but he or she would change their attitude to life for the better afterwards.
"People might probably think of me as a masochist," Dr. Speransky said. "But I can assure you that I am not a classic masochist at all," he added.
The revolutionary method may take the Russian healthcare to a whole new level. The method is cheap and highly efficient, as its authors assure. Why not using something more efficient, a rack, for example?
I'll leave the link as well. Here it is. There's a swell picture of a whip accompanying the piece.
See... This is why I love the Russians. Diabolique sent me the link for this. It's from the English language version of Pravda, the paper of record in the Russian Republic.
Notice the interjection of black humor at the end. Russians love black humor. Anyway, the Russians have discovered something that many (if not most) dear friends of mine have known for quite some time...
Whipping Therapy Cures Depression And Suicide Crises
03/26/2005 13:06
The effect is astounding: a patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world
Russian scientists from the city of Novosibirsk, Siberia, made a sensational report at the international conference devoted to new methods of treatment and rehabilitation in narcology. The report was called "Methods of painful impact to treat addictive behavior."
Siberian scientists believe that addiction to alcohol and narcotics, as well as depression, suicidal thoughts and psychosomatic diseases occur when an individual loses his or her interest in life. The absence of the will to live is caused with decreasing production of endorphins - the substance, which is known as the hormone of happiness. If a depressed individual receives a physical punishment, whipping that is, it will stir up endorphin receptors, activate the "production of happiness" and eventually remove depressive feelings.
Russian scientists recommend the following course of the whipping therapy: 30 sessions of 60 whips on the buttocks in every procedure. A group of drug addicts volunteered to test the new method of treatment: the results can be described as good and excellent.
Doctor of Biological Sciences, Sergei Speransky, is a very well known figure in Novosibirsk. The doctor became one of the authors of the shocking whipping therapy. The professor used the self-flagellation method to cure his own depression; he also recovered from two heart attacks with the help of physical tortures too.
"The whipping therapy becomes much more efficient when a patients receives the punishment from a person of the opposite sex. The effect is astounding: the patient starts seeing only bright colors in the surrounding world, the heartache disappears, although it will take a certain time for the buttocks to heal, of course," Sergei Speransky told the Izvestia newspaper.
The whipping therapy has not become a new discovery in the history of medicine. Tibetan monks widely used it for medical purposes too. Soviet specialists used a special method of torturing therapy at mental hospitals. They made injections of brimstone and peach oil mixture to inspire mentally unbalanced patience with a will to live. A patient would suffer from horrible pain in the body after such an injection, but he or she would change their attitude to life for the better afterwards.
"People might probably think of me as a masochist," Dr. Speransky said. "But I can assure you that I am not a classic masochist at all," he added.
The revolutionary method may take the Russian healthcare to a whole new level. The method is cheap and highly efficient, as its authors assure. Why not using something more efficient, a rack, for example?
I'll leave the link as well. Here it is. There's a swell picture of a whip accompanying the piece.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Where's The Hammond Organ?
This weekend's movie rental was The Mod Squad. The one with Claire Danes, Omar Epps, and... uh... other people.
The reviews were really really bad. A universal pan.
Funny thing. I thought the movie was pretty much as I remember the original. Ponderous, poorly written, basically one reaction shot after another, punctuated by the occasional "Groovey!" and "Right On!". And I think the movie did it all justice.
Instead of giving the updated Pete a kinda punk/tweeker vibe, I think they should have made him a homo.
Oh. And Julie didn't get held hostage. Duh! Julie always gets held hostage.
This weekend's movie rental was The Mod Squad. The one with Claire Danes, Omar Epps, and... uh... other people.
The reviews were really really bad. A universal pan.
Funny thing. I thought the movie was pretty much as I remember the original. Ponderous, poorly written, basically one reaction shot after another, punctuated by the occasional "Groovey!" and "Right On!". And I think the movie did it all justice.
Instead of giving the updated Pete a kinda punk/tweeker vibe, I think they should have made him a homo.
Oh. And Julie didn't get held hostage. Duh! Julie always gets held hostage.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Awwww...
Y'know what I find totally endearing?
When people are saying something like "I sent you an email" or "you can do a web search," and to illustrate they hold their hands out in front of them and make typing motions.
This colossal guy at my gym did that tonight, by way of giving me information about a local personal trainer he highly recommends. Local personal trainer works out of his home, and only charges $40 per session. So I might check in. P'raps he can help me break through my 190 lb. ceiling.
But man... That typing thing.
I love that.
Y'know what I find totally endearing?
When people are saying something like "I sent you an email" or "you can do a web search," and to illustrate they hold their hands out in front of them and make typing motions.
This colossal guy at my gym did that tonight, by way of giving me information about a local personal trainer he highly recommends. Local personal trainer works out of his home, and only charges $40 per session. So I might check in. P'raps he can help me break through my 190 lb. ceiling.
But man... That typing thing.
I love that.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Ugliness
Oh man. The Terri Schaivo situation is just soooo appauling. Imagine having the President and Congress barging into your intimate business.
(Oh that's right. If you're a homo like me, they do that all the time.)
And speaking of homos, the parents' spokesman, a Roman Catholic priest, is so obviously of the "Does this pulpit make my ass look big?" variety.
Sheesh.
Which gave me an interesting thought today.
What if Pope John Paul II should suffer a stroke of some kind, become debilitated, and end up hooked up to a feeding tube for the next few decades. The Pope has made his feelings about such a situation pretty well known. ("Life is sacred...") And from what I hear, he's also made it know that popes don't retire. They go out with their silk slippers on.
Interestin'.
Oh man. The Terri Schaivo situation is just soooo appauling. Imagine having the President and Congress barging into your intimate business.
(Oh that's right. If you're a homo like me, they do that all the time.)
And speaking of homos, the parents' spokesman, a Roman Catholic priest, is so obviously of the "Does this pulpit make my ass look big?" variety.
Sheesh.
Which gave me an interesting thought today.
What if Pope John Paul II should suffer a stroke of some kind, become debilitated, and end up hooked up to a feeding tube for the next few decades. The Pope has made his feelings about such a situation pretty well known. ("Life is sacred...") And from what I hear, he's also made it know that popes don't retire. They go out with their silk slippers on.
Interestin'.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Not Hideous. Fabulous!
At work today, I was all giggly. We were working on a section of a much larger job. A huge job, in fact. This section was the cabinetry going into what simple folks call a 'bathroom.' In a vestibule of sorts in this bathroom were the two items we were assembling: the "make-up station" and the "wet bar."
Now, I thought that was a gas!
"Each morning I wake up
Take a shot as I put on my make up,
And I have a vodka tonic or two..."
Can you say, "Rich, Drunk, Homely?"
So I'm getting big laughs around the shop about the wet bar/make-up station combo. Then, I shared the news with Spray Room Girl, who is now Designer Girl, working in the front office. (Which I, in my irrepressible way, refer to as the "Big House.")
"Oh right," said Designer Girl, "She has a monk."
"'Scuse me?"
"She's totally crazy. She has a monk. She made a room in her penthouse for her monk. She brings him everywhere she goes. He advises her. He'll dangle these beads over door samples and that's how she made all her design decisions. Right now, we can't reach her because she's in Tibet."
"Wow..."
"And her place is unbelievable. In her bathroom, she has this enormous dome in the ceiling that she's having inlaid with gold leaf. And her bedroom has these three foot wide red and gold stripes. She has a flat screened tv and a fireplace in every room. Including her closet. She's given her contractor over $300,000 in change orders alone."
Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, I was seeing Mrs. Wet Bar/Make Up Station in a whole new light. A sort of rose colored hue. I mean, I was putting the hardware on cabinets for Auntie Mame!
Can't beat that!
I mean, why not? When you're sitting in your bathtub the size of an above ground pool in front of a roaring fire, what better accompaniment to chanting prayers with your saffron-robed monk than a nice Cosmo?
I wonder if the monk is a good bartender?
At work today, I was all giggly. We were working on a section of a much larger job. A huge job, in fact. This section was the cabinetry going into what simple folks call a 'bathroom.' In a vestibule of sorts in this bathroom were the two items we were assembling: the "make-up station" and the "wet bar."
Now, I thought that was a gas!
"Each morning I wake up
Take a shot as I put on my make up,
And I have a vodka tonic or two..."
Can you say, "Rich, Drunk, Homely?"
So I'm getting big laughs around the shop about the wet bar/make-up station combo. Then, I shared the news with Spray Room Girl, who is now Designer Girl, working in the front office. (Which I, in my irrepressible way, refer to as the "Big House.")
"Oh right," said Designer Girl, "She has a monk."
"'Scuse me?"
"She's totally crazy. She has a monk. She made a room in her penthouse for her monk. She brings him everywhere she goes. He advises her. He'll dangle these beads over door samples and that's how she made all her design decisions. Right now, we can't reach her because she's in Tibet."
"Wow..."
"And her place is unbelievable. In her bathroom, she has this enormous dome in the ceiling that she's having inlaid with gold leaf. And her bedroom has these three foot wide red and gold stripes. She has a flat screened tv and a fireplace in every room. Including her closet. She's given her contractor over $300,000 in change orders alone."
Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, I was seeing Mrs. Wet Bar/Make Up Station in a whole new light. A sort of rose colored hue. I mean, I was putting the hardware on cabinets for Auntie Mame!
Can't beat that!
I mean, why not? When you're sitting in your bathtub the size of an above ground pool in front of a roaring fire, what better accompaniment to chanting prayers with your saffron-robed monk than a nice Cosmo?
I wonder if the monk is a good bartender?
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Spread Your Wings, Fletcher Gull!
So today at work, Buddhist Boy comes up to me and says, "Dutch, did you ever read Jonathan Livingston Seagull?
Hit me like a ton of bricks.
Wow.
"When I was in the fourth grade, I had a Jonathan Livingston Seagull lunch box," I answered.
And I did.
I sure did read Jonathan Livingston Seagull. And it rocked my 9-year-old world.
To be sure, when I was in college, Mr. English Major/Philosophy Minor, I got all sneery about the book. (I remember in one pan it was referred to as "a cotton candy Christ for the Me Generation.") But perhaps age and experience have mellowed me.
So after work, I went to the book store in Doylestown. They didn't have JLS on the shelves, but they ordered it for me. It should be here in a couple of days.
I'm looking forward to catching up with Jonathan. Like running into an old friend.
So today at work, Buddhist Boy comes up to me and says, "Dutch, did you ever read Jonathan Livingston Seagull?
Hit me like a ton of bricks.
Wow.
"When I was in the fourth grade, I had a Jonathan Livingston Seagull lunch box," I answered.
And I did.
I sure did read Jonathan Livingston Seagull. And it rocked my 9-year-old world.
To be sure, when I was in college, Mr. English Major/Philosophy Minor, I got all sneery about the book. (I remember in one pan it was referred to as "a cotton candy Christ for the Me Generation.") But perhaps age and experience have mellowed me.
So after work, I went to the book store in Doylestown. They didn't have JLS on the shelves, but they ordered it for me. It should be here in a couple of days.
I'm looking forward to catching up with Jonathan. Like running into an old friend.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Bad Finger
Y'know what I hate?
[ *world weary sigh* No. Why don't you tell us what you hate. ]
Okay! I will!
When guys on line, mostly skinhead types, put up pics of themselves giving the camera the finger.
I hate that!
What are they trying to convey?
"Oh, check me out. I'm Mr. Badass! You don't like it? They Fck You!"
Well, y'know what? Quit it! Act your age!
I totally don't get that.
Am I supposed to be like, Oh wow! What an awesome dude! Lookit how he's giving me the finger?
Well, I'm just not.
Am I supposed to send them some witty IM along the lines of "Ya wanna?"
Well I'm not.
What I usually do is close out of the bozo's profile, and say, "Noooo, fck you!" as I do it.
Anyway.
That's a thing I hate.
Oh.
Sorry.
Maybe you were expecting some high minded posting?
Another time.
Just do me a favor? Dont' send me a pic of yourself giving the camera the finger to retaliate? Okie doke?
Y'know what I hate?
[ *world weary sigh* No. Why don't you tell us what you hate. ]
Okay! I will!
When guys on line, mostly skinhead types, put up pics of themselves giving the camera the finger.
I hate that!
What are they trying to convey?
"Oh, check me out. I'm Mr. Badass! You don't like it? They Fck You!"
Well, y'know what? Quit it! Act your age!
I totally don't get that.
Am I supposed to be like, Oh wow! What an awesome dude! Lookit how he's giving me the finger?
Well, I'm just not.
Am I supposed to send them some witty IM along the lines of "Ya wanna?"
Well I'm not.
What I usually do is close out of the bozo's profile, and say, "Noooo, fck you!" as I do it.
Anyway.
That's a thing I hate.
Oh.
Sorry.
Maybe you were expecting some high minded posting?
Another time.
Just do me a favor? Dont' send me a pic of yourself giving the camera the finger to retaliate? Okie doke?
Monday, March 07, 2005
Published!
The current president of GMSMA requested that I pose in the buff to show off my ink for that august organization's publication, Newslink.
Let's see a show of hands... How many of you thought for one second that I'd say no?
Ergo, if'n you are a member of GMSMA, more photos of me in the buff are gracing your mailbox about now.
If'n, sadly, you're not, you'll just have to track down a member to get a look at them. However, I can reprint here the text of the piece I wrote to accompany the photos. (Which, by the way, made the cover. My second Newslink cover.)
So, without further ado, I give you Tattoo Journey.
I was in college when I saw the movie La Bamba, in which Lou Diamond Phillips portrayed Richie Valens, who died in the same plane crash that ended the life of Buddy Holly. One scene in the movie that jumped out at me was when Richie/Lou wakes up after a tequila fueled night in Mexico to discover that he now has a tattoo on his right arm.
I knew right then and there I was going to get a tattoo.
Something about that seemed profoundly masculine, accepting whatever life throws at you with grace and forebearance, taking it, sucking it up. Those were qualities that the boy I was hoped the man I would become would have.
This was before tattoos hit big. None of my friends had tattoos. No movie stars had tattoos. Madonna didn’t have any tattoos. Professional athletes didn’t have tattoos. When I told people about wanting to have a tattoo, I was cautioned that it would “hold me back.” (“Before we offer you a corporate vice-presidency, Mr. Kramer, we need you to take off your shirt so we can examine your arms and torso.”)
A couple of years later, I decided enough time had gone by. I would be inked. Tattooing was still illegal in New York City, so I took a train down to Philadelphia. The plan was that I’d go out, get drunk, stumble into a tattoo parlor, stand in line with sailors and marines, and get my first tattoo. It didn’t go as planned. I found out that when the bars closed, so did the tattoo parlors. And so the deed was done not on a beery, bleary Saturday night, but on a clear and sober Sunday morning. I went in, picked a design off the wall, and an hour later walked out with my first tattoo. It was the head of a wolf, over a legend reading “Stand Alone.” The design had read “Lone Wolf,” but I thought this was a little hackneyed.
I knew then there would be more. But it took me almost fifteen years to come up with a design I could commit to. My cherry had been busted, and the next time around, I wanted it to be meaningful.
I would daydream about what images had meaning for me. For the most part, they spoke to me of things and people I love. My sister, whips, welding, words like ‘Conviction.’ And this lead me to think about love. Sweet sweet love. So much more than hearts and roses. When you open your heart to love, at the same time, you’re binding yourself to the heartache that will inevitably follow. Fervent passion grows cold. Frail creatures that we are, we break our vows and promises. Your beloved will surely sicken and die. Your heart will be broken, and the more you love, the more painful it will be. But the important thing is to make sure your heart does not grow cold. When love knocks on your door, be ready to open it and welcome love across your threshold. Especially when it’s crazy, passionate, stupid, inconvenient, and you fear it will overwhelm you completely.
At some point, I thought about Jacob Marley. In Dickens’ Christmas Carol, he was Ebenezer Scrooge’s equally miserly partner, who appears in spectral form to warn Scrooge to change his ways. In the afterlife, he is weighed down with chains, explaining that they were forged, link by link, by his stinginess in when he walked the earth.
Chains have different associations for me. After whipping, my favorite scene to do is chain bondage. I’m all thumbs with rope. The results are laughable. But something wonderful happens when I lay my chains on a man. I have over two hundred pounds at this point, and I patiently work to put them all on the helpless, struggling man who has submitted to me. There is a romance to steel chain that I just don’t find in rope.
So it would be chains. Chains of love. If love binds us all together, let those bonds be of eternal steel.
Once I found an artist to do the work--no mean feat--the journey began. I would sit in my jeep, take a few deep breaths, steel myself with a latté from the local Starbucks, and head to the studio of Joe Rose, the only tattoo artist I had met who got truly excited when he I explained what I was after. Inevitably, Joe would make me wait. Walk-ins were his bread and butter, and he couldn’t turn them away. So I’d chain smoke to calm my nerves while he inked Chinese characters onto teenagers.
The work took about fifteen sessions, stretching from May through December. During this time, I broke my ankle playing softball, whipped two wonderful men, was declared Employee of the Month at the woodshop where I work, visited San Francisco for the first time, and turned forty. Whatever was happening to me, I would come, bear whatever portion of my flesh we would be working on, and put everything else aside.
And it hurt. Oh man, did it hurt. I wanted to start at my right ankle, and end at my left wrist, but I gave Joe discretion in how we got there. If there was a sensitive part of my body that he missed, I can’t guess what it would be. My shin bone, kneecap, inner thigh, pelvis, spine, rib cage, collar bone, armpit, elbow... I started to wonder what was going on. Was the man a sadist? (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m a sadist myself.)
One night, I just couldn’t get it together. I wasn’t processing the pain. It was agony. I didn’t know if I could take it. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. I was howling away, holding back the tears.
Joe let up on the needle. He put his hand on my chest, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah I’m okay,” I answered, but not very convincingly.
Joe smiled. “You know what? You’re earning it.”
And then he went back to work.
But then and there, it all made sense to me. I was earning it. The best things in life come hard. Often at the cost of some of your blood. But a man takes it. No complaints. No whining. Just suck it up. Because you’re earning it.
And now, the journey is over. A scene that endured for eight months.
I’m really happy with the results. I’ll strip and show it off at the least provocation. And the best part is, I earned it.
The current president of GMSMA requested that I pose in the buff to show off my ink for that august organization's publication, Newslink.
Let's see a show of hands... How many of you thought for one second that I'd say no?
Ergo, if'n you are a member of GMSMA, more photos of me in the buff are gracing your mailbox about now.
If'n, sadly, you're not, you'll just have to track down a member to get a look at them. However, I can reprint here the text of the piece I wrote to accompany the photos. (Which, by the way, made the cover. My second Newslink cover.)
So, without further ado, I give you Tattoo Journey.
I was in college when I saw the movie La Bamba, in which Lou Diamond Phillips portrayed Richie Valens, who died in the same plane crash that ended the life of Buddy Holly. One scene in the movie that jumped out at me was when Richie/Lou wakes up after a tequila fueled night in Mexico to discover that he now has a tattoo on his right arm.
I knew right then and there I was going to get a tattoo.
Something about that seemed profoundly masculine, accepting whatever life throws at you with grace and forebearance, taking it, sucking it up. Those were qualities that the boy I was hoped the man I would become would have.
This was before tattoos hit big. None of my friends had tattoos. No movie stars had tattoos. Madonna didn’t have any tattoos. Professional athletes didn’t have tattoos. When I told people about wanting to have a tattoo, I was cautioned that it would “hold me back.” (“Before we offer you a corporate vice-presidency, Mr. Kramer, we need you to take off your shirt so we can examine your arms and torso.”)
A couple of years later, I decided enough time had gone by. I would be inked. Tattooing was still illegal in New York City, so I took a train down to Philadelphia. The plan was that I’d go out, get drunk, stumble into a tattoo parlor, stand in line with sailors and marines, and get my first tattoo. It didn’t go as planned. I found out that when the bars closed, so did the tattoo parlors. And so the deed was done not on a beery, bleary Saturday night, but on a clear and sober Sunday morning. I went in, picked a design off the wall, and an hour later walked out with my first tattoo. It was the head of a wolf, over a legend reading “Stand Alone.” The design had read “Lone Wolf,” but I thought this was a little hackneyed.
I knew then there would be more. But it took me almost fifteen years to come up with a design I could commit to. My cherry had been busted, and the next time around, I wanted it to be meaningful.
I would daydream about what images had meaning for me. For the most part, they spoke to me of things and people I love. My sister, whips, welding, words like ‘Conviction.’ And this lead me to think about love. Sweet sweet love. So much more than hearts and roses. When you open your heart to love, at the same time, you’re binding yourself to the heartache that will inevitably follow. Fervent passion grows cold. Frail creatures that we are, we break our vows and promises. Your beloved will surely sicken and die. Your heart will be broken, and the more you love, the more painful it will be. But the important thing is to make sure your heart does not grow cold. When love knocks on your door, be ready to open it and welcome love across your threshold. Especially when it’s crazy, passionate, stupid, inconvenient, and you fear it will overwhelm you completely.
At some point, I thought about Jacob Marley. In Dickens’ Christmas Carol, he was Ebenezer Scrooge’s equally miserly partner, who appears in spectral form to warn Scrooge to change his ways. In the afterlife, he is weighed down with chains, explaining that they were forged, link by link, by his stinginess in when he walked the earth.
Chains have different associations for me. After whipping, my favorite scene to do is chain bondage. I’m all thumbs with rope. The results are laughable. But something wonderful happens when I lay my chains on a man. I have over two hundred pounds at this point, and I patiently work to put them all on the helpless, struggling man who has submitted to me. There is a romance to steel chain that I just don’t find in rope.
So it would be chains. Chains of love. If love binds us all together, let those bonds be of eternal steel.
Once I found an artist to do the work--no mean feat--the journey began. I would sit in my jeep, take a few deep breaths, steel myself with a latté from the local Starbucks, and head to the studio of Joe Rose, the only tattoo artist I had met who got truly excited when he I explained what I was after. Inevitably, Joe would make me wait. Walk-ins were his bread and butter, and he couldn’t turn them away. So I’d chain smoke to calm my nerves while he inked Chinese characters onto teenagers.
The work took about fifteen sessions, stretching from May through December. During this time, I broke my ankle playing softball, whipped two wonderful men, was declared Employee of the Month at the woodshop where I work, visited San Francisco for the first time, and turned forty. Whatever was happening to me, I would come, bear whatever portion of my flesh we would be working on, and put everything else aside.
And it hurt. Oh man, did it hurt. I wanted to start at my right ankle, and end at my left wrist, but I gave Joe discretion in how we got there. If there was a sensitive part of my body that he missed, I can’t guess what it would be. My shin bone, kneecap, inner thigh, pelvis, spine, rib cage, collar bone, armpit, elbow... I started to wonder what was going on. Was the man a sadist? (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m a sadist myself.)
One night, I just couldn’t get it together. I wasn’t processing the pain. It was agony. I didn’t know if I could take it. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. I was howling away, holding back the tears.
Joe let up on the needle. He put his hand on my chest, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah I’m okay,” I answered, but not very convincingly.
Joe smiled. “You know what? You’re earning it.”
And then he went back to work.
But then and there, it all made sense to me. I was earning it. The best things in life come hard. Often at the cost of some of your blood. But a man takes it. No complaints. No whining. Just suck it up. Because you’re earning it.
And now, the journey is over. A scene that endured for eight months.
I’m really happy with the results. I’ll strip and show it off at the least provocation. And the best part is, I earned it.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Want
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
Want
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
The Venerable Bede was an Seventh Century monk, who wrote the first history of the English people. When he died, his brothers found that he had exactly three possessions: his sandals, his psalter, and some pepper.
I've always loved that. Good leather footwear, something to read, and assurance that you'll have something good to eat. Boots, books, and supper. That pretty much does it.
I had a conversation at Starbucks tonight, in the course of which, I was asked, "What do you want?"
I thought about my visualization bulletin board. A thing I picked up from watching Queer Eye, it hangs in my room, and reminds me of my goals and objectives. I realized, as I struggled to frame an answer to this question, that although there is some "stuff" up there on my bulletin board, what I want is not so much a matter of things, but it's the man I want to be. Writer, welder, whipsman, and (on the shallow side, but not really if you think about it), well built. The W's.
Huh.
Presently, during this chapter in my life, I find myself encased in Stuff. I'm living in my father's house, which is stuffed with tchochka. It's knick-knack city. And one day, as they say, all this will belong to me. And I dread that day.
And, y'know, I'm thinking... what if i put up there on my bulletin board--although how I'd represent this visually is sort of challenging--wanting Less. Less stuff. As REM put it, on one of my favorite albums by that seminal band, "What if we give it away?"
One of my favorite things about moving is the opportunity to pare down my inventory of Stuff. Bag after bag goes to Good Will or just plain out on the curb for the sanitation workers and the homeless to cart away.
What do I really need, anyway?
It would be interesting to undertake an actual inventory of my worldly goods. List everything. Each article of clothing. Each cooking utensil. Each book. And to then go through this list, and justify the continued possession of each item. My process when I move is essentially this. Before anything goes in the box, I ask myself, 'If I give this up, will I miss it in six months? In a year? In five years? In ten years?" When I get to 'no,' that's the opportunity to give it up.
Sandals. Psalter. Pepper.
A friend of mine from college once lamented her stuff. She was an education major, and suddenly became aware that the half-hearted ambition, the "some day" dream she had, of going to spend a few years teaching on an Indian reservation, was quickly becoming unattainable. Because, what would she do with her Stuff? She couldn't very well pack it all away, and taking it with her was so complicating that it could prevent her from going at all. (She never did.)
I want Less. Less Stuff.
But what about the intangibles that I want? Could I pare those down as well? It's a good thing to have goals and objectives, but perhaps if not quite eliminated, could they be focused?
Years ago, I got a post card. On the back of the post card was a quote of Karl Marx. I no longer have it (gave it up in a move!), but I think I can paraphrase fairly accurately:
"The more you eat, the more you drink, the more you dance, attend the theater, cavort, fence, converse, sing, and stroll... the more you diminish your Capital, your treasure that neither moth nor time can destroy. In short, the more you have, the less you are."
Yeah.
Yeah!
What Karl Marx said!
Long ago, I read a short story, I think it was by John Cheever. The protagonist is sitting with his wife and children in a fancy restaurant. They're out for a family dinner. At the next table is another family, also out for a family dinner. A little boy at the next table is fussing. He wants french fries, and they're not on the menu. (It's not that kind of a restaurant.)
"But I want french fries!" whines the little boy.
"You want! You want!!" answers the little boy's father, "I've never gotten anything I wanted in my entire life. That's not what life's about, fella, and you better get used to that."
And, of course, because it's a John Cheever short story, this propels the protagonist on a bout of self examination, and he realizes that although he has a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, beautiful children... what he wants has nothing to do with that. He has no idea what it is he wants. But he knows he wants something.
Things, perhaps, should pass through our fingers like sand. Enjoy them. Enjoy the fleeting feeling of holding them, but let them slip away without any wistfulness. Because they're just things, and they're not what you want anyway. There will be more things. There are always things. Crowding their way into your life. Every day is like a surreal Christmas morning, all those presents under the tree. All that stuff.
But if it's not Stuff that you want, be clear about what you do want. And think long and hard to convince yourself that you really do want it. Do your best to talk yourself out of it. Want as little as possible.
And maybe, when you've breathed your last, and they gather round to pay their final respects, they'll be amazed.
"How can this be? Boots, a few books, and some vintage walnut oil... How can it be that he dies with so little, when he never seemed to want anything?"
And then they'll figure it out: you died with so little because you gave them so much.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
...feeling weak... ...strength almost gone... ...can't resist... ...a meme
Here's a cool one from ThorNYC. It's listing ten things that I've done that you probably haven't. So here goes.
1. Savored the sublime pleasures of the Sandunovskii Banya in the heart of Moscow.
2. Stayed up all night watching a nine-hour-long CHiPS marathon on cable.
3. Crafted legislation that secured a basic level of care for New Yorkers living with HIV/AIDS and steered it to passage by the New York City Council and saw to it that Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani was forced to sign it into law.
4. Did the Wild Thing in the middle of a parking lot in dowtown Milwaukee.
5. Wore your deceased stepmother's panties to her funeral.
6. Had a really enjoyable date with a serial killer.
7. Went swimming on the Jersey shore in November and March.
8. Had all the African-American women on your block declare that yours were the best biscuits they've ever tasted.
9. Talked a priest into wearing nothing but a sarong for three days.
10. Had the privilege of owning a dog as sweet and wonderful as mine.
There. And so much more to come.
Here's a cool one from ThorNYC. It's listing ten things that I've done that you probably haven't. So here goes.
1. Savored the sublime pleasures of the Sandunovskii Banya in the heart of Moscow.
2. Stayed up all night watching a nine-hour-long CHiPS marathon on cable.
3. Crafted legislation that secured a basic level of care for New Yorkers living with HIV/AIDS and steered it to passage by the New York City Council and saw to it that Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani was forced to sign it into law.
4. Did the Wild Thing in the middle of a parking lot in dowtown Milwaukee.
5. Wore your deceased stepmother's panties to her funeral.
6. Had a really enjoyable date with a serial killer.
7. Went swimming on the Jersey shore in November and March.
8. Had all the African-American women on your block declare that yours were the best biscuits they've ever tasted.
9. Talked a priest into wearing nothing but a sarong for three days.
10. Had the privilege of owning a dog as sweet and wonderful as mine.
There. And so much more to come.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Peevish
Am I ever. I'll tell the world I'm peevish.
For one thing, I drove my stepmother's white Ford Taurus to work today. It's just so mortifying being behind the wheel of that car. Like walking into a business meeting wearing a bathing suit. (Oh. Wait. No. I've done that. And I totally pulled it off.) And of course, this is the car that left me stranded at the side of a highway on Christmas Eve with an 87 year old woman as my only passenger. That car. I hate that car.
And, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, I transferred none of my gear from the jeep to the Taurus. So, I didn't have a Luna Bar ("Complete Nutrition for Women... and me!") to eat at our 9:30 break, I didn't have a book to read when I got to Starbucks, and I didn't have my gym stuff with me so I could go and get out some of this frustration.
And, of course, the battery died on this car. When I stopped for gas. So luckily the sweet pup attendant gave me a jump.
Then there was Starbucks.
A very bad thing has happened at Starbucks. I suddenly realized at work today that I am dealing with yet another Psychic Vampire.
Wuzzat?
The phrase comes from Anton Lavey's Satanic Bible. I never read it, but my college roommate did. And he passed on to me the concept. Here's how they work...
You: Hey! How's it going?
PV: (mournfully, but with a brave smile) Y'know, things are pretty terrible right now?
You: Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that! What's going on?
And the litany begins. Work, relationships, health, money, whatever. And you listen. You commiserate. You give a hug.
But here's the thing. Every interaction you have with a PS, it's always the same story. And that's a story of woe. And they're all about, "gosh thank you so much for listening to all this, it really means so much to me." And you get to feel good about yourself for a little while. You were there for him or her. You're a good friend.
Y'see, psychic vampires feed on the better parts of your nature. Your empathy. Your compassion. And they will drain you dry. For them, it's all about the attention. It's the way they get people to notice them.
And yet another one has latched onto me. I guess I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. I thought the woman was just flirting with me. And so I let it be known that I was a homo. But then, she pounced. She "mentions" in a kind of off hand way, that her husband left her. That she has cancer. That she left a well paying job to pursue being an artist and it's not working out.
So now, I think I'm going to be subjected to her every blessed time I go to Starbucks.
Thank the Lord I had the foresight to Let It Be Known that I am absorbed in my book, and please don't disturb me while I'm reading.
Even The est Guy (annoying in his own right, saying things like, "Well why have you chosen to be peevish today?") knows enough not to interrupt while I'm engrossed.
But puh-leeeeze, God, c'mon... Don't take away my Starbucks.
This problem, I hope, will vanish with warm weather. When I'll be able to sit on the porch, chatting with the other blue collar guys, and smoking cigars. (Cigar smoke is to psychic vampires as garlic is to the Dracula kind.)
And, I'll hopefully have my jeep in good running order by that time, too.
Till then, I'm peevish.
Am I ever. I'll tell the world I'm peevish.
For one thing, I drove my stepmother's white Ford Taurus to work today. It's just so mortifying being behind the wheel of that car. Like walking into a business meeting wearing a bathing suit. (Oh. Wait. No. I've done that. And I totally pulled it off.) And of course, this is the car that left me stranded at the side of a highway on Christmas Eve with an 87 year old woman as my only passenger. That car. I hate that car.
And, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, I transferred none of my gear from the jeep to the Taurus. So, I didn't have a Luna Bar ("Complete Nutrition for Women... and me!") to eat at our 9:30 break, I didn't have a book to read when I got to Starbucks, and I didn't have my gym stuff with me so I could go and get out some of this frustration.
And, of course, the battery died on this car. When I stopped for gas. So luckily the sweet pup attendant gave me a jump.
Then there was Starbucks.
A very bad thing has happened at Starbucks. I suddenly realized at work today that I am dealing with yet another Psychic Vampire.
Wuzzat?
The phrase comes from Anton Lavey's Satanic Bible. I never read it, but my college roommate did. And he passed on to me the concept. Here's how they work...
You: Hey! How's it going?
PV: (mournfully, but with a brave smile) Y'know, things are pretty terrible right now?
You: Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that! What's going on?
And the litany begins. Work, relationships, health, money, whatever. And you listen. You commiserate. You give a hug.
But here's the thing. Every interaction you have with a PS, it's always the same story. And that's a story of woe. And they're all about, "gosh thank you so much for listening to all this, it really means so much to me." And you get to feel good about yourself for a little while. You were there for him or her. You're a good friend.
Y'see, psychic vampires feed on the better parts of your nature. Your empathy. Your compassion. And they will drain you dry. For them, it's all about the attention. It's the way they get people to notice them.
And yet another one has latched onto me. I guess I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. I thought the woman was just flirting with me. And so I let it be known that I was a homo. But then, she pounced. She "mentions" in a kind of off hand way, that her husband left her. That she has cancer. That she left a well paying job to pursue being an artist and it's not working out.
So now, I think I'm going to be subjected to her every blessed time I go to Starbucks.
Thank the Lord I had the foresight to Let It Be Known that I am absorbed in my book, and please don't disturb me while I'm reading.
Even The est Guy (annoying in his own right, saying things like, "Well why have you chosen to be peevish today?") knows enough not to interrupt while I'm engrossed.
But puh-leeeeze, God, c'mon... Don't take away my Starbucks.
This problem, I hope, will vanish with warm weather. When I'll be able to sit on the porch, chatting with the other blue collar guys, and smoking cigars. (Cigar smoke is to psychic vampires as garlic is to the Dracula kind.)
And, I'll hopefully have my jeep in good running order by that time, too.
Till then, I'm peevish.
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