In the absence of my darling, much-beloved, and oft-used cell phone, I am approaching life from a different perspective – one that requires carrying quarters and being well aware of my surroundings. It is only in certain parts of town – my father’s area among them – that one even finds pay phones these days, and only occasionally does one find those that are actually working.
My cell phone is, amusingly, still working; however, where it is working in not entirely clear. It was a dark, clear night – a young man in a tuxedo, a very cold room, and absolutely no good can come from the rest of the story, save that I am now convinced it is a mad, MADD, mad, mad world …
the Czarina and the Great Prince came to my rescue; humiliation is so often its own best lesson.
Ova the Top and Daddy are adorable – precisely what I expected, if less horny (at least in public) than anticipated. We all rendezvoused at the winter palace, ostensibly for a haircut (Ova was having a big hair month) and a meet-and-greet. I met Daddy – appropriately – bent over; he was taking a picture of a rare flower in the garden, but the jokes were readily apparent. And the view was lovely.
Ellen was ready to provide aid and comfort last night, the extent of which was friendly advice, legal tips, and a browse through the weird, wide web. We lighted on seekingdesperately.blogspot.com – a blog devoted entirely to mocking / analyzing the pictures (naked and otherwise, sometimes taken with dogs, cats, pet lizards, lawn furniture in creative uses, and even dead pheasants) men post on Craig’s List in effort of, well, anything and everything – from true love to kick-stand operator. It is amazing, speaking of how far men go to score, how distracting the background of a photo can turn out to be – even with an engorged dick in the foreground. One such blog entry featured a happy, naked frat boy tapping a keg, and himself … but both Ellen and I focused not on the hot, naked drunk guy but on the toaster oven (top-of-the-line … 30 years ago) in the background. It was such a fire hazard that both of us found ourselves staring at it in mild awe. In another picture, the satin sheets and waterbed prompted not only a discussion of how the guy obviously hadn’t changed his routine since the ‘80s, but also a whole conversation about how some senior groups advocate satin sheets and satin pajamas for senior with difficulty getting into and out of bed.
Evidently, the smoothness of satin – which makes sex so amusing (not to mention, risky) – also acts as an aid for those with rheumatoid arthritis. Aside from making satin PJs very unsexy, it also seems wrong-headed – as anyone who ever wore satin boxers and hopped into bed, only to go flying off the other side, would know.
The thought of Grandma breaking a hip while wearing satin pajama pants does tend to be creepy, no?
In any event, the idle nature of the activity … and the blog site … relaxed at least a bit of the tremendous tension I’ve felt since this weekend.
Also on hand – and scene was my darling high school senior and would-be something, Kenny. Give or take his age – graduating from high school this weekend – and that he is actually queenier than me, he seems a rather good fit.
Oh well, everything’s up in the air at the moment, so let’s just play the wait and see, shall we?
Mark
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
"Don't forget the change ..."
the Frenemy is up to his old tricks – literally. While he is no longer buying things without telling me by way of my eBay account, a package came to my father’s house just the other day. Without telling me, and even though he has a post office box, Steven shipped his most recent eBay find to my front porch. And what was it? A very large, very short, black leather mini-skirt – from Old Navy. Clearly, the self-proclaimed “transexite” is ready to ride again.
Given that months ago, in an attempt to bury his slutty female alter-ego, he deposited the wig, the dresses, the size 12 heels and innumerable giant pairs of panties in my antique armoire, it somehow only seems fitting that additional accoutrement wind up at my house as well.
As usual, the Frenemy, proved to be the very picture of social (dis)grace. It started – as things so often do among the people I know – with drinks at a bar, Pegasus, I believe. Steven met up with an old friend, we shall call him “Piggy,” Piggy’s boyfriend, and new friends of theirs for a social evening. Apparently, the new couple were not exactly evenly matched – one being a 10 and the other somewhere around 6 ½ - and this fact prompted the Frenemy to comment, rather jealously – to the 6 ½, of course, “Wow … you’re really lucky to have him.” The offended 6 ½ asked him to repeat what he said, to clarify. Surely, no one would be so rude as to voice such a thing – although, in truth, the 6 ½ probably thinks this very thing himself on a regular basis. Steven repeated it, and the guy got upset. He went to Piggy, the Frenemy’s oldest (and dearest) friend, and Piggy then confronted the Frenemy on the subject of his frequent and recurring rudeness.
It is comforting – if you find comfort in such things – that some things never really change. And then, of course, some things do. the guy I’m seeing and I are no longer seeing each other … in any sense of the word. I ran into him yesterday when he stopped by Web House, which has for some time been the only way I ever saw him. That I had not been to Web in weeks accounted for the distance – at least the physical distance. He greeted me easily; we shared a tacit kiss, and there was a brief semblance of the old ‘us.’ It was short-lived. At some point in the course of the three or four drinks I served him while I was briefly tending bar, he opened up about his new ‘us.’
That the guy is openly crazy, a brilliant artist, well-endowed to apparently legendary proportions, and resembles Vincent Perez makes him endlessly desirable, at least in the sense that we all want the mysterious, artsy guy at one point or another. And he wants us all – the artsy guy in this case is bisexual, and the guy I’m seeing lamented that as he freely discussed his new love, and I poured another cocktail.
And sometimes things change and then go back from whence they came. the Straight Boyfriend returned to Web. He stormed out – dramatically – pulling his paintings off the wall and, defeated, spoke of absconding to
the Crazy Russian is back as well. When last I heard, he was barred from entering his own bar, but he was there in all of his glory, still beleaguered – plagued by the dual dramas of his lover and his bad habit(s). He seems to have both in some sort of balance these days. the Mad Man kvetches but also manages to look the other way at all the right times.
It so often seems that the lies we tell ourselves are the only thing keeping so many of us at all sane.
the Czarina and the Great Prince, while not especially dramatic themselves, do tend to have occasional drama. And when a good
Monday, May 4, 2009
I dreamed a dream ...
I dreamed the strangest dream last night – made stranger by the dual facts that I remember the dream so vividly, and also that the participants in it were real, though the events were not – at least not as yet.
The beginning of the dream is a bit odd; I was driving some back-road or empty stretch of highway, both of which exist in abundance, but neither of which I ever travel. I was in my car – the long, powder-blue Lincoln with the 8-track player and the gas leak. I had to pee, and there was a rest stop a mile or so away. I pulled in.
I was surprised to see truckers and various old(er) men standing around in myriad shady spots – cruising (for sex), but more obviously than anyone ever does in real life (or so I think). I went into the men’s room, certain that someone would follow me, and also thinking that I would be really offended if someone did not.
I was at the urinal when I heard someone enter behind me, and decided – quickly – whether to walk away or take advantage of the opportunity for a little fun. I turned – my pants still undone, and the bright, young face with the brooding eyes met my gaze, then looked down to my open pants, and then dropped to his knees.
Things escalated from there – I pushed him against a wall, engaging him, then pulling him up to kiss me. We lingered there, in this very open and surprisingly clean road-side bathroom, devouring each other. He hitched down his athletic shorts, revealing his own very hard and happy member. I dropped to knees, taking him. He was vocal, receptive, his hand on the back of my head, his own head thrown back in a moan … and then I looked up to find Sean standing there.
He had walked into the bathroom – out of nowhere, dressed as always in a mix of Calvin Klein and Kenneth Cole, looking elegant and beautiful, and superior. I paused to greet him, and then went back to the task at hand. He made a snide comment, but stood there – watching. I, once again, paused to offer a retort … and so it went with witty repartee for a few minutes before Sean turned to walk out. The boy – already forgotten – faded into the wall. I thanked him – as it seemed in order to do – and walked out behind Sean.
He stood in the grass, just outside the bathroom. I stopped a few feet from him, and we both stood there – uncertain of the next move or step.
I should say here that Sean is the former best friend with whom I have been, or had been, in love since the day we met, in high school – well over a decade ago. We had a bitter parting, when his addiction and my business led me to feel used, and him to use me. The last time I saw him, I was throwing him out of my apartment – along with the stranger, who resembled a frog, with whom he was partying that evening. It was the second night in a row when he’d shown up at my place with a stranger – after 2AM – to score drugs – and, at that, in an amount that was hardly even worth my time.
The dream lingers with me – not just because I can still, sitting in my cubicle now, hours later, feel and smell and taste the dream … but also because Sean was there. I have certainly thought of him – not often, but more than perhaps I should – since throwing him out. I miss him. I called his home once, spoke to his mother, but never received a call-back. Knowing him, he has gotten involved with someone and is essentially living with and being taken care of by this person; he is uninvolved in gay.com, the bars, and any other means by which I would typically run into him.
Out of touch but somehow still within reach – if only in my dreams.
The beginning of the dream is a bit odd; I was driving some back-road or empty stretch of highway, both of which exist in abundance, but neither of which I ever travel. I was in my car – the long, powder-blue Lincoln with the 8-track player and the gas leak. I had to pee, and there was a rest stop a mile or so away. I pulled in.
I was surprised to see truckers and various old(er) men standing around in myriad shady spots – cruising (for sex), but more obviously than anyone ever does in real life (or so I think). I went into the men’s room, certain that someone would follow me, and also thinking that I would be really offended if someone did not.
I was at the urinal when I heard someone enter behind me, and decided – quickly – whether to walk away or take advantage of the opportunity for a little fun. I turned – my pants still undone, and the bright, young face with the brooding eyes met my gaze, then looked down to my open pants, and then dropped to his knees.
Things escalated from there – I pushed him against a wall, engaging him, then pulling him up to kiss me. We lingered there, in this very open and surprisingly clean road-side bathroom, devouring each other. He hitched down his athletic shorts, revealing his own very hard and happy member. I dropped to knees, taking him. He was vocal, receptive, his hand on the back of my head, his own head thrown back in a moan … and then I looked up to find Sean standing there.
He had walked into the bathroom – out of nowhere, dressed as always in a mix of Calvin Klein and Kenneth Cole, looking elegant and beautiful, and superior. I paused to greet him, and then went back to the task at hand. He made a snide comment, but stood there – watching. I, once again, paused to offer a retort … and so it went with witty repartee for a few minutes before Sean turned to walk out. The boy – already forgotten – faded into the wall. I thanked him – as it seemed in order to do – and walked out behind Sean.
He stood in the grass, just outside the bathroom. I stopped a few feet from him, and we both stood there – uncertain of the next move or step.
I should say here that Sean is the former best friend with whom I have been, or had been, in love since the day we met, in high school – well over a decade ago. We had a bitter parting, when his addiction and my business led me to feel used, and him to use me. The last time I saw him, I was throwing him out of my apartment – along with the stranger, who resembled a frog, with whom he was partying that evening. It was the second night in a row when he’d shown up at my place with a stranger – after 2AM – to score drugs – and, at that, in an amount that was hardly even worth my time.
The dream lingers with me – not just because I can still, sitting in my cubicle now, hours later, feel and smell and taste the dream … but also because Sean was there. I have certainly thought of him – not often, but more than perhaps I should – since throwing him out. I miss him. I called his home once, spoke to his mother, but never received a call-back. Knowing him, he has gotten involved with someone and is essentially living with and being taken care of by this person; he is uninvolved in gay.com, the bars, and any other means by which I would typically run into him.
Out of touch but somehow still within reach – if only in my dreams.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Fag Tuesday, or The Night of the Has-Beens and Never-Weres
Not that I am one for schadenfreunde; I harbor little or no ill will against those who wronged me, and it is not exactly true that Patton, or the general patronage at Cobalt wronged me, per se ... nonetheless, I recently discovered that my old home away from home (and business hub) was recently held up - at shotgun point!
I actually heard this the other day and dismissed it as idle gossip, or made-up, or something that no longer concerned me. Two out of three ain't bad; it does not concern me, and it is certainly rather idle gossip, but it was not exactly made up.
It was the night of the WEBB Party, and two males entered the bar with shot-guns, demanding everyone's jewelry, cash, and cell phones. They used a friend of mine's purse to hold their ill-gotten goodies, and then they left. They returned the day after that to pull the same exact stunt - hitting up what was possibly the same patronage (knowing that bar as I do).
Reynold (the other hooker on my couch - during the literally dark days in my old apartment) - who now also works at Club Unity [how do both my hooker ex-roommates end up in the same place, at the same time?!?] informed me that Club Unity was also hit. A few nights ago. In that case, it was a hostage situation. No one knew how to open the safe, so everyone waited ... everyone except the drag queen. During the (alleged) four hours wait, a small - and, I expect, badly dressed, drag queen wriggled out a small opening (bathroom window ... or just a hole in the wall?) and ran - high heels in hand, I'm sure - for help. Four hours with a laser scope trained at one's head is by no means pleasant. Of course, the story came from Reynold - whose tendency toward hyperbole borders on legendary.
All that notwithstanding, chil' - all I can say is that I am glad that my drug dealing, free-wheeling, bar-sitting days are largely behind me. It seems - at least for now - that small bars in this city are not safe. I can only hope that Web House benefits from the constant police attention and proximity to both Tycoon Flats and La Bikina. Otherwise, they may have to Hitler (the ill-named bar cat), or one of the high-heeled hipsters through a window.
I thought of all this - wrote the above - while sitting in a cubicle. If I have been quiet of late, it is because I am working again. One of the several staffing services to which I belong came through for me. They called Monday night to ask me to start a job Tuesday morning. I am filling in (for 3 weeks) for a woman on maternity leave, and - near as I can tell - I am there to add fabulous to the office.
My friend, Ellen, has - for years now - suggested I rent myself out as a gay man with taste, something that became a much more realistic option after the abundance of reality makeover shows, particularly "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," or pretty much anything on HGTV.
In any event, my job tasks thus far have been faxing employment verification documents, totaling the number of hours for which nurses would get paid in a special payroll run, stapling a whole mess of papers and arranging them neatly in various folders, and - at one amusing point - 'sprucing up' the cubicle across from me, so that Rose would have something pretty to which to come back. I am somewhere between a Girl Friday and a Fag Tuesday.
Of course, in this day and age, being fabulous pays off; my compatriots have accepted me into their fold. I was about to run to the printer / scanner / copier / fax, and accordingly turned in my chair to find a small, polyester rat staring up at me. One of my cubicle mates is the office prankster - inventing, as he calls it, "Fishesta Friday." I was about to ask what this was when a shrill scream and reluctant laughter pierced the office calm. Drew - being the good-natured frat boy / fisherman / bon vivant he is, put live goldfish in several people's water bottles. The rat, needless to say, belongs to him. When I saw it there on the floor on my first Friday morning, I knew I had arrived.
Ellen, when I texted her about the rat, replied, "Cute. Did you kiss it & name it Algernon?" I never liked that book, but I love that I have friends who happen to have a come-back for every odd event in my very odd life. And who generate it, come to think of it. On her own blog, Ellen published, "My mother just saw a rat running toward City Council chambers. The jokes write themselves."
Ellen was over last night. We made filet mignon and watched a movie. For better or worse, it turned into what we dubbed 'The Night of Has-Beens and Never-Weres." For a dollar, we rented "The Wrestler" - Mickey Rourke, himself the most recent come-back kid, played a washed up wrestler - in the Hulk Hogan, Rowdy Roddy Piper variety - bleached blond hair, heavy drug use, Day-glo tights and all.
With Marisa Tomei played his stripper (almost) girlfriend, and Evan Rachel Wood (Marilyn Manson's most recent main squeeze) as the lesbian daughter, things had more potential than substance. Nothing about the film failed, but only a few things worked.
We followed "The Wrestler" with "Bucked!" - a retrospective on bull-riders who had innumerable injuries and foibles - including a guy who broke his neck, one guy who dislocated his sternum (?), and one really beautiful redneck who had over 30 concussions! I marveled that he was still able to walk upright, let alone ride a bull. Before Ellen gathered her things to leave, we ran smack dab into an infomercial with Chuck Norris, Christie Brinkley, and Wesley Snipes before the tax evasion. It was a has-been trifecta.
My father has finally relented to having the air conditioner on, so as I bid Ellen good-night, fixed myself a cocktail, and crawled into bed with a good book, I knew that I would sleep well - beneath the covers - dreaming little dreams of reality TV, or some other such evil(s).
Mark
I actually heard this the other day and dismissed it as idle gossip, or made-up, or something that no longer concerned me. Two out of three ain't bad; it does not concern me, and it is certainly rather idle gossip, but it was not exactly made up.
It was the night of the WEBB Party, and two males entered the bar with shot-guns, demanding everyone's jewelry, cash, and cell phones. They used a friend of mine's purse to hold their ill-gotten goodies, and then they left. They returned the day after that to pull the same exact stunt - hitting up what was possibly the same patronage (knowing that bar as I do).
Reynold (the other hooker on my couch - during the literally dark days in my old apartment) - who now also works at Club Unity [how do both my hooker ex-roommates end up in the same place, at the same time?!?] informed me that Club Unity was also hit. A few nights ago. In that case, it was a hostage situation. No one knew how to open the safe, so everyone waited ... everyone except the drag queen. During the (alleged) four hours wait, a small - and, I expect, badly dressed, drag queen wriggled out a small opening (bathroom window ... or just a hole in the wall?) and ran - high heels in hand, I'm sure - for help. Four hours with a laser scope trained at one's head is by no means pleasant. Of course, the story came from Reynold - whose tendency toward hyperbole borders on legendary.
All that notwithstanding, chil' - all I can say is that I am glad that my drug dealing, free-wheeling, bar-sitting days are largely behind me. It seems - at least for now - that small bars in this city are not safe. I can only hope that Web House benefits from the constant police attention and proximity to both Tycoon Flats and La Bikina. Otherwise, they may have to Hitler (the ill-named bar cat), or one of the high-heeled hipsters through a window.
I thought of all this - wrote the above - while sitting in a cubicle. If I have been quiet of late, it is because I am working again. One of the several staffing services to which I belong came through for me. They called Monday night to ask me to start a job Tuesday morning. I am filling in (for 3 weeks) for a woman on maternity leave, and - near as I can tell - I am there to add fabulous to the office.
My friend, Ellen, has - for years now - suggested I rent myself out as a gay man with taste, something that became a much more realistic option after the abundance of reality makeover shows, particularly "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," or pretty much anything on HGTV.
In any event, my job tasks thus far have been faxing employment verification documents, totaling the number of hours for which nurses would get paid in a special payroll run, stapling a whole mess of papers and arranging them neatly in various folders, and - at one amusing point - 'sprucing up' the cubicle across from me, so that Rose would have something pretty to which to come back. I am somewhere between a Girl Friday and a Fag Tuesday.
Of course, in this day and age, being fabulous pays off; my compatriots have accepted me into their fold. I was about to run to the printer / scanner / copier / fax, and accordingly turned in my chair to find a small, polyester rat staring up at me. One of my cubicle mates is the office prankster - inventing, as he calls it, "Fishesta Friday." I was about to ask what this was when a shrill scream and reluctant laughter pierced the office calm. Drew - being the good-natured frat boy / fisherman / bon vivant he is, put live goldfish in several people's water bottles. The rat, needless to say, belongs to him. When I saw it there on the floor on my first Friday morning, I knew I had arrived.
Ellen, when I texted her about the rat, replied, "Cute. Did you kiss it & name it Algernon?" I never liked that book, but I love that I have friends who happen to have a come-back for every odd event in my very odd life. And who generate it, come to think of it. On her own blog, Ellen published, "My mother just saw a rat running toward City Council chambers. The jokes write themselves."
Ellen was over last night. We made filet mignon and watched a movie. For better or worse, it turned into what we dubbed 'The Night of Has-Beens and Never-Weres." For a dollar, we rented "The Wrestler" - Mickey Rourke, himself the most recent come-back kid, played a washed up wrestler - in the Hulk Hogan, Rowdy Roddy Piper variety - bleached blond hair, heavy drug use, Day-glo tights and all.
With Marisa Tomei played his stripper (almost) girlfriend, and Evan Rachel Wood (Marilyn Manson's most recent main squeeze) as the lesbian daughter, things had more potential than substance. Nothing about the film failed, but only a few things worked.
We followed "The Wrestler" with "Bucked!" - a retrospective on bull-riders who had innumerable injuries and foibles - including a guy who broke his neck, one guy who dislocated his sternum (?), and one really beautiful redneck who had over 30 concussions! I marveled that he was still able to walk upright, let alone ride a bull. Before Ellen gathered her things to leave, we ran smack dab into an infomercial with Chuck Norris, Christie Brinkley, and Wesley Snipes before the tax evasion. It was a has-been trifecta.
My father has finally relented to having the air conditioner on, so as I bid Ellen good-night, fixed myself a cocktail, and crawled into bed with a good book, I knew that I would sleep well - beneath the covers - dreaming little dreams of reality TV, or some other such evil(s).
Mark
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Up, up, and Away ... (Or, "Dog on a Cold, Wood Limb")
On a bright and sunshiny day in the great state of Michigan, the sun was shining, a Spring breeze cooled those browsing through the Dixie Land Flea Market. The weather was shifty that day, as it tends to be in Spring - so, surely no one expected to see Tinker Belle fly by.
Tinker Belle is an 8 months old Chihuahua who was picked up by a 70 MPH gust of wind, lifted from the trailer to which she was leashed, and flew - like the Disney fairy for which she was unfortunately named.
The elderly couple (Dorothy and Lavern Utley), who stood - horrified - while their beloved dog blew away, tried to catch her; however a 5 lbs. dog and a 70 MPH wind make for a rather speedy exit. After two days of searching, the distraught couple called a local radio show - which, for one reason or another, happened to actually have a pet psychic on.
The psychic - and this says so much for what reading the minds of Schnauzers can do for you - advised that the couple was looking in the right spot ... but too low. Yes, yes indeed ... Tinker Belle - propelled by strong winds, perhaps even the faint smell of Kibble in the air - flew 3/4 of a mile away, and was 'nesting' in a tree.
As many a bemused "local interest" reporter commented - begrudgingly eying anchor desks all over the country, Tinker Belle was fine - although hungry. It was ultimately a good day for Dorothy, "... and her little dog, too."
Tinker Belle is an 8 months old Chihuahua who was picked up by a 70 MPH gust of wind, lifted from the trailer to which she was leashed, and flew - like the Disney fairy for which she was unfortunately named.
The elderly couple (Dorothy and Lavern Utley), who stood - horrified - while their beloved dog blew away, tried to catch her; however a 5 lbs. dog and a 70 MPH wind make for a rather speedy exit. After two days of searching, the distraught couple called a local radio show - which, for one reason or another, happened to actually have a pet psychic on.
The psychic - and this says so much for what reading the minds of Schnauzers can do for you - advised that the couple was looking in the right spot ... but too low. Yes, yes indeed ... Tinker Belle - propelled by strong winds, perhaps even the faint smell of Kibble in the air - flew 3/4 of a mile away, and was 'nesting' in a tree.
As many a bemused "local interest" reporter commented - begrudgingly eying anchor desks all over the country, Tinker Belle was fine - although hungry. It was ultimately a good day for Dorothy, "... and her little dog, too."
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Date Wrecks, (Or - L is for Larceny)
My recent return to the 'intellectuals' chat room on gay.com has had a very amusing series of effects on my psyche and / or love-life. As I have mentioned before, I have a complete and seemingly eternal inability to be loved - or even liked much - in this city; so, it's nice to have attractive men offering to fly to San Antonio - from Portland, or San Francisco, or Kabul - to enjoy my company (and innumerable charms).
It sets the bar rather high, and - while there were no men in this city interested as it were - now, I am chomping at the bit to make the run (away) to some fine, intellectual paradise - where I may once-again find tiny studios with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting, where I can sleep with a guy who gets my erudite references and has seen "Death on the Nile" or "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," and so on ...
Of course, under the auspices of intellectualism, the strangest bed-fellows (and - at least in my case - potential bed-fellows) do combine. Someone with whom I was chatting, in one of the cities to which I am most interested in moving - Portland, OR - asked me about my type. I responded that I like a man who is pale, thin, smells of patchouli and beeswax - someone with polyester pants, beat-up shoes, waist-length (blond) dreadlocks - someone with an affinity for jazz music, great sex, and over-priced aesthetic thrills, who learned at some point how to acquire them on a grad student budget, a charming mo-fo who has the good sense to prefer a vintage Mercedes to a Volkswagen Bus, and who looks damned good naked - which he would often be.
But that's just an idea. I haven't given it much thought.
The man who asked, and who lives in Portland, is paralyzed. He is young, around my age, and no longer has use of his hands (or legs). He, as we discussed one odd night, can still get an erection (but cannot cum).
And then there's the guy in the VW Bus; for one reason or another, I know two or three guys who have one (or several), and only one of them lives in Portland. The guy I met online lived in his Bus for five months - until the seals that leaked every time it rained, drove him mad to the point of renting a studio apartment with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting. I think, however, that he is one of those people who has draped blankets (or vintage '50s curtains) over the windows in order to suit his odd schedule / life-style.
Victor has the stink of patchouli, and a pot-dealing ex who he visits with some regularity. Through the haze of crippling poverty, he has forsworn his affection(s) - along with a willingness to visit, or host, and get naked.
And then there's Kenney - who reminds me of the worst combinations of both Brian Kinney and Justin ("Queer As Folk") - in Framingham, MA; we met over a discussion about physics, and its impact on the end of the world. I barely held my own - influenced largely by two Stephen Hawking articles and a few chapters from Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. He barely held his own - influenced by the instructor (who - I'm guessing - reeks of patchouli). They take "smoke" breaks together, Kenny and this instructor. He, Kenny, is a high school senior, caught somewhere between 17, 18, and 1965.
I am enamored of a cursor. My greatest romantic entanglements have been, and are at present, the result of clandestine connections across thousands of miles.
Some years ago, there was Adam - Adam Mizer (which bore far too close a resemblance to the perfume bottle) - who was at a very exclusive North East school - earning his Master of Fine Arts degree. He was, as I affectionately dubbed him, the "cyber stalker." He would always show up when I got online, called me often and we spoke for hours, sent me an Hermes scarf and tried to send a Mies van der Rohe chair - but the shipping was too pricey. I inspired his affection, and he answered my desire for romance and a nightly chat partner. We never met, but somehow that added to the charm. He dumped me when - after months of being afraid to send me his picture, owing to his major self-esteem issues ... and a propensity to sweat profusely for no apparent reason - I sent him one. He never responded - just disappeared one day.
The pain was unbearable for whole seconds, and then bitchy set in.
Recently - in a moment of weakness (and sincere longing) - I messaged the guy I'm seeing with the simple missive, "I miss you." - to which I received the reply, several hours later, "Miss me? Reload." What I initially took to be humor proved later to be another instance of cool indifference; I say this because my reply, "You are a strange, but lovely man ..." went unanswered, and the implications - to a couple who did drugs together - of the word, 'reload' suddenly set in.
I digress. Also recently, my dear friend and frequent commiserate, Ellen - who, you may recall, is presently dating / doing the ex (husband) she spent most of the last two years divorcing, wants me to submit something to DateWrecks.com. Frankly, I find the concept amusing - and there does need to be a bigger gay presence on that web-site - but really? Where does one begin?
There was the date - with the hair-dresser - who, when I agreed to have coffee after the movie, took me to AA; "the coffee's great here, and you can meet my friends ..."; there was the guy who turned our second date into a drug run - replete with driving all over the worst parts of the city, chasing a drug dealer with a cell phone, a bus pass, and a difficulty with both truth and scheduling, and then there's James.
James was a physics major at Trinity, the other expensive liberal arts college within a few blocks of the expensive liberal arts college from which I graduated. We had a date in our freshman year, and then met up again for a date five years later. I do not know why we decided on a "second" date, other than the obvious - that we were both lonely and, thus, open.
When James and I met, he had just lost 80 lbs. It was one of the things about which we bonded - my weight loss a few years back - and his then current (and on-going physical transformation). We enjoyed no chemistry - fumbling, as it were, through a quiet and lovely (but expensive) dinner, an even more awkward walk in the park, and then an embarrassing uncertainty regarding what may well have been a good night kiss, that wound up being just an ass grab.
As I said, I don't know why we were mutually interested in meeting again. Nonetheless, we chatted a few times online, and then the offer came up - I forget which of us proffered the notion. It was 2006, and I was optimistic. He still did not drive, and had no car - accordingly. I picked him up at the school where he was then teaching. Admittedly, we had a date five years prior, so it was not exactly a 'first' impression, but whatever the number the impression was not initially a happy one.
He had gained back those 80 pounds, and seemingly added about 60 pounds - just for good measure, or perhaps to ensure that he could withstand gale force winds. He dressed to impress in white khakis, a blue plaid shirt, a black belt, brown Velcro strapped (hiking) sandals, and white socks. We failed to plan the date, so after some hemming and hawing, we decided to have dinner and see a movie.
It sets the bar rather high, and - while there were no men in this city interested as it were - now, I am chomping at the bit to make the run (away) to some fine, intellectual paradise - where I may once-again find tiny studios with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting, where I can sleep with a guy who gets my erudite references and has seen "Death on the Nile" or "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," and so on ...
Of course, under the auspices of intellectualism, the strangest bed-fellows (and - at least in my case - potential bed-fellows) do combine. Someone with whom I was chatting, in one of the cities to which I am most interested in moving - Portland, OR - asked me about my type. I responded that I like a man who is pale, thin, smells of patchouli and beeswax - someone with polyester pants, beat-up shoes, waist-length (blond) dreadlocks - someone with an affinity for jazz music, great sex, and over-priced aesthetic thrills, who learned at some point how to acquire them on a grad student budget, a charming mo-fo who has the good sense to prefer a vintage Mercedes to a Volkswagen Bus, and who looks damned good naked - which he would often be.
But that's just an idea. I haven't given it much thought.
The man who asked, and who lives in Portland, is paralyzed. He is young, around my age, and no longer has use of his hands (or legs). He, as we discussed one odd night, can still get an erection (but cannot cum).
And then there's the guy in the VW Bus; for one reason or another, I know two or three guys who have one (or several), and only one of them lives in Portland. The guy I met online lived in his Bus for five months - until the seals that leaked every time it rained, drove him mad to the point of renting a studio apartment with hardwood floors and lots of natural lighting. I think, however, that he is one of those people who has draped blankets (or vintage '50s curtains) over the windows in order to suit his odd schedule / life-style.
Victor has the stink of patchouli, and a pot-dealing ex who he visits with some regularity. Through the haze of crippling poverty, he has forsworn his affection(s) - along with a willingness to visit, or host, and get naked.
And then there's Kenney - who reminds me of the worst combinations of both Brian Kinney and Justin ("Queer As Folk") - in Framingham, MA; we met over a discussion about physics, and its impact on the end of the world. I barely held my own - influenced largely by two Stephen Hawking articles and a few chapters from Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. He barely held his own - influenced by the instructor (who - I'm guessing - reeks of patchouli). They take "smoke" breaks together, Kenny and this instructor. He, Kenny, is a high school senior, caught somewhere between 17, 18, and 1965.
I am enamored of a cursor. My greatest romantic entanglements have been, and are at present, the result of clandestine connections across thousands of miles.
Some years ago, there was Adam - Adam Mizer (which bore far too close a resemblance to the perfume bottle) - who was at a very exclusive North East school - earning his Master of Fine Arts degree. He was, as I affectionately dubbed him, the "cyber stalker." He would always show up when I got online, called me often and we spoke for hours, sent me an Hermes scarf and tried to send a Mies van der Rohe chair - but the shipping was too pricey. I inspired his affection, and he answered my desire for romance and a nightly chat partner. We never met, but somehow that added to the charm. He dumped me when - after months of being afraid to send me his picture, owing to his major self-esteem issues ... and a propensity to sweat profusely for no apparent reason - I sent him one. He never responded - just disappeared one day.
The pain was unbearable for whole seconds, and then bitchy set in.
Recently - in a moment of weakness (and sincere longing) - I messaged the guy I'm seeing with the simple missive, "I miss you." - to which I received the reply, several hours later, "Miss me? Reload." What I initially took to be humor proved later to be another instance of cool indifference; I say this because my reply, "You are a strange, but lovely man ..." went unanswered, and the implications - to a couple who did drugs together - of the word, 'reload' suddenly set in.
I digress. Also recently, my dear friend and frequent commiserate, Ellen - who, you may recall, is presently dating / doing the ex (husband) she spent most of the last two years divorcing, wants me to submit something to DateWrecks.com. Frankly, I find the concept amusing - and there does need to be a bigger gay presence on that web-site - but really? Where does one begin?
There was the date - with the hair-dresser - who, when I agreed to have coffee after the movie, took me to AA; "the coffee's great here, and you can meet my friends ..."; there was the guy who turned our second date into a drug run - replete with driving all over the worst parts of the city, chasing a drug dealer with a cell phone, a bus pass, and a difficulty with both truth and scheduling, and then there's James.
James was a physics major at Trinity, the other expensive liberal arts college within a few blocks of the expensive liberal arts college from which I graduated. We had a date in our freshman year, and then met up again for a date five years later. I do not know why we decided on a "second" date, other than the obvious - that we were both lonely and, thus, open.
When James and I met, he had just lost 80 lbs. It was one of the things about which we bonded - my weight loss a few years back - and his then current (and on-going physical transformation). We enjoyed no chemistry - fumbling, as it were, through a quiet and lovely (but expensive) dinner, an even more awkward walk in the park, and then an embarrassing uncertainty regarding what may well have been a good night kiss, that wound up being just an ass grab.
As I said, I don't know why we were mutually interested in meeting again. Nonetheless, we chatted a few times online, and then the offer came up - I forget which of us proffered the notion. It was 2006, and I was optimistic. He still did not drive, and had no car - accordingly. I picked him up at the school where he was then teaching. Admittedly, we had a date five years prior, so it was not exactly a 'first' impression, but whatever the number the impression was not initially a happy one.
He had gained back those 80 pounds, and seemingly added about 60 pounds - just for good measure, or perhaps to ensure that he could withstand gale force winds. He dressed to impress in white khakis, a blue plaid shirt, a black belt, brown Velcro strapped (hiking) sandals, and white socks. We failed to plan the date, so after some hemming and hawing, we decided to have dinner and see a movie.
We went out to his favorite place - California Pizza Kitchen. He chewed with his mouth open and I kept wanting to reach over and not only close his mouth but pick from his teeth the spinach wedged there from his lunch four hours earlier. We finished our food over the course of what seemed hours - but was, in fact, just under an hour, and in just enough time for us to miss the movie.
I took two mojitos just to get through dinner, and so - when he suggested a book-store rather than finding a different movie to see, I was amenable to the concept. We went to browse Borders Books ... which proved to be the only shining light in an otherwise dull evening. The conversation sparkled; in this area, he / we shone. We read all the same books - even the obscure philosophy texts, and one or two of the physics books. We walked and talked for over an hour - going up and down and up again every aisle and section of the store, up to and including a review of the kids' section and all the books we loved as children.
I took two mojitos just to get through dinner, and so - when he suggested a book-store rather than finding a different movie to see, I was amenable to the concept. We went to browse Borders Books ... which proved to be the only shining light in an otherwise dull evening. The conversation sparkled; in this area, he / we shone. We read all the same books - even the obscure philosophy texts, and one or two of the physics books. We walked and talked for over an hour - going up and down and up again every aisle and section of the store, up to and including a review of the kids' section and all the books we loved as children.
The whole time, he was picking up books and had quite an armful when we decided to go for movie tickets. There was quite a line at the main register stand, so James veered toward the coffee bar. I was two steps away from explaining that they probably wouldn't cash out his 11 books at the coffee bar, when he suddenly veered away from the counter and out the side door of Borders.
At this point, my being a black man in a very white neighborhood, I envisioned two armed guards - and some random citizens, for good measure - beating me with batons and/or clearance books. I was deciding the best course of action - which was, at that point, to either report the fat queen or run. When in doubt, the New York Times is a haven for those in question. I picked up a copy of the paper of record for our times, looking about nervously for the foot patrol, and then thought better of it. I got to my truck to find the fat queen, spinach still in his teeth, looking indignant - and having stashed his ill-gotten booty in the bed of my truck.
I was in mid-read when it occurred to us both that leaving would be good. I parked in the movie theater lot across the street and suggested to James that his behavior was perhaps uncouth. He retorted with some spiel about the evils of corporate America, that Borders had no right to charge such an exorbitant amount for the books he liked to read, that on his income he could not possibly afford to maintain his reading schedule. I reminded him of the existence of libraries - as I was starting the car, and while dropping him off at his mother's apartment took the opportunity to point out both the bits of food still in his mouth and the ill-advised choices he made re. belt, shoes, and socks worn with sandals.
Now, and I say with equals measures of shame (and amusement) that James and I actually had a second date. Essentially, he called to apologize - weeks later - but the apology came across more as an ongoing indictment of a system gone wrong than a heartfelt mea culpa on the subject of rudeness and petty larceny. Maybe because I was lonely that day, or because he asked, or because - further still - I like odd people (like a highly educated math geek who comes from a wealthy family of lawyers), I agreed to pick James up for what was - in essence - a second date.
We saw "V for Vendetta" and he talked through the entire film; I was in tears at the end (having already seen it twice, mind you). The film was perhaps a bit too heavy-handed in the midst of the Bush administration, the War on Terror, etc., but it touched all the right places. I cried. I sought political and social links. I admired Natalie Portman. I want to meet Stephen Fry. I was awash in pleasure and charm(s) - even on a third viewing, and then James turned to me - during the closing credits - to compare 'V' to Osama bin Laden. There was what I would consider a juvenile debate about the black and white aspects of the right / wrong dyad ...
Needless to say, there was no third date. I have not seen James since that unpleasant night in 2006, although he sent me a message online a few months later - to tell me about his boyfriend, a junior at Trinity - a tall, thin white boy who found him fascinating - and who, being a vegan, often had spinach in his teeth.
Mark
At this point, my being a black man in a very white neighborhood, I envisioned two armed guards - and some random citizens, for good measure - beating me with batons and/or clearance books. I was deciding the best course of action - which was, at that point, to either report the fat queen or run. When in doubt, the New York Times is a haven for those in question. I picked up a copy of the paper of record for our times, looking about nervously for the foot patrol, and then thought better of it. I got to my truck to find the fat queen, spinach still in his teeth, looking indignant - and having stashed his ill-gotten booty in the bed of my truck.
I was in mid-read when it occurred to us both that leaving would be good. I parked in the movie theater lot across the street and suggested to James that his behavior was perhaps uncouth. He retorted with some spiel about the evils of corporate America, that Borders had no right to charge such an exorbitant amount for the books he liked to read, that on his income he could not possibly afford to maintain his reading schedule. I reminded him of the existence of libraries - as I was starting the car, and while dropping him off at his mother's apartment took the opportunity to point out both the bits of food still in his mouth and the ill-advised choices he made re. belt, shoes, and socks worn with sandals.
Now, and I say with equals measures of shame (and amusement) that James and I actually had a second date. Essentially, he called to apologize - weeks later - but the apology came across more as an ongoing indictment of a system gone wrong than a heartfelt mea culpa on the subject of rudeness and petty larceny. Maybe because I was lonely that day, or because he asked, or because - further still - I like odd people (like a highly educated math geek who comes from a wealthy family of lawyers), I agreed to pick James up for what was - in essence - a second date.
We saw "V for Vendetta" and he talked through the entire film; I was in tears at the end (having already seen it twice, mind you). The film was perhaps a bit too heavy-handed in the midst of the Bush administration, the War on Terror, etc., but it touched all the right places. I cried. I sought political and social links. I admired Natalie Portman. I want to meet Stephen Fry. I was awash in pleasure and charm(s) - even on a third viewing, and then James turned to me - during the closing credits - to compare 'V' to Osama bin Laden. There was what I would consider a juvenile debate about the black and white aspects of the right / wrong dyad ...
Needless to say, there was no third date. I have not seen James since that unpleasant night in 2006, although he sent me a message online a few months later - to tell me about his boyfriend, a junior at Trinity - a tall, thin white boy who found him fascinating - and who, being a vegan, often had spinach in his teeth.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
A Shit-storm (in the Making)
I was ecstatic to find reminders that the Everything's 99 cents store across the street sells a merry and motley assemblage of items at the obvious price point; to that end, today I acquired - for less than $5 - scallops, asparagus, spinach, and a small packet of very small shrimp. I was beyond enthused when I started layering pasta and asparagus, a garlic and onion sauce, shrimp and scallops into a casserole dish.
By the time I was chowing down while pouring over someone else's homework, I reflected fondly on my weekend - the weekend of my 30th birthday, mind you, spent happily drunk and in very good company with the Czarina and the Great Prince.
I reflected not-so-fondly on my father's actions while I was gone. Being the well-meaning but controlling octogenarian that he is, my father took it upon himself to redecorate the room where I've been sleeping - my childhood bedroom. The couch he moved in when I moved out, when this became his TV room, belonged to one of his cadre of girlfriends. Seeing me still as a messy teenager, he determined that I would somehow (someday) spill something on the gray, brown, and black (with green accents) Southwestern patterned Victorian couch.
While I would offer that spilling something on such a couch would only lessen the poor thing's pain, my father's concern led him to pull it into the middle of an already small bedroom, in order to drag my heavy, large, antique head-board and foot-boards, along the steel bed rails. Consequently, when I walked into my bedroom, expecting to find the room as I left it some days ago, I find instead a shooting pain in my left foot where I stubbed a toe on the offensive / offending couch. It remained in the middle of the room.
I climbed over it - in the mid-morning darkness - to reach for the lamp that sits on a low-slung, marble table. Imagine my surprise when that, too, proved elusive. The bulb in that lamp burned out Friday morning (my actual birthday), and as I was in a rush I did not replace it. Rather than buying more light bulbs, my father simply switched out the four feet tall, blown glass, amber lamp with the hand-stitched shade that gave off the most perfect, indirect light ... for a turned wood affair that would be easily at home in the back corner of Mike Brady's den / office. It is only two feet high, has an oatmeal colored shade reminiscent of a pop-corn ceiling, and I am fairly sure that in its light I not only appear to have put on 20 lbs., but somehow actually have.
An hour later, fuming but unwilling to open the doors to yet another battle in my father's and my long, ongoing war history, I moved the offending couch out of my room (and into the kitchen - specifically - on top of the couch where my father likes to take his naps in the late evening). I hung artwork that I avoided hanging - as it implied a permanence to which I am still having difficulty considering - and I laundered all the fine bedding and vintage linens I acquired in the course of the three years I lived in my much-loved, very missed little high ceilinged studio apartment.
There was a brothel next door, and a toilet on the front lawn (only for the first three months), but it was home.
At this moment, as I pounded in the last nail, hung the lovely and awkward self-portraits of the Straight Boyfriend, and as I settled in to review the Microsoft Office 2007 textbook from which I did most of my client's homework, I thanked that ever-present figure (God, or whomever ...) that sometimes life works as it needs to, even when it is not as we want it to.
And then I shit my pants.
Well, I would have had I been wearing pants. I was poring over the text one last time before getting in the shower. I had a job interview in just under an hour, an interview that involved a skills assessment on - among other things - Microsoft Access, which I have never used and - until fairly recently - which I had never had occasion to open. I was nervous about the interview, as it is a job that could change my desperate, often crazy life into something a Camry driver might envy. So, as I shed my clothes to hop in the shower, as I memorized how to create and save a data sheet, leaning back briefly to reflect on how the bad lighting was giving me a headache, I let out a good fart, a fart of contentment at a meal well-made and a decorating job well done.
What I got was a very bad reason to throw out a very good silk duvet.
It was my indomitable great fortune that had me, twenty minutes later, driving across town on almost no gas, in a non air-conditioned car with leather interior while brewing within me were the hounds of hell. I told myself that it would all be okay - that somehow, some way, I would get through the test, the awkward - "So, what are your employment goals?" small talk, and that I would get what I needed, i.e. - simply - a job.
I got through the skills assessment in record time, and my accuracy was exceptionally high. Whether this was owing to the hour I spent - with a cocktail and determination - on the Czarina's computer, the step-by-step Microsoft provided guide, or the incredible motivating factor of not wanting to crap my pants, we may never know. Suffice it to say, I was glad when the exceptionally busy staffing representative gave me her card, shook my hand, and told me to expect a call the next day.
I am at home now - doing someone else's homework, thinking about my old apartment, and hovering as close to the bathroom as my hard-wired, 10 years old Apple laptop will allow.
Mark
By the time I was chowing down while pouring over someone else's homework, I reflected fondly on my weekend - the weekend of my 30th birthday, mind you, spent happily drunk and in very good company with the Czarina and the Great Prince.
I reflected not-so-fondly on my father's actions while I was gone. Being the well-meaning but controlling octogenarian that he is, my father took it upon himself to redecorate the room where I've been sleeping - my childhood bedroom. The couch he moved in when I moved out, when this became his TV room, belonged to one of his cadre of girlfriends. Seeing me still as a messy teenager, he determined that I would somehow (someday) spill something on the gray, brown, and black (with green accents) Southwestern patterned Victorian couch.
While I would offer that spilling something on such a couch would only lessen the poor thing's pain, my father's concern led him to pull it into the middle of an already small bedroom, in order to drag my heavy, large, antique head-board and foot-boards, along the steel bed rails. Consequently, when I walked into my bedroom, expecting to find the room as I left it some days ago, I find instead a shooting pain in my left foot where I stubbed a toe on the offensive / offending couch. It remained in the middle of the room.
I climbed over it - in the mid-morning darkness - to reach for the lamp that sits on a low-slung, marble table. Imagine my surprise when that, too, proved elusive. The bulb in that lamp burned out Friday morning (my actual birthday), and as I was in a rush I did not replace it. Rather than buying more light bulbs, my father simply switched out the four feet tall, blown glass, amber lamp with the hand-stitched shade that gave off the most perfect, indirect light ... for a turned wood affair that would be easily at home in the back corner of Mike Brady's den / office. It is only two feet high, has an oatmeal colored shade reminiscent of a pop-corn ceiling, and I am fairly sure that in its light I not only appear to have put on 20 lbs., but somehow actually have.
An hour later, fuming but unwilling to open the doors to yet another battle in my father's and my long, ongoing war history, I moved the offending couch out of my room (and into the kitchen - specifically - on top of the couch where my father likes to take his naps in the late evening). I hung artwork that I avoided hanging - as it implied a permanence to which I am still having difficulty considering - and I laundered all the fine bedding and vintage linens I acquired in the course of the three years I lived in my much-loved, very missed little high ceilinged studio apartment.
There was a brothel next door, and a toilet on the front lawn (only for the first three months), but it was home.
At this moment, as I pounded in the last nail, hung the lovely and awkward self-portraits of the Straight Boyfriend, and as I settled in to review the Microsoft Office 2007 textbook from which I did most of my client's homework, I thanked that ever-present figure (God, or whomever ...) that sometimes life works as it needs to, even when it is not as we want it to.
And then I shit my pants.
Well, I would have had I been wearing pants. I was poring over the text one last time before getting in the shower. I had a job interview in just under an hour, an interview that involved a skills assessment on - among other things - Microsoft Access, which I have never used and - until fairly recently - which I had never had occasion to open. I was nervous about the interview, as it is a job that could change my desperate, often crazy life into something a Camry driver might envy. So, as I shed my clothes to hop in the shower, as I memorized how to create and save a data sheet, leaning back briefly to reflect on how the bad lighting was giving me a headache, I let out a good fart, a fart of contentment at a meal well-made and a decorating job well done.
What I got was a very bad reason to throw out a very good silk duvet.
It was my indomitable great fortune that had me, twenty minutes later, driving across town on almost no gas, in a non air-conditioned car with leather interior while brewing within me were the hounds of hell. I told myself that it would all be okay - that somehow, some way, I would get through the test, the awkward - "So, what are your employment goals?" small talk, and that I would get what I needed, i.e. - simply - a job.
I got through the skills assessment in record time, and my accuracy was exceptionally high. Whether this was owing to the hour I spent - with a cocktail and determination - on the Czarina's computer, the step-by-step Microsoft provided guide, or the incredible motivating factor of not wanting to crap my pants, we may never know. Suffice it to say, I was glad when the exceptionally busy staffing representative gave me her card, shook my hand, and told me to expect a call the next day.
I am at home now - doing someone else's homework, thinking about my old apartment, and hovering as close to the bathroom as my hard-wired, 10 years old Apple laptop will allow.
Mark
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