My Confessions

You Don't Know Me At All

2009-09-21T17:55:00.004-04:00

See, there's this guy. Close your eyes and try to see him if you can.
It won't be easy: he's nondescript, physically average in almost every way. He's about six feet tall, but the way he holds his shoulders when he stands, very square, and the straight-backed way he walks makes him appear taller. People think that he's taller, anyway. You'd have to look at him closely to realize that he's not, and nobody does that very much. Maybe it's his coloring; his neutral-colored hair which fails to be definitively blond or brown, or the not-ethnic but not-alabaster tone of his skin. It could be his voice, not deep or high tenor but decidedly unmusical, almost hoarse. When he speaks his words have that embarrassing quality of one's own recorded voice. Perhaps it has more to do with his manner, which is quietly assured without being confident or aggressive. Whatever it is, he is utterly forgettable. Try to remember him and he fades like a dream upon waking. Most people don't even look at him even as they're interacting with him. They've already pasted a mental image of someone they already know over him based on some slight resemblance. Ask them to describe him later and they'll find themselves describing the person he reminds them of instead. This is our hero.
In that awkward time of year when summer should be over but refuses to go and let autumn take the stage, this man is walking down the street in a large midwest city. His scuffed and beaten sneakers, once very expensive, occasionally drag and grate against the concrete of the sidewalk. He is not graceful, but he does not stumble or fall. If he were to pass by someone known to him they might greet him, thereby giving us his name, but nobody knows him here. He is not out for exercise but rather has his own mission, which presently leads him (and us) to a large brick building, once a factory, that now marks the edge of a pocket of extreme urban decay in a sea of otherwise unremarkable suburbs. This area was once full of industrious activity, back when steel was king of this city. Now it is the home of those who make their living and economy outside the legally drawn limits. This is where his mission takes him, and so we must follow.
Across the street from the brick building stands an even larger abandoned factory. In its recessed doorway lounge several young men who are clearly up to no good, and might not even recognize a good motive were it presented to them. They stir and stiffen as the man approaches, and when he has drawn close enough, the tallest and thinnest of the three speaks.
"Hey mister," he says with mock civility, "You got a cigarette you could spare me?"
The nondescript man's cheeks hollow briefly; this, you see, is how he smiles. "Smoking is bad for you," he says, and suddenly all three youths are standing at alert.
"You a cop?" One of the other boys asks, but the tall one tells him to shut up.
"I'm not, in fact, a policeman," the plain man tells them. "I'm just a guy. I'm looking for someone you might have seen recently."
"Yeah?" The lead boy has gathered his meager courage enough to sound aggressive. "What's that to us?"
The man reaches slowly into his pocket and extracts a picture. It's a Christmas scene, the decorated tree clear in the background. In the foreground stands the plain man with his arm around another, younger man. "I need to find him very badly," the plain man says, indicating the younger man in the picture. "If you can help me, I can help you." His hand dips again into his pocket and comes up with a baggie knotted at the corner to contain a white substance. "What do you say?"
The three boys gather around and study the picture. "Holy cow!" One whispers, and the plain man and his two compatriots regard him with interest. "That's the guy who's staying with Arnie," the exclaimer mutters. "I seen him there this morning."
"Arnie's the one who lives over the Coach and Four bar on Triskett street?" the plain man asks pleasantly, but in such a way that they know he's already sure he's right.
The leader once again tells his subordinate to shut up. "Arnie ain't gonna like that, y'know," he tells the exclaimer. "You telling people his business and all."
"Why not let me worry about that?" the plain man suggests, and tosses the baggie up in the air. The lead boy snatches it so quickly that it seems to have vanished by magic. "Thanks for your help, gentlemen," he says, and turns back in the direction he came from.
Watching him go, the youngest of the boys, silent up til now, says: "Think we oughta try to roll him?"
"Nope," the leader says decisively. "That dude's packing, I'll bet you money. Besides," he tosses the baggie up in the air himself and catches it again, "we got better things to do."
A moment later, the deserted doorway is once again vacant and undisturbed.

Title lyric from "You Don't Know Me" by Ben Folds Five (featuring Regina Spektor)

Ben Folds - You Don't Know Me (featuring Regina Spektor) (Offici - The most amazing videos are a click away

I Got Too Much Life, Flowing Through My Veins, Going To Waste

2009-09-19T15:20:00.003-04:00

Sometimes it's really hard to write.
Not that it's hard to parse reality into words; I can't seem to stop doing that most of the time, even when I try. My mind just ticks on and on, always trying to more accurately and deftly capture my experience in those funny verbal/text signals we call language.
No, my trouble lies somewhere else.
In every story, there's this point. You start out in the same way every time: there's this place, there's this person or people, this is the situation those people or that place exist inside. Here they are, now care about them. That's all well and good. It's the point where we shift from the general to the particular that the trouble slips in. This is who they are, this is where they are... and now, this is what happens. As a writer, you have to believe in what happens to your characters. Your situation has to evolve in way that is natural and symmetrical to you - but the catch is, it has to seem real and natural enough to someone reading that they believe it too. It's that point, where the description of who and where ends and what happens next begins, that the devil enters through the details.
I really love to write. It actually feels good to slip into another reality, even one confined entirely within your head. I have become a better writer just by constantly trying to better grasp and convey what I see and hear; but now, I want to overcome that biggest hurdle of all. I want to write what others will not only want to read, but to return to again and again. I want to write the words that will make people angry, make people laugh, make them sad... Maybe even weep for joy. I know it's a lot to want. So many people try and fail; a lot of people - not so brave, but maybe wise - would say that it's better never to try at all.
But I'm going to try anyway. What have I got to lose? My time is short enough, I want to do all I can with it.
So here goes....

Title lyric from "Feel" by Robbie Williams.

A New Version Of The Old Scene

2009-07-30T23:45:00.005-04:00

I have less than nothing to say.
It's hot for the first time all summer. Everyone around me groans about how cold and rainy it's been and mutters darkly about global warming. I LOVE it. I am happiest hiding in the dark like a slug under a flat rock, so this entire cool rainy summer has been marvelous to me. The minute it went over eighty degrees I started to suffer. I mentioned this to my daughter, who remarked right back that I'm the one talking about running off to a warmer climate when in fact I love the cold and the winter. That made me feel funny, half sad and half bitter. I do love the north, I do love the Pennsylvania hills, and I miss being there. I want to go back. I can't. Plus it's hot here right now and everything's slightly gritty and everyone on the street is wearing jeans and t-shirts while they look cool and collected and I'm a sweaty irritable mess in shorts and a wifebeater. Maybe it's hot flashes; who knows, maybe mentalpause is sneaking up on me at last.
I was sitting with my guy just watching some random show we downloaded - Nurse Jackie, I think, or Breaking Bad, we're huge fans of both - when I looked over at him and was struck by how beautiful his profile is, how very well drawn his features are... And I felt this huge surge of love for him that frightened me. Usually we are pretty copacetic; we both go along at our own pace, we turn to each other for the things that we need and the rest of the time pursue the trains of thought in our own heads. It reminded me how lucky I am to have him, and so as a sort of offering to the fates or spirits or gods (none of which I really believe in, mind you) I intervened in the love life of two people I barely know because they were being stupid and I could do it without cost or obligation. They were grateful, just as I was grateful to be with such an all-around wonderful guy, and so I paid back karma in its own coin. I feel pretty good about that.
The other day I got an email from a young doctor I knew from back in the days when I was an administrator in a medical school. She was peripherally involved in my care when I was in treatment for the cancer and she was curious (and concerned) about how I've been doing lately. I told her that I'm fine, and that I do have all of the longterm symptoms they described but still feel really pretty great in spite of them. She offered to see me, free of charge, if I wanted to come to the city where she practices. I've given it some thought and decided against it; I don't need a long trip for just a diagnostic, however free. Even if it was bad news, what could I do about it right now? Nothing. So I will not worry. I feel good, and I'm sticking with that.
Or I would, if it wasn't so blasted hot. Canada sounds pretty good to me right now. Tornwordo, will you smuggle me across the border?

Title lyric from "Ragdoll" by Aerosmith.

You Know You're Gonna Lose, You Never Win

2009-07-26T12:50:00.004-04:00

So,we're at an amusement park. It's half rides, half water park; everyone's in their shorts and t-shirts and wifebeaters if they're not rocking the full-out speedos-and-hawaiian shirt combo. It's hot as Satan's asscrack, too, and almost that sweaty. Instead of mostly having a good time, all of the adults are either scratchy and irritable or half-drunk bordering on belligerent. Sound like a good time yet?
We're standing in line to get into the water rides when a woman I know slightly - to call her an acquaintance would be overstating it - comes up to us. She calls me by name -"Bigg, right?" and asks if we can help her. The partner and I cast each other that oh-crap-here-we-go look before I politely say "Maybe, what did you need?" Turns out her son, a spoiled little snot I could run over with a bus and feel only the vaguest twinge of remorse for later, is in the water half of the park and won't come out. She didn't buy a pass to the water park for herself because she 'looks like such a cow in a bathing suit and would probably have just gotten wet anyway' and now wants us to go in and get him. Now, we're talking about a kid I've seen all of twice; the only impression the kid really made on me was that he was a walking argument for eugenics... and possibly more responsible birth control decisions, but whatever. I mention that I might not recognize him, and she manages to look as hurt as possible before pointing and saying, "That's him, right THERE!"
We follow her dramatically pointing finger. She's pointing at a crowd of roughly one million children. All of them look like possible suspects.
"Just go, before he gets away!" she wails, and the next thing I know the partner is dragging me through the gate and into the water park. Never one to ditch a damsel in distress, I valiantly go in pursuit of the errant tyke with the trusty partner in tow. I hear his mother shout the kid's name behind us: "CHRISTOPHER!" So I start calling his name too, if at a slightly more civilized volume.
Finally one little darling looks up and says, "What?"
"Your mother wants you," I tell him, and seize his wrist. Ignoring his protests I drag him out of the water park. He's pretty much kicking and screaming. I am grimly determined. I dump him in front of his mother and say, "There you go."
Do I get a thank you? Of course not. She says, "That's not my kid."
As my partner and I are frozen in disbelief, a woman comes to the fence on the water park side behind us and shrieks "CHRISTOPHER! What are you dooooing!?" exactly as if the kid was voluntarily participating in a heroin deal. Naturally, we all turn and goggle at her in horror. How did this happen? "Give me my son back!" she shouts dramatically.
"Not until you give me MY baby back!" the slight acquaintance shouts dramatically back. She throws her arms around the bogus Christopher.
The other mother gives us all a disgusted look, marches over to the crowd of kids, looks it over like she's picking the ripest melon and grabs a kid pretty much at random. She marches him over to the gate, and guess what? OF COURSE IT'S THE RIGHT KID.
"Christopher!" slight acquaintance coos as he runs into her arms.
"Christopher!" the other mother coos as her ugly little ankle biter is returned from captivity.
Then, just to make the whole surreal experience complete, the TWO of them start cursing US. Exactly like it's our fault, right?
Some days you're the statue, and some days you're the pigeon. This was definitely a statue weekend.

Title lyric from "Your Momma Don't Dance & Your Daddy Don't Rock 'n' Roll" by Loggins and Messina, as performed by Poison.

If You Do Not Want To See Me Again, I Would Understand

2009-07-22T01:32:00.004-04:00

Gay men are funny when they get together in groups. Straight people only pick up on the obvious stuff, the constant sexual tension, the abrupt attitudes, the sudden attractions. I get that; when I'm in a crowd of straight people it's there too, but upside down, backwards, inverse. I've spent some time studying the semiotics of straight mating displays - I even managed it successfully more than a few times, even if you only count the times that actually led to procreation. Believe me, gay people are just as left out and uncomfortable on straight mating grounds - it's just that since among gay men everybody is a potential partner, even if only for that second you reject him with an internal ew, gross. That doesn't change everything so radically, but it does make for a whole lot less chitchat and a whole bunch more long meaningful stares.
Of course, I have it easy. I have a much younger and ridiculously hot partner. (You've seen pictures by now, Lem. Back me up here.) I'm not afraid to flaunt that in the face of guys my age who would otherwise have been my logical suitors. Naturally this makes them a little scornful of our relationship, but it took me awhile to even see what I was really doing. Thing is, they'd be with him if they could - hell, when my own daughter told me she'd date him in a heartbeat if he was straight I knew just about everybody sees some of what I do in him - but they also miss that I don't suffer by comparison. On the contrary, I look much better as a potential mate with him already on my arm (and vice versa) than I would otherwise. Of course I feel good about myself because I've managed to attract a handsome partner... And while I don't believe I've allowed that let me make quite the ass of myself that I've seen some guys manage, I guess I have sinned in that regard.
So my Pride resolution for 2009 is to appreciate him more and worry about other people's reaction to us less. After all, we met a couple of our approximate ages a few nights ago during one of the local festivities, and they were quite happy to use the phrase 'daddy fetish' in public. We laughed rather rudely, I'm afraid - and then abruptly stopped when we saw their faces and realized they were serious. My beloved and I have never related to one another that way, in bed or otherwise, any jokes we like to make to the contrary notwithstanding.
On a less self absorbed note, I also recently came in contact with David's younger brother via the wonders of the Internet. He's my age. We shared a ton of our childhood's more religious moments. We were even vaguely friendly in high school, at least until I got a boyfriend and became the local weed dealer. To my great (and eventually pleasant) surprise, he's gay and out. We had a really nice chat. We laughed, we reminisced... And then we started talking about what we've been up to recently. He's single and seems rather like a player - sort of the way I always imagined David would be if he were less religious, except more saccharine and less perverse than I expected somehow. I allowed as how I was happily partnered, already have an anniversary under my belt... And then my beloved bounced up and slung his arm around me, and the brother's sly speculative smile sort of curdled. He watched us and made his pleasantries when I introduced them, but then asked one question before he excused himself and slipped away: "Um, HOW old are you?"
It was actually his reaction that inspired me to write this rambling ode to my evolving understanding of my own relationship and how it changes my relation to every other human being. That's what the great loves in our lives do, right? Those loves, they're worth what they cost us and any benefit they bring us is all bonus gravy. Or else they're not really a great love, I guess.
Anyway, my tappytapping of the keys is keeping him awake now, so I'll wrap this one up. To both of my remaining regular readers here, take care of yourselves and the ones you love.

Title lyric from "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind.

I Keep Thinking That It's Not Goodbye

2009-07-14T22:18:00.003-04:00

My birthday is the day after tomorrow.
I won't cry you any rivers, I won't try to tell you how much I hate having birthdays and how sad it makes me to be another year older. I don't so much care for being over forty, true, but there ARE worse things in the world. I also wish that I could stay young forever - who doesn't? However, I know that nobody does or ever has stayed young for even a minute longer than the time allotted and so have chosen to deal with it in the most dignified manner of which I am capable - about the same dignified manner than toddlers have when protesting that they're not tired and don't want to go to bed.
It won't be so bad though. I feel wiser than I was. I'm ready for new things; I feel equipped by the things I've gone through to meet new challenges, maybe even to enjoy it. I'm not regretting the last few years even though they've been rough ones. Why would I? The alternative would be to have no more years in front of me, and that day comes soon enough for all of us. I'm in no rush.
So if on Thursday I should happen to cross your mind, please send me a good wish. I'll be sending them back to you, I promise.

Title lyric from "Graduation" by Vitamin C.

I Have No Choice But To Hear You

2009-07-08T23:10:00.002-04:00

I watched a girl ride down the street on her bike today. It was cooler today than it has been, but she was still sweating for all she was worth as she worked her way up the slope between the reservoir and the cemetery. The sun was bright, but thin somehow; it glared off every surface, but it failed to warm the stiff breeze coming off the lake. I admired that girl's commitment... Or what I imagined to be her commitment: she could have been riding to work, riding to school, even riding home from a doctor's appointment at the hospital next to my apartment. What do I know?
I know that the days are getting shorter again, and that winter will come. I don't want to see another winter, ever. I want to escape to the land of always-summer, or at least to somewhere that it never snows. I don't want to wear a coat out in the snow. I don't want to drive in it. I don't want to shiver and blow on my frozen fingers when I carry something home from the store. I like walking most places I go. I don't want to stop that. That's what I know.
I know that I'm a lucky man, no matter what the obstacles I'm currently facing. I have someone wonderful in my life. He does things for me... I can't begin to explain. I have some really great friends who love me. I talk to my big kids online and on the phone all the time. I am not rejected or outcast; when people meet me, they tend to like me. I am personable because I am happy. I wasn't always that way, I was fat and awkward and painfully self-conscious. But because I finally had the guts to stand up and step out and take what I wanted because I knew that the time I had left in which to do so was running short. If I have any regrets, it's not that I did it, but that I waited so long. But even that isn't so much of a regret because I have my children. I didn't waste those years like a forgotten leisure suit at the back of the closet. I had a family, I had a life. And now that life's changed... A lot. I know that, too.
But I also know that the clock is ticking away and that midnight approaches. I must make things beautiful and right for my beloved now, and so I wish you all a fond goodnight.

Title lyric from "Head Over Feet" by Alanis Morissette.

Sweet Freedom Whispered In My Ear

2009-07-02T04:52:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I really get disappointed in people.
I know it's not polite to say so, but I do.
Lately I've been in contact with a lot of people from my past - mostly through Facebook. It's funny how something that's 99% a waste of constructive time can have such a big impact on your daily life, isn't it? Funny and sad. Sad because I have known these people in real life, I sat in a high school classroom with them for six years or I partied with them in my hometown or I worked at the same company with them and sat with them at lunch. Yet the majority of those people never took the time to get to know me half as well as they do now simply by reading a few things I wrote (mostly in jest!) on a website that is half encoded pixels and half consensual hallucination. The fact that they are supportive and friendly now, when I am just a picture and a few lines of text to them, means so much less to me than a kind word or just a smile might have back then.
I'm glad that the world's moving on, don't get me wrong. I think it's an absolutely wonderful thing that young people today won't have to go through some of the things that a lot of my generation did - and boy, does it make me feel old to say that. It's just that I wonder: if it's so obviously my right to love whoever I'm moved to love, then why wasn't it obvious ten years ago... Or twenty? Does everybody have to recognize something to make it right? If tomorrow everybody goes back to hating the fags again does it mean that our right to love was never obvious and support for it was just a fad?
I'm sorry that this post isn't more positive. I keep thinking of all the really wonderful people I've known and how they've suffered and some of them have died just to lead us here. Then I look around at everything that's supposedly changed for us and I'm just not so sure. The door to acceptance that's supposedly swung open for us can swing the other way too. There's still plenty of oppression, hate and ignorance out there to go around. I heard it in the casual comments of people who watched the gay rights float go by in a local parade; I hear it every day when people say "that's gay," or see people who think their T-shirt saying 'I called your boyfriend gay and he hit me with his purse' is the height of hilarity. That's why I get a little bitter when I hear people saying that we should wait, that the president and Congress have Bush's mess on their plate and shouldn't have to be bothered with a little thing like legal protections and political promises. I feel as though we'll get nothing at all and the door will swing the other way if we don't do something here and now.
If you're reading this and you live in Pennsylvania take a moment to read this and then act on your conscience. It's not just something important to people like me, it's something real that you and I can do to make sure that what precious few gains we've made stay ours.
That's all.

Title lyric from "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" by Elton John.

Teenage Ambition You Remember Well

2009-06-25T04:12:00.003-04:00

Tell me what monogamy is, and why it can sink so deep into your head if it's not biological.
See, here's my thing. During my teen years, I had a boyfriend. His name was Rod. You can read all about him during the confessional period of my blog, starting around here. When we were alone we were every sick, sappy teen romance cliche you can possibly imagine: we held hands, we talked about growing up and getting married, I even wrote his name in my notebooks... and then my first name with his last name. It was really that bad. And we were two guys. Plus we had sex a lot. Anybody who's seen the teen boy libido in full swing can just imagine that times two and will probably wonder how we managed to avoid spontaneous combustion. He was my first love. Because what I felt for him was new and thrilling and unlike anything I'd ever felt before, I held that relationship up to all the others as a sort of yardstick of what was good and bad in them.
Thing is, I cheated on him. I don't know why I did it. I didn't know then and I don't know now. It was my first time being with someone. Maybe I thought I could feel that way with that I was with, and float in a sea of giddy infatuation. Who knows? He cheated on me in the most reciprocal manner possible, and our relationship was never the same. He cheated on me again, and then left me for the other guy. We were together off and on for around two and a half years - and in teen years, that's forever. I was devastated.
Through my marriages, I never cheated. Despite the opportunities... Hell, despite the utter and complete good it would have done me I never did. In my heart, I was unwilling to be the bad guy that way. It was just one of the ways I tried to gain the emotional upper hand: by claiming the moral high ground. I didn't cheat, I wasn't verbally or physically abusive, I remembered every occasion and genuinely tried to fake an enthusiasm for her parents. When my marriage to D ended, I rebounded immediately into a relationship I never could have dreamed of, yet utterly symmetrical to my marriage: a man who grew up in the same crazy church I did, who was on polite speaking terms with my parents and had been the subject of many teen fantasies.
There I was, all liberated, and what did I do? I tried to do everything I thought I should do instead of what I really felt. We wore outfits - real chaps, even! - we wrestled in singlets, we tied each other up, we spanked and talked dirty and used food and tried slings, swings and very soft whips. All well and good. Then we had a threesome... at my instigation, no less, and I turned into a SEETHING JEALOUS FIEND. I had more vengeful plots than a Batman villain. I started the events that led to the end of that whole relationship - although his sudden calling from God to return to straight life was a bit of a clog in the pipes, let me tell you.
So I played the hookup game. And you know what? It led me straight to a young man I'm so fucking crazy about to this day, you should pardon my french, that one of my favorite pastimes is kissing his furry little insteps. I worship him in the temple of the flesh, as the saying or psalm or pop tune goes, and he's shown me exactly the kind of unbelievable rush that I first felt with Rod - only it's an everyday thing now. The way I love him is like a book I love and keep misplacing, because it keeps turning up when I look in the fridge or hang up a towel or fold a basket of laundry. I love him. I'd do anything for him. He makes everything that came before worthwhile.
That's what scares me about our relationship: I'm not sure I'm prepared for an "after" part, even though the age difference between us sorta suggests that there might be one. Sure, some May/December romances drift blissfully on. Most don't. That's how that goes for humans like us. Talking about it seems taboo, too. Like talking about death; ignoring it makes our lives mechanical and without meaning, but letting it loom over us destroys the time we have. I just love him. I just want to enjoy and savor the time I have, the way I savor the time I have on this planet. I know both of them are necessarily limited. There's no way I'm going to make the same mistakes of the past all over again. I couldn't imagine having a better time with someone else than I do with him. He gets me. I get him.
I know, I know. A lot of our friends have it both ways. They've been together for years and they play games with others too. They say things like "monogamy is for straight people." They seem to be having fun. They're exuberant. They make me think sometimes that it could work, that they could actually be right. Problem is that I can't make the leap from 'maybe' to 'let's try this' anymore. Mark Twain said,“The cat, having sat upon a hot stove lid, will not sit upon a hot stove lid again. But he won't sit upon a cold stove lid, either.” I guess I'm therefore far more of a cat person than I ever guessed. Who knew. I won't go so far as to say that I'm set in my ways because I'm still open to trying new things. I just have a much better grasp of what I'm capable of doing and handling well... and polyamory just ain't one of them. My bad.
But now, after all that longwinded blather and exposition, I've got to go and clean for that young man I was telling you about. Maybe fix him some breakfast too. My best to all of you, as always.

Title lyric from "Heat Of The Moment" by Asia.

It's Hot Here At Night

2009-06-23T20:28:00.003-04:00

I am tired. I am procrastinating. I am blaming the weather.
In my own defense, it has finally turned hot here after being rainy and cool for weeks. I already miss the rain. I detest sunlight, even though for the first time in my life I appear able to tan instead of burning. I'd rather stay in when it's blazing hot out - but it's even hotter and muggier in here. The one thing it can't do is make me miss winter.
My beloved's mystery illness is quite a bit better. I have stopped waking him in the night to take his ibuprofen, and now that his throat is so much less sore he can eat again. Today he had most of a pizza to himself and I was so very glad. I hate it when he's sick because it upsets me to see him so miserable.
I was really not a very happy camper all day on Father's day. All I really wanted was to see my three youngest children, which of course was not an option. I was glad to hear from the older ones, even though the middlest girls had to sneak away from their mother to call me. I am equally glad that my older kids all like my guy despite his being so close to them in age. My son and my guy actually seem to get along famously, since they have similar taste in video games and movies. They talk quite contentedly on the phone about things that have nothing to do with me. That makes me happy; even happier am I when my my daughter tells me that my guy is "a catch," and asks me for my opinion on the boys she sees. How unfortunate that her current love interest is at least in my opinion a giant mistake. Thank Jebus I'm too tactful to say so.
Now I am going to go for a long walk in the huge graveyard nearby. It's evening, the breeze has cooled the air, and the cemetery is a beautiful and restful place to walk. Some people evidently find this a touch morbid, but I find it both convenient and conducive to long, deep thoughts that can unspool themselves uninterrupted.
I hope that these long hot summer days are enjoyable for you all. My best to each and every one of you, as always.

Title lyric from "Hot In The City" by Billy Idol.

Ain't Got No Cash, Ain't Got No Style

2009-06-18T11:20:00.003-04:00

Today is my older brother Doug's birthday.
Like me, he's attracted to guys. He's never been much for girls; he had a girlfriend after high school, and that went nowhere. She was quite the dish as I remember - and crazy as a loon. The two of us have that in common, Doug and I: if we're gonna pick a girl, we always pick 'em crazy. Don't they say you always end up marrying Mom in the end?
Since Doug and I live so far from each other, I am limiting my celebration to Facebooking him and embarrassing him on a certain adult social networking site we both frequent. Ah, the Internet. Sharing life's little embarrassments with the entire universe is SUCH fun.
My beloved is sick. He's got a sore throat, but a trip to the doctor's proved it to be neither mono nor strep. I have a wicked sore throat myself, but he has been so knocked out by whatever this is that I've pretty much denied feeling ill and tried my best to take care of him. I figure that next to cancer this is a walk in the park, and so far I seem to be right. Hopefully it will pass soon.
We are trying to pull our finances together in order to make another move. This time I am hoping to have jobs located and ready for our arrival in our new destination. The economy is making that vaguely difficult, however, and in spite of the enthusiastic wads of cash the government's been slinging in every direction that doesn't seem likely to change either. I am just doing my best to remain optimistic still, and that's going about as well as it can. For the record, I still love our new President, but I AM starting to wonder if he loves me and my people back or if all of those sweet things he said were just to get us into the voting booth with him. Wouldn't be the first time some guy talked his way past my defenses with sweet nothings... But like most teenage girls the morning after, I am telling myself that he's just busy or has commitment issues and that it can't be that he's just not that into us. I guess we'll see.
How's your day going?

Title lyric from "Don't Worry, Be Happy" by Bobby McFerrin.

By The Way, I Tried To Say I'd Be There

2009-06-15T10:40:00.004-04:00

There are a lot of things you can do with a blog. You can report the news you think is important and add why it's meaningful to you, critique fashion and food and arts, share recipes or build kingdoms of never-were. I've done some of all of those things, but today I'm just going to give you what I have. I am here and now, just like you. All I really have is this moment, because the future is just conjecture and the past could be an illusion. So here's where I'm at right now.
Things are hard money-wise. In order to make them better, we have to make changes in our lives that will cost money. We need to move again, we need better incomes and we both want to be part of a more creative community and less involved in a certain superficial social scene that has been slammed by its participants so many times that to do so here myself would be repeating redundant. Like two people on either side of a very deep, long canyon, we can both see where we want to be but are less certain exactly how we'll get there. It is of little comfort to know that the rest of the country is in the exact same mess - that just means that there isn't some wealthier, more accommodating environment out there just waiting for us.
There's been a lot of stuff in the media that I follow lately about the Obama administration. The people I listen to say that he's failing us on marriage equality and DOMA. I personally am having a hard time being scathingly critical of him for that - after all, I'm not in a rush to marry or die on foreign soil any time soon. I don't hear anybody screaming about ENDA, and that's where I think all our efforts should really be focused. I can be fired from any job in the nation because I'm in love with another man. You ask me and I'll say that's the real discrimination and injustice.
Everywhere I go I see pregnant teenage girls. I was a teenage parent myself - I was nineteen when my oldest daughter was born, and had been a stepfather for over a year by then - and I was fully confident after experiencing it myself that sometime soon having a baby at fifteen would be exposed for the really uncool dipshit move that it is. So far, that message doesn't seem to be reaching its core audience. I told my own pregnant teen that I personally think she's a moron. After seeing what her mother and I went through, how could she possibly want to repeat that? I didn't plan this, Dad, is what she told me. But once it happened, I couldn't just kill it. You wouldn't have REALLY wanted that, would you? For the record, I would have supported that no matter how much it broke my heart because she deserves to experience being a free and unencumbered adult before she has to give up her entire life in service to someone else who will never truly appreciate her sacrifice. When I said so, she blithely hugged me and said, Aw, Dad. I appreciate you. That's why you're gonna babysit SO DAMN MUCH. Just shoot me now, will you?
If there's anything that saves me, it's the love I have in my life. I mentioned this little insight to my oldest daughter recently, as she's in a new relationship with a young man she finds completely mesmerizing. She is in that insecure early stage when she can't imagine what attracts such a wonderful young man to her. When I said that everyone feels that at some point about the person they really love, she just laughed. I don't know why you guys got together at first, she said patting my knee, but the way you guys are starting to look and sound exactly alike is downright scary. The other day I talked to him on the phone for, like, five minutes before I realized it wasn't you. I find the exact opposite in my own experience: the thing that make us perfect for each other is that I have what he lacks, and vice versa. Someone who compliments and completes you that perfectly doesn't come along every day.
Finally, I'd like to give a couple blog shout outs to some young bloggers who have renewed my faith (and interest!) in the blogosphere. Notes On Bar Napkins and Put The Lotion In The Basket are probably the best two new blogs I've read in the last few years and I highly recommend them. With that, I leave you, as always with my best.

Title lyric from "By The Way" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Just Say That We Agree And Then Never Change

2009-06-10T14:24:00.003-04:00

When I was somewhat younger, I went rafting on a river in southwestern Pennsylvania (I don't remember which one exactly: Youghiogheny? Can that possibly be right?) It wasn't a big river, but it was deeper than most of the creeks and streams in the more mountainous northwestern part of the state where I'm from, and it had a bit of a current to it in some places. I guess they sell it as "white water," but I went on actual white water when I lived in Arizona and it scared the shiznit outta me. By comparison, that childhood trip was mostly a walk in the park. We were four people to a little inflatable raft like a bigger ship's dinghy, everybody paddling, and it was a lot of fun. During one broader, shallow stretch we even sat up on the sides and rested for a minute. That's when our raft hit a submerged rock and pitched me off. The water was probably only about ten to fourteen feet deep there, but it seemed like an ocean then. The thing I remember most is watching my raft-mates' startled faces suddenly shrink and disappear behind a wavering curtain of light, and of looking down and seeing only rocks and weeds a few feet below my sneakers.
That's the image that keeps coming back to me lately. My life used to be like that. I was the head of a family, part of a team effort. We all rowed more or less together. Then all at once I got pitched right out of the boat, and now I'm down here in these depths I never thought might be here. I desperately need to reconnect to the surface world, to the good parts of what I left behind, or my life will go on with the same sort of drifting, drowning sensation. Or maybe that's what this is, I am drowning and I'll never again see the light of day again the way I did before.
Don't get me wrong, okay? It's so easy to misinterpret what people actually mean when they write, isn't it? It's just that ever since I started to get better from the chemo, I have a sense that I'm living on borrowed time. That if I want life to actually start again, that if I want to be able to wear the 'survivor' badge instead of the 'I'm just waiting for the next set of symptoms to begin' hangdog look, I have to reconnect with who and what I was before.
It means getting a job, or some sort of income that I can call my own, and a place where I can put down new roots even if the old ones are dug up. It means finding a stable, sheltered place to stand out of the constant onrush of the world. I'm so tired of uncertainty already. Don't quote me on this, but I think I'm getting too old for it. I'm not depressed or upset, just... displaced. I suppose in a sense it's a positive thing, that it means that I really might be putting the cancer into a new perspective as a dark and dangerous period of my life that's over now instead of just on hiatus. On the other hand, it also means that I can't really relax or be anything but en garde until I can make the changes I want.
Plus I guess I'll finally have to figure out once and for all if I can build my world solidly around another person's presence in a really trusting way instead of reserving that niggling little judgment in the back of my head that nothing this good can really last. Who knows? Miracles have happened, right?

Title lyric from "Cable Car" by The Fray.

The Fray - Over My Head Cable Car
by misslupin

All The World's Indeed A Stage

2009-06-09T10:36:00.004-04:00

So I've been thinking about what my guy said to me about trying to make my name with my blog. I've actually been thinking about it a lot, to tell you the truth. But how can I get anywhere with it when nobody even reads it anymore?
All the bloggers I know who have made it big are all about the issues, too. I am not so much about the issues. What's going on in my life is WAY more important than political concerns. Granted, some people I knew back in the day - like Joe - have actually managed to pull down some respect and influnce with it too, and I'm sure that's gratifying. Still not important to me.
I just wanna tell my story. I wanna sing my song. I personally think that the crap that happens to me is fascinating, even if nobody else does. After all, it's happening to me, and who could be more important than that? (Spo, if you're reading this, I just heard you think the word 'narcissistic.')
So I'm thinking that maybe I'll just content myself with changing things around a little on here, shaking them up a bit, and going on with my efforts in other realms. I still really want to see an actual, physical book with my name on the spine and a smugly grinning photo of me on the dust jacket. Maybe it will never happen. Maybe it will happen tomorrow. After all, in a world where an ultradouche like Rush Limbaugh can be famous I guess everybody can still get their fifteen minutes of fame. I just want mine, y'know? Lord, doesn't everybody?

Title lyric from "Limelight" by Rush.

Everyone Knows That's How You Get Famous

2009-06-07T17:39:00.004-04:00

I have begun to feel as though my life is moving in a new direction. All good, except... I have no idea what that direction may be.
I have always wanted to be a writer. When I said that out loud the other day, my beloved said to me, "You ARE a writer."
"Yes," I qualified, "in the sense that I write stuff, that's true. Allow me clarify: I've always wanted to be a published author."
He said nothing, but made a little face as he sipped his energy drink. Not the usual face, either; we've given up RockStar energy drinks because the owner of the company is a douchebag, and the new brand we're trying honestly sucks. It's like liquid cat litter, and doesn't even give me the same euphoric (and false!) sense of accomplishment. The face he made was his 'I'm thinking something I'm not gonna say' face.
"What?" I demanded. Maybe even a trifle testily. Testily - is that a word?
He set the can down carefully and said with obviously intended tact, "Um, maybe that's just not in the cards."
Of course he's right, but who wants to hear that? "So what are you saying?"
He shrugged. "Maybe," he said, "wanting to be a "published author--" he hooked air quotes around it "--is kinda like Picasso wanting to be a cave painter, or Frank Gehry wanting to design children's playhouses."
"I don't get your metaphor," I said, and this time I was definitely being testy with him. He doesn't like it when I'm testy.
"I mean," says my beloved, "here we are, on the dawn of a new age of communication. All sorts of new media are opening up around you, and here you are still thinking that what amounts to a dead media platform - a fossilized dead media platform - is the venue that was meant for you. Maybe, just maybe, the way you write and how you put things together is better suited for the Internet age. Who knows? Your blog thingy there might be the ticket to the fame you're craving, just like that asshat Perez Hilton. Stranger things have happened, y'know." He took another long swig of cat litter juice, belched and added, "by the way, this stuff sucks ass. See if you can find another brand, will you?"
I don't know if he's right about the blogging thing, but he's definitely onto something with the energy drinks. Stupid Russell Weiner just couldn't be more aptly named, in my opinion.
Still, his moment of insight has given me much food for thought, to say the least. I do love to blog, I do love the Internet, and I am just narcissistic enough to think that people might read what I write. Some of the people I've come to know through this blog have made a name for themselves that way - my old pal Jessica, for one. Maybe truer words were never spoke, and I should follow his advice...
Maybe. We'll see.

Title lyric from "The Fear" by Lily Allen.

What I Need Is A Good Defense

2009-06-05T22:59:00.003-04:00

As a new strategy in our battle with the demon nicotine, I have purchased a bag of tobacco and a box of cigarette tubes. These two handy items cost me exactly $7.89 total, and are the equivalent of a carton of cigarettes - a $45 to $55 value at least. The first few times I tried to use them to make a cigarette were just awful, and this has had two consequences: we've already started smoking much less and the ones I do make are becoming much better rather quickly. If necessity is the mother of invention, then I suppose that incentive is the mother of quality. I predict that at this rate we'll be down to only smoking when we drink in no time. Guess what we're gonna quit next?
I went out drinking with some friends recently. It was a 'business happy hour,' one of those excuses to drink and behave badly in public under the guise of networking. I was personally attending because I've been volunteering with the local arts organization, and quite a few of the other gentlemen attendees were the same familiar crowd from the bar and the Pride committee. I privately found it hilarious how many successful, moneyed straight women were having the time of their lives, behaving in ways that they never would if there had been more than a few straight men in attendance. The best part, however, was when one of the girls whipped out her phone and passed it around. I almost choked; it was a picture of a man's erect penis.
"That's my guy," she told me proudly, tapping the screen with one very manicured nail to make sure I didn't miss it. "Ain't he something?"
Bingo, the other phones came right out too. Every single woman and man at our table had a picture of their partner's genitals. I tried so hard not to bust right out laughing (okay, I'd had two mojitos and they were getting to me a little) that I almost choked.
Then my best friend turned to me and said, "Okay, Bigg. Show him off."
I tried looking all innocent, but she made a little magician's assistant flourish and presto, there was my phone in her hand. Why - oh WHY? - do I show her these things?
"Are you gonna show 'em or am I?" she threatened, so of course I let her. I will allow you to imagine their gasps and astonished, jealous smiles - but rest assured, THERE WERE BOTH. I actually had more than one alleged gentleman shove his way to the seats behind me so he could get a good look over my shoulder. Simian behavior at its extra best on all our parts, folks.
The take away lesson I got from this was a two parter: A) take those pictures with my instead of my phone from now on and B) that really is what your partner/spouse/conquest does with those pictures when you let them photograph your downstairs business. As a result, I am rethinking some of the less than clothed things we've posted online elsewhere (and no, I ain't gonna link to 'em, either!) but at the same time gaining a new appreciation for people who take their clothes off for a living. If we really believe that the body and sex are beautiful and sacred then we ought never be ashamed... So why do we treat people who let us see even in the most decorous adult contexts so shamefully? Just human nature, I guess.
Have a wonderful weekend, everybody.

Title lyric from "Criminal" by Fiona Apple.

Fiona Apple - Criminal
by hushhush112

Honey, Just About The Time You're Thinking It's All Right

2009-06-02T10:19:00.005-04:00

I got busted smoking. Big time.
I was sitting there in bed with a cigarette, laptop tuned to Facebook and Don't Miss The Snatch just plain thundering out of the speakers when he walked in from a run. It had started raining (I hadn't noticed) and, being without pockets in his unbelievably sexy little running shorts he'd gone out without his key. He'd had to pound on the downstairs door in the rain for several minutes before one of the neighbors let him in, and to say that he was already feeling a bit cross might be understating things by just a tad. And there I was, the figurative smoking gun in my hand.
BUSTED. Don'tcha hate it when that happens?
He glared at me, and I stared back with my mouth open. Guilty? You could have taken a picture of me and pasted it next to the word in the dictionary.
Yeah. Whoopsy.
After about a thirty second standoff that felt roughly like eternity plus one, he went over to the dresser, pulled our underwear drawer all the way out, reached in behind it and took out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and lit one. Still glaring at me.
He took a big puff and exhaled it very slowly through his nose. "I just want you to know," he said pointing the cigarette at me, "that this -" he flourished it, making an involuntary smoke ring "-is ALL. YOUR. FAULT."
And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.
I'll be back again after my lengthy time out in the corner, where I will presumably think about what I've done wrong.
Yay! We're smoking again.

Title lyric from "Shakedown" by Bob Seger (from the Beverly Hills Cop II soundtrack, how tacky!)

Go ahead, watch the WHOLE VIDEO. I dare you.

BOB SEGER - Shakedown (Beverly Hills Cop II)

It's Not Just My Pride

2009-05-30T09:30:00.003-04:00

I did a bad thing.
I bought a pack of cigarettes and hid them. I didn't try to justify it to myself, or dream up an alibi; I just bought them and hid them in the basement ceiling where I knew NOBODY would look but me, and that was that. I go down there to do laundry all the time, so I didn't even have to cover my tracks. I just started folding my laundry on the table on the outdoor patio at the back of the building where I can sit and smoke without being seen... or smelled, for that matter.
HB doesn't smoke menthols. I do. He's been so damn good about quitting that I should probably commit seppuku and just get it over with. I'm even past the point where I can use raving nicotine withdrawal as an excuse, since they say that the cravings only last three days. It isn't as if I had been lying awake nights just dreaming of a cig, either. I'd pretty much gotten used to the idea that I was gonna hafta finally quit... And then one day in traffic I saw someone in the car next to me smoking my brand - I was driving a friend's minivan so I could see the pack lying on the passenger seat next to her - and within ten minutes I pulled into a convenience store, went in and bought a pack.
As I was folding the towels this morning, I thought about it. I don't feel particularly guilty - if only because I don't really suffer from guilt, I'm more of a carrier - but it does make me wonder about who and what I am. I mean, aside from the whole smoking-when-I-shouldn't-be thing, this is blatant cheating. I've never been much of a cheater; a little bit at board games when I was a kid, a short but dedicated streak of exam cheating in college, and now this.
I don't understand exactly why I'm doing it, either. I mean, I took the trouble to check the wind direction so the smoke would blow away from my laundry while I folded it, I used extra fabric softener and then gave it all a misting of Febreze to kill any lingering smell on the clothes and then washed my face and hands and brushed my teeth IN THE LAUNDRY SINK when I was done. I've never been one to go to that kind of lengths. It's too hard, I'm too lazy. It's so much easier to just tell the truth: "Hey, I know you're some sort of iron-willed superhero, but I'm gonna have a cig, try not to hate me okay?"
It sort of worries me that my first impulse was to be dishonest. I still watch porn from time to time - granted, usually with him, but not always - and it makes me wonder if I'll see someone in a porn that turns me on and then cheat with someone who looks like them. Even now that seems sorta ridiculous - apples and oranges, y'know - but if you'd told me three weeks ago I'd be sneaking a smoke under the pretense of washing the protein stains out of our sheets on a daily basis I'd've laughed my head off. Nevertheless, here I am, already thinking about how good it would feel to light one and take that sweet, sweet first puff... Damn I gotta quit that!
So, in conclusion, I am bad. I am disappointed in myself. I am altogether weaker and more duplicitous than I ever dreamed. I am a bad partner... Hell, I'm a cheater!
...and I am also apparently going to go and have another cigarette before I start biting my nails again and suddenly find myself gnawing on my elbow because I've already swallowed my forearm one nibble at a time.
Wish me luck - although I don't know whether that means you'll be rooting for me to get caught or not. Up to you, I guess.

Title lyric from "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse (as peformed on the new Fox series "Glee")

Just A Couple Of My Cravings

2009-05-24T18:46:00.004-04:00

We are trying to quit smoking (again).
It's not easy this time. When I was a teenager, I smoked. Usually about half a pack a day, often a little less. Then when my first wife was pregnant with my oldest daughter she took me up on the subject.
"How am I supposed to quit smoking," she inquired, a cigarette blazing away in one hand above her burgeoning belly, "if you don't?"
"See this?" I asked, and took the cigarette out of my mouth. I stubbed it out and threw it away.
"Mmm-hmm," she observed rather sarcastically. "Right. Sure."
"See this?" I asked again, and took out my cigarette pack. I picked up a pair of scissors that were lying conveniently nearby and cut the (soft) pack in half. "There," I said, hands on hips. "I'm done." I was, too. That was my last cigarette. She never did quit.
Fast forward nineteen years. My oldest son, J, started smoking.
At first, I was an absolute dick about it. I screamed, I cried, I threw myself on the ground and wept. I literally created a scene whenever I saw him with one. After about two weeks of this behavior, he switched to menthols out of revenge.
"Look at me, Dad," he'd say, taking one out and lighting it. He'd inhale a big old whack off it and say, "Mmm, I'm in flavor country."
I lasted maybe another two weeks. Then, one day when I was feeling particularly stressed and he started this routine, I growled "Gimme one of those," and smoked one. It was horrible; it made me lightheaded, plus giving my lungs that on-fire sensation every smoker craves. My son only gave me a knowing smirk, the big bastard, and continued to smoke. A few days later, I asked him for another one. A day after that, another one. At some point shortly thereafter (and I'm talking like fifteen minutes when I say shortly) I went out and bought my own pack. I've been smoking again ever since.
So now, as I mentioned, I'm trying to quit again. Partly because I occasionally cough up trace amounts of blood (attractive!) and partly because the sin tax on filthy delicious coffin nails is getting ridiculous. Marijuana is literally cheaper... and I'm never quitting that, so don't start with me. I've tried everything, too. Cold turkey, wearing a rubber band on my wrist to snap myself with every time I experience a craving (useless!), and even switching brands to a very cheap, very unsatisfying NON-menthol brand, which has actually been the most effective so far - I've actually cut down to about two or three a day, and every time I do smoke it's with the same sort of disgust I once reserved for accidentally sharting my pants. The other night I actually dreamed about smoking a cigarette - not just any cigarette, but my favorite brand: Marlboro 72's in the blue box. Talk about a wish-fulfillment dream... Hell, it was almost a wet dream, come to think of it.
The worst part is the sanctimonious crap I get from people about quitting. It's about time, they tell me constantly, and you of all people should know better. The very worst crap comes from other smokers, though, who tell me that quitting is good for me because of my health. I have on one or two of these occasions muttered something like, if you were so goddamned worried about YOUR health you'd shut the fuck up right about now. Clearly, smoking was at least good for my temper.
Sadly, though, my beloved is quitting too, and he has MUCH more willpower than I do - which probably explains why we're still together and I remain unstrangled. Since he is doing it entirely for me, I can but throw up my hands and give myself up for loved. I will therefore close with this injunction for those of you who know me IRL: should you ever see me with a cigarette in my hand, calling me a cheater is justified, but telling my beloved is signing your own death sentence.
You have been notified, and can blame no-one but yourself.

Title lyric from "Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk" by Rufus Wainwright.

No Change, I Can't Change

2009-05-23T19:29:00.004-04:00

Once upon a time, I was a dad. I had kids, lots of them, and a wife and a house and a job. All that regular stuff. It was good for a long time, too. We all really loved each other and got along. We made a very happy household. I liked being a dad. I tried really hard to be the best dad that I could. Some of the things I had to do to be a good dad were easy. Others were hard in ways I never could have imagined before I had kids. Still, I took the bad with the good and it was a life. That time lasted almost fifteen years.
But then it went bad. I wasn't happy. My wife wasn't happy. We were really unhappy with each other, and that made the kids unhappy. I moved out. Sometimes I wish I hadn't. I miss being a dad every single day, and if there's a God then he's the only one who can count the tears I've shed over the kids I can't see now. But I didn't know it would be this way when I left between their mother and I. More than anything, I wish that we could get past the bitterness and blame to what's really important to both of us. Right now, we can't.
I'm lucky. There is still love in my life. If I hadn't struck out on my own, I might never have met my partner, and that really would have made my life less in almost every way. I love him very much, and I'm always sorry when the problems I haven't resolved from the past hurt him too. Life is very hard that way; but if there were no hard parts or sad parts or angry parts, there would be no glad parts, no joyous parts, and no contrast between pleasure and pain. I guess that's why we get a dose of both.
So now I want to make tomorrow better. I want to avoid the mistakes of the past, even though I know some mistakes can never be foreseen beforehand because they are made in the best of faith. I want to enjoy another long and happy time with the people I love around me. I want to do all the things I like best, to write and to read and to learn from the world. I want to drink it all in like wine.
I only wish there was no bottom to this wine barrel, and no bitter dregs.

Title lyric from "Bittersweet Symphony" by The Verve.

I Need To Know

2009-05-10T09:57:00.003-04:00

I think sometimes that it's sort of darkly funny that the two big gay issues of the moment are gay marriage and DADT. I joked to a friend recently, "Oh, sure, just what we needed: the right to divorce each other to financial death and the right to die violently on foreign soil. Three cheers indeed." I really was just joking, too. If getting married is what you and your partner want to do then you should indeed have that right. Just like it's completely your right if you want to serve in the military - although that compulsion has (thankfully!) eluded me thus far. I don't get the burning desire to have either one of them, to be honest, although I have much more empathy for the marriage side than the military.
What I want so much more than either of those two legally recognized rights is a couple social concessions from straight people as a group. When I walk down the street with the man I love and his hand brushes mine, I'd like to be able to hold it without anyone batting an eyelash. When we're at the beach and we sit side by side, one pair of dudes among five or six pairs of straight couples, we get that we're different, but not why that's such a huge ordeal. So what? Why does it make it okay for evidently otherwise civilized people to share their thoughts with us on why we're disgusting and immoral and 'fags.' Honestly, I don't care if people think that. Everybody gets to think what they want. There are people that I find pretty disgusting, and you might be surprised at some of the targets I pick.
Oh, I know that my wish isn't gonna come true any time soon. Maybe the marriage and military things will move us closer to that. I can't see the future, and sometimes things turn out that way. But I doubt it. I think it's a lot more likely that during the hard times of the future (and there will be hard times, because there always are) the door that has swung open for us will swing shut. Laws can be repealed, rights can be taken away as easily as they are granted. When people are afraid - like they were afraid after 9/11 - they have a way of showing their secret faces. When you're afraid for too long it can turn to hate, and hate can be misplaced. That's how witch hunts start.
But maybe if you took a minute to read this, and you're the sort of person who might be inclined to share their views on the subject, go ahead and tell me. I'm ready: tell me why it's right, tell me why it's wrong, tell me how it all makes sense. I can't tell anymore.

Title lyric from the song of the same name by Tom Petty.

They Say To Make It You Need Talent And Ambition

2009-05-04T12:44:00.003-04:00

I can't decide which part of the whole Carrie Prejean/Miss America debacle I find more tawdry and sad: that the pageant evidently paid for her breast implants, that I found her reply really not at all offensive but her behavior afterward gold-digging and brainless, or that it's made me feel an extremely grudging (and passing!) respect for Perez Hilton. Probably that last angle is the worst one, since I've always sort of thought that Perez is sort of a douchebag in a loud, obnoxious, doing-nobody-including-himself-any-favors sort of way, and even though he's acted pretty much like a douchebag through the whole thing himself he at least stuck to his guns, and for that I'm willing to give him his props, as the kids say. Of course, the fact that she simply and politely stated her opinion but then had to go and do exactly what she said she wasn't - namely, campaigning against same-sex marriage - because it seemed like there might be a buck or two in it just makes me tired and sad, but it's exactly what I expected. As to the breast implants, whatever happened to 'natural beauty?' But whatever, let's face it, beauty pageants are all about shallowness and exploitation with a scholarship reward like a crackerjack prize at the bottom, so I guess it's my fault for paying attention to a pop-culture debacle in the first place and I have no-one to blame for my disgust over the whole thing but myself.
After all, I could have done something worthwhile and uplifting with the ten minutes I burned watching all the coverage on blogs and YouTube instead, right?

Here's Julie Brown performing my take on the whole mess.
Julie Brown- "Cause I'm a Blond"

Title lyric from "'Cause I'm A Blonde" by Julie Brown.

So I Drew A New Face And I Laughed

2009-05-02T09:56:00.002-04:00

So I realized today that I feel good. Really good, maybe for the first time in a long time. I have learned one of the big truths of life: happiness really can heal a lot of ills, and unhappiness can kill you. Sure, happiness (like life) doesn't last forever. But it sure is terrific while it's there, isn't it?
The sad part is that happiness is great to experience, but boring to read (and write!) about. Good food, quiet times and crazy-hot sex turn into a laundry list of "I did this and it was super." Boring.
So I hope you're having a good time, and that it's super boring to hear about. I know I am.

Title lyric from "I'm Yours" by Jason Mraz.

What? What?

2009-04-23T11:50:00.004-04:00

Lately, I've been joking around with some online friends about Gay Jesus and what he wants for our lives. Not in a sacrilegious sort of way - I want to be clear, I am making fun of NOBODY with this, but just in a 'Jesus loves us too' sort of way. It started with the Family Guy episode about Peter being injected with the gay gene; his family sends him to a re-education camp, where they tell him that 'Jesus hates many people, but none more than YOU.' I said at the time, "Maybe straight Jesus feels that way, but gay Jesus just loves everybody..." and thus this meme/joke was born. After referencing Gay Jesus when reminding my fellow homos that we should be nice to each other several times, one of my friends said, "Who is this Gay Jesus of whom you speak? Tell me more." That's how the Ten Suggestions Of Gay Jesus was begun.
So, in the hopes that you might find these funny and thought provoking BUT IN NO WAY irreligious, bigoted or blasphemous, here are the Ten Suggestions of Gay Jesus.

The Ten Suggestions of Gay Jesus*

1. Gay Jesus wants you to be happy. If you were having a blue night and Jesus bumped into you at the club/bar/after party, he would totally dance at least one whole song with you so you'd feel better.(Probably not more than one, because a lot of people need His love these days.) On the other hand, if you're having a good night or looking especially good and you see someone else who's having a bad night, you should totally dance at least one dance with them so they feel better. (Again, you're only obligated to one. Gay Jesus knows your time is valuable too.)
2. Gay Jesus wants you to be healthy - so bring back free condoms sponsored by the government. Oh, and eat better and exercise and call your mother. This is not meant to imply that Gay Jesus is a rehab clinic. Addiction is one of those unfortunate consequences of being human that need to be fixed quietly and with as much dignity as possible, sort of the way they fix unfortunate moles with plastic surgery. So be good to yourselves and each other.
3. Gay Jesus does not want you to be a pain in the ass. So, next time you feel like you've got something to say or act out, pause for just a second and ask yourself how you might react if you saw a total stranger do or say or be arrested for what YOU'RE about to do. It helps, it really does.
4. Gay Jesus affirms that everybody wants to love somebody. He is in favor of relationships of whatever duration, and agrees that people who still like each other after a decade or so are pretty amazing, no matter what their genders, ages, or fashion issues. At the same time, he disapproves of stalking, meanness and any relationship that begins with "ex-." Gay Jesus says, 'When it's over, it's OVER. Move on.'
5. Gay Jesus wants everybody to be productive. He also wants us to express ourselves on every level possible. He even agrees that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So, next time your Aunt Muriel is showing you her macrame owl, just remember whose side Gay Jesus is on and SHUT YOUR SMART MOUTH.
6. Gay Jesus loves you no matter how incredibly swishy a queen you are, no matter how diesel a dyke you are, and even no matter if you can number the people you've slept with in platoons. He says so on his Manhunt profile, so you know it's true. GAY JESUS LOVES YOU. Just please, read his hookup requirements before you private message him, m'kay?
7.Gay Jesus is not a big prude. He is a fan of and contestant in the big biological sweepstakes known as sex. Every adult human being is happier when they have sex of some kind in their lives, no matter how sad and unimaginative their conception of sex may be. If it makes them happy, you shouldn't knock it... At least where people can hear.

8. Gay Jesus realizes that humor is necessary to the human condition, and that sometimes humor can get a little mean and still be funny. In harmony with suggestion #3, Gay Jesus hopes that if you MUST say something horrible because it's funny and it deserves to be said that you will bring it to him in prayer. He will totally give you credit when he repeats it - just as conscientiously and anonymously, OF COURSE. On the other hand, if you recognize something about yourself in a joke that is nevertheless actually funny, MAYBE THAT'S SOMETHING YOU NEED TO WORK ON. Think about it.

9. Gay Jesus says that we should all like people who are different from us. If your friends are all pretty much the same as you, then YOU'RE BORING, and that makes Gay Jesus a titch annoyed. Find someone much more interesting than yourself and learn from them. It's not too late. Remember, Gay Jesus really does just love everybody, and he's not just saying that.
10. Finally, Gay Jesus is a fan of fashion-affirming lifestyle choices. If you aren't stylish and can't help it, Gay Jesus will love you anyway, but he might decline your coffee invitations because your living room wallpaper hurts his eyes. If anything about your taste in clothing, home decor or sexual fetish makes you feel self-conscious, remember that there ARE professionals eager to help you with your problem who are just a phone call away.

*These are just suggestions because Gay Jesus only gives commandments when he's got his leather on... and then you just better say YES SIR.

Title lyric from "What? What? (In The Butt?)" by Samwell.

I Don't Know

2009-04-16T17:03:00.003-04:00

I started to write today, but then I couldn't.
The blank white space where the little black words are supposed to go was staying blank. When I stared at it, the white space stared right back at me.
It's not that I don't have things to say. I want so bad to write it exactly as it flows through my head, but there are so many limitations I must observe that I have to skip from one permissible stone to another instead of swimming in the stream. I know how writing is supposed to feel, and it's just like that: I'm a little dark fish in the story river. Sometimes I get caught in little backwaters, unable to find the main current again. Sometimes, I make it all the way to the sea.
This is how it is. Right now the sun is slanting down the window at the foot of the bed, and it casts green shadows on my feet. The comforter looks like metallic corduroy and feels like oiled silk. My lover is composing a song on his keyboard, and I can feel the sounds he's orchestrating flowing the way the words should come to me. Quicksilver cool to swim in, every next word obvious from the last.
It won't come, though. I can't force it to be the way I want. I can't constrain it into the traditional forms, I can't think about the readers out there scratching their heads. The only narrative moment is the now, and it can only show me its contents through its fish-eye lens, distorting like the peephole in a cheap apartment door. Why try to contrive a mask for myself when I can never actually capture the truth of the moment anyway? My misperceptions are their own camouflage.
So I'll go back to the beginning and I'll start again. The story will change with every iteration, yet the core truth abides. We all are doomed to do what it is that we do, and this is the doom for me.
So listen, if you want to hear: Once upon a time...

Title lyric from the song of the same name by Lisa Hannigan.