It’s the end of the year as we know it

And I feel fine.

Here are a few memories from 2007. Happy new year, folks.

The porcelain teacup was smaller than usually seen in America. And it was a teacup, not a mug. Alongside the cup was the spoon. A small, wrapped windmill cookie was perched on the edge of the saucer.

The sun shone down through the window of the café. Shoppers and tourists passed by my view of the narrow bricked street outside my perch inside the café. I sipped my tea. I opened the cookie and cracked a piece off to nibble on. I smiled to myself and inhaled another puff of the skunky smoke.

Amsterdam, April 6, 2007



I opened that email with a rush of hope; I closed it with the crush of despair. Simple, well chosen words that told me I was not the one. I had led myself to believe there was more than there was; I needed it so badly, but I didn’t know how much it showed.

So much hope and promise. Yet, it was like hearing the 7th note in music, it was an incomplete relationship, destined not to rest.

I met a friend later that night. He could read it on my face. I mumbled some excuse about my work situation, and have tried to move on.

I wish he could have called. I still wish he would.

Home, March 15. 2007


Three minutes passed; three more miles closer; twenty minutes to go. He calculated the number of times he’d have to say no to himself before he could let it rest at work. Quitting could not be easier; quitting could not be more distracting.

Each mile was another minute he’d made it.without smoking a cigarette. It was a curious challenge in that he had very little physical urge or need to smoke. It was nearly all mental. He could say no. It was just a matter of saying no a lot.

Fortunately, his background in Calvinism made that part easy.

Day one of not smoking for the rest of my life

Home, June 18, 2007


My friend smiled back at me, and whispered, “darlin’ you wouldn’t have to tie me up, but you could.”

Before us, a generously furry blond and stocky man in a kilt was being trussed up like a turkey; his partner watching intently. My friend and I were here on a little R & R. Summer fun with a buddy from Cleveland who I hadn’t seen in two years. We had had shared a very special weekend then, and were happy to share another. B & D demo night at Touche was merely a sideshow to what we were doing to each other in our heads and later in bed.

And when the morning light comes streaming in, you get up and do it again. Amen.

Chicago, August 10, 2007

Christmas Babies

Just some random thoughts...

To Mothers and Fathers with new Christmas Babies:

Here are some do’s and don’ts, from a guy who’s lived as a Christmas baby all my life.

Do:

Have a birthday celebration for years 1-16 or so.
Give separate birthday gifts
Do celebrate Christmas – Go to Church if you can
Invite family over
Tell your child that he or she was the most special gift you ever received!

Don’t:
Make them wear Santa outfits after the age of 3
Tell everyone their birth story, unless it involves a manger
Give them names like Jesus, Chris, Mary, Merry, or Noel.
Use red or green as decorations on the cake

For better or worse

Would they have done it if they could have? Would it have made a difference in the end?

I have two close friends. They have been together (living separately) for seven years. They are lovers, buddies, boyfriends, partners. That’s all they could ever be, legally. Not husbands to each other—that can’t happen. So, maybe that’s why it didn’t?

Now that their relationship is in a rocky spot, what happens? In some instances, I suspect, it gets set aside because there is no legal commitment. But, in this case, the rocky spot is a core issue—priorities of attention and, essentially, respect and love are at issue. Now they are thinking of ending the relationship. Would it be different if they had been married? Would a legal expression of love have triumphed, or made it more of an ideal or standard in their relationship that could have weathered this time?

Sometimes I think so. Having been married, the legal union is a permanent bond of commitment that takes a relationship to a stronger level. That does not mean that a non-legally-binding relationship cannot have the same type of bonds, it just means that a non-binding relationship doesn’t have to, and often doesn’t.

A second reason may be the lack of tradition in gay relationships. Without the institution, men and women were forced to set their own standards, and for many reasons, they may have chosen lesser bonds of commitment. Gay couples have had the freedom to define their own relationships, and often, they eschewed the conventional, monogamous or traditional form of a relationship. While straights also have that freedom to define their relationship, the legal relationship itself is not, and they find themselves bound together despite their feelings.

A conundrum, to be sure. Whether to be gay and free, or whether freedom is, as Janis sang, “another word for nothing left to lose.”

And when you have something to lose, such as your legal rights or privileges, you may think twice about how you handle your relationship.

Meanwhile, I have two friends whose relationship is on the rocks. Would they have married? Probably not. Are they better off without that option? Of course not.

While I am not sure it would make a difference in whether they stayed together or not, I think it does give a person pause, when thinking about changing or ending a relationship. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health....

The snow

It's always a little extra quiet on the morning after a snowfall. Something about the thick blanket covering all that mutes sound. That, and the fact that there is very little traffic.





This picture is from early afternoon, Sunday, the 16th. I had just finished shoveling the walks, and brushing off my car. The trusty Toyota, in full winter beater glory.

I've been looking at newer cars for such a long time. Dreaming of one, actually. It is tough making a decision on my own this time. I just don't want to tie up too much money into a car, yet, I am a car nut, who's been deprived of a great ride for many years.

I said to a co-worker, "Think of it this way...a guy my age has been driving and owning family cars for many years, this middle-age sports car thing is not an attempt to recapture youth, it's an attempt to just have some fun again."

In the meantime, I'll wait at least another month or so to get one.

fa la la

A set of elves. Originally, there were probably eight or ten of these sculpted pipe cleaner elves in grey-purple and silver-sage. Oh, and there was a frosty-aqua one, too, now that I'm remembering more. I think they were from the 40s. They had ruddy clay faces and cotton-tuftedbeards. I'm not sure where they are now. I used to have a couple of them when I was married.

Since I was a child, the elves were always on our tree. They went on last, because their heads (above their faces) were actually little loops that would only fit on the tip of a branch.

Until I was about 10, we always had a real tree. A child of the 60s, it was no real violation to purchase an artificial one (although ours was particularly miserable, and lived under an Uptown Cleaners drycleaning bag during its 11 month hibernation.) Despite my sad description of Christmas past and the 60s suburban aesthetic, it had its own charm. And each year, I'd place the elves on the tree. I miss them this year.

At some point, I will get pictures from my sisters. It will not be pretty; it will be reality. Imagine a 18"x40" low, 1940s coffee table, re-imagined for the late 60s with an avocado green Formica top. My dad worked in Formica at that time. The tree was placed on that little coffee table, which was centered in front of the living room window.

The tiny tree was laden with ornaments from our family. Older, broken sets of metallic globes with Angel hair inside, and many golden-glass baskets and orbs made up the bulk of the flash, accompanied by tacky crafts from Sunday School, layered below a heap of icicles. We usually bought a new package of icicles each year, but there were always a few crinkly leftovers to remind us of Christmas past. Lights, too, were a mish-mash of old-style indoor bulbs and miniatures; many colors, shapes, blinkers and bubblers that were carefully arranged to show the best ones towards the street. On top was a single spire of spun glass. Nicer than most sold these days, I think my sister still has ownership of it.

Memories of Christmas.

Isn't it rich, isn't it queer

Where are the elves.

Send in the elves.

Merry Christmas Darling

Ok, I can be a sentimental old fool. My eyes get moist sometimes, and even if I brush it away with the back of my hand, I can see the dried tears later when I wash my face or squeeze an errant blackhead from my post-post adolescent face.

What tears me up? Sometimes the silliest plots or moments on TV. Crap like Little House on the Prairie or the Waltons, even. Sometimes it's something a little more significant, like music.

Yesterday, I spent part of my Christmas Bonus on an Ipod. I bought an 8 gig Nano, and hope it's big enough. I never thought I would enjoy one so much. Loading my music and listening has been a treat.

That Carpenter's Christmas CD I bought last year finally got cracked open and downloaded.

Merry Christmas, Darling.

And so much more.

James Taylor. Mexico.

Stevie Wonder. Isn't She Lovely?

And lest you think I have a totally "classic" music collection, there's a few from NIN also. Those don't make me cry, though.

I think having this Ipod kind of makes up for losing a large number of CD's this summer when my car was broken into.

Merry Christmas to me. Or happy birthday. (Doesn't matter--for those who don't know, my b-day is on December 25.)

To Daddy

Today was my father's birthday. He would have been 98 this year. He died a mature man of 67. Hardly a long life. Hardly enough time to enjoy the years ahead. Hardly enough time to learn who this mamma's man/boy was back then, and certainly not enough time for me to fully appreciate what he was and what he did for me.

Growing up in rural Michigan, my dad was the fourth son of a family of eight. He was the second one born here in the states. Back in Holland, where my grandfather was from, they were gardeners, caretakers. Here in America, they became farmers.

I'm certain he never understood me, a somewhat wild, free-spirited 60s/70s kid. I just wish sometimes, that he could have lived to see the man I've become. Although he's been gone for over 30 years, I probably feel closer to him now that I'm 50 than I did when I was 20. I know I understand him much more, too.

Happy birthday, dad.

Weekend Upgayt

Dear F,

Clever enough title, if not entirely original. But, it about sums up my weekend--a whirlwind of events, some fun, some sad, but basically a good time. Hope yours was also--except for the sad part. Geez, that Chrysler 300 you rented sounded like fun (especially when you read what I rode in).

We got into Chicago around 5 on Friday, and met up with a friend (J) of my neighbor. He hosted us for dinner and is a marvelous fella, if a little ADHD, in my humble opinion. I think the D also stands for Drama. He's also an amateur/pro photographer and we ended up taking a lot of tasteful pics, which will be heretofore featured across my profile as I take up my new quest to find the man-o-my-dreams.

Anyway, I digress. My friend R and I and J then made it out to Touche, eventually, You see, J got a call from a person close to his most recent ex, (now in S.F.) He had some serious regression in his health and ended up suffering a stroke. Nonetheless, J felt he should go out, celebrate and got himself pretty trashed. Through it all, though I think it was a good distraction and probably good that we could keep an eye on him, because it was pretty clear to J that his ex was not going to make it. (insert specific elements here--suffice to say it was a difficult and pretty tragic story).

Anyhoo, we had a fun time at Touche, and the Jackhammer. However, nothing much was going on in terms of action. We settled for being drunk. Note to Jackhammer: lower the lights in the basement. It's too cheery.

The next day, with all the good, gay intentions we could muster, R and I bailed on the Art Institute, and decided to tour the Steamworks Instititute instead. Curiously, there was no twister inside, as I had been led to believe. We made do, and each met a few friendly locals who could have passed for VanGogh (Kirk Douglas) or someone equally arty like Jackson Pollock. MMMM Ed Harris. Again, I digress.

Returning to our hotel late afternoon, we napped and then later Sat. evening J picked us up in his 1991 Toyota Camry. The curious coincidence of both of us owning near-vintage Camrys was mediated by the fact that his was much closer to the boneyard than mine. Seriously, this baby was a-roaring down Halstead with a hole in the muffler as big as, well, insert your own large hole reference here. J brought a friend, D, along, and the four of us made our way to the Eagle.

F, to be honest, I did not realize there was a lower model version of the Toyota than mine. I have a DX, fer chrissakes. Anyway, this one did not have power windows or a clock. Somehow, that made me feel both better about myself (because my car was better), and yet worse, (since it is still a very old, non-cool car).

OK, back to the narrative.

We get to the Eagle. We have a good time. J took pics. I flirted in the backroom. So did R. Geez, that back bathroom is popular. We left promptly at 3:30, after seeing most of the video best butt contest. A shame that more boys couldn't win. I'm sure they could find some consolation, though, if they only looked around.

Sunday, after church, we had breakfast at the same place you and I ate last summer in Boystown. The name escapes me, but it was yummy. The Huevos Rancheros were nearly as tasty as the young waiter.

Well, except for the nasty 45 min. traffic jam on the way out of town, we cruised on our way home. No, not that way. We got back to R's place around 5 and I got home about an hour later.

I hope your weekend was fun, too.

M

Two Steps Forward...

One step back.

If the cliche fits, dye it to match. Or something like that.

Maybe it's my age; rather, maybe it's the fact that I have lived through social change. It is not a linear progress.

ENDA will happen, it is a matter of time. I have faith in that much. But whether it is with T and TG or without. That's the step back.

Once, an older black guy said to me, after we had shared/seen a person treated with some serious disrespect. While I seethed, he murmured to me. "It just is."

I wish it were different.

Watching the Detectives

Well, I guess I'm on notice. Or else I'm getting paranoid.

The ENDA post of a few days ago has gotten someone's look in Washington DC. If you track back, you'll see that I asked readers to contact their congressperson to check on their vote. I checked mine, and found out Vern Ehlers voted against it. No real suprise there, Vern is a
Republican and party-line kind of guy.

But, the reason I'm paranoid is that one of the addresses on the sitemap was from the house.gov address. I wonder who it was?

Somebody's watching me!

Craigslist #3?

Craigslist #3 – Trouble ahead

Date: 2007-11-11, 10:33PM ESTProfessional guy seeks college age guys (younger) for trading massages or more. I am a curious and exploring guy and to be honest - like a man's hands on me. I'm 41, 6'1", 225, all man, curious, exploring - more details can be asked for sure. Discretion is a must - total in fact - or no deal. Just two guys being guys, sharing - having fun as guys - no one needs to know. Love a guys scent, smell, even his gear. Sound like you? Tell me about you - and what you are exploring. I have no desire for anal - so don't ask. Be you and be real. I look forward to emailing - and seeing where it leads. So, email me... let me know... tell me about you! I will respond to all inquiries. Have a great week!

All right, bud. I understand your fantasy, but have this to offer. Think back to when you were that college student. Unless you have some daddy issues, you’re probably just some frustrated, overweight (a little) married guy, and really are just a blip on the screen to the average 20 year old. Face it. This ad is not going to work miracles. Sorry to tell ya.

But, you sound very frustrated. You love a man’s scent. You’d like to explore. No anal, though! Don’t even ask!

Good luck, sister. Read between the lines.

HAVE A GREAT WEEK YOURSELF!

40 votes

Just 40 votes separate us from an ENDA veto override. My congressman, Vern Ehlers, is one of those who needs to change his vote. I sent him a note today. One of many he will receive, I hope, in protest of his narrow-minded view of equality and protection.

We all need to check our representative’s votes and send them a note about our concerns. We owe it to ourselves. We owe it to our brothers and sisters and children. And for those who have gay parents or grandparents or neighbors or friends. For everyone.

It’s the right thing to do. Check out your representative's vote here

http://clerk.house.gov/evs/2007/roll1057.xml

Little things about smoking I do not miss

I don't miss having to plan ahead for having enough cigarettes for the next 24 hours.

I don't miss having to carry a couple of extra things with me.

I don't miss having to worry about it at all.

I don't miss that I do not have a callous on my thumb, from flicking my bic anymore.

A couple of days ago, I tried to take a count of how many times a day I think about having a cigarette. It's down to 3 or 4 moments/reminders. That's all. No real urge to get back into that pool. As they say, ish.

the Glory Part

For many months, there was no glory hole. Then, one spring night, he entered the empty men’s room and discovered a crudely hewn, half-dollar sized hole, just below and to the left of the toilet paper dispenser in the farthest stall. He quickly examined its construction, and felt gingerly around the bent metal rim. It was, in its own way, crudely attractive. A hole designed for pleasure, and perhaps even a little pain. Rather than sticking around continuing to admire it, he exited the restroom, and returned to his truck, hoping to observe what might happen before he tried it out.

A few cigarettes and a few puffs on a roach later, another car drove in. A single, male driver. That’s good, he thought. The driver parked the car, and walked towards the grim building. He was a decent looking man, probably in his 30’s, Sometimes he could tell if a man was interested by the way he dawdled or looked around on his way in, but not this time. After a healthy minute, he gathered up his courage, and went inside.

A quick glance under the stalls showed a pair of Adidas under the last one. He entered the one next to it, dropped trou, and sat down. From his angle, he couldn’t see much on the other side, except for a hairy thigh. Good so far, he thought. Leaning forward, he adjusted my angle and caught a glimpse of the other man’s crotch, his hand covering his dick.

He watched his own penis start to grow. He sat back, and adjusted himself. A shadow moved on the floor, indicating that the other guy was now leaning forward to look in. He felt the gaze, and moved his hand slightly, to reveal the base of the shaft, while the rest of it grew thicker as it hung between his legs.

The shadow moved back. The man on the other side leaned back, giving him a full view. He could see the shaft, poking out of a healthy, hairy basket. He kept looking, waiting for him to start to stroke. He started dragging his palm down the shaft, revealing a blood-engorged, pink crown on what looked like about a six-inch shaft. After a moment, he stopped stroking, and gripped the head tight.

He had to arrange his dick up from between his legs to keep it from touching the rim of the toilet, so he sat back and gave the other guy an equally revealing view, stroking his dick slowly. The other guy took a long look, and before he sat back, he poked his tongue through the hole twice.

He stood up, quickly checked out the room and leaned against the wall, aiming his dick towards the rough hole. At 6’4”, he had to do a semi-squat to get his dick through. Pressing himself close to the wall, he gripped the handicap bar for support and poked it through. He was rewarded by a warm, wet sensation that went from the mouth on the other side, to his dick.

He kept a firm grip on the handicap bar, lest his dick slip and scrape against the bent metal, while feeling a warm suction on his dick from the other side. He knew enough to keep an ear out for the sound of the door, which would signal the need for a very hasty retreat. Very soon, that familiar ache in his nuts started to make itself known..

After a minute or so more of sucking and stroking, he thought it only fair to give back for a while. He slowly extracted his dick from the hole, and poked his finger through it, to indicate he wanted to suck the other man’s dick.

He sat on the edge of the toilet, and heard him shuffle on the other side. He waited for the other guy to poke his pole through the hole. And when it did it was nice to look at--almost as big as his own with a nice, defined head. He grasped the meat and lowered his mouth on the tip. He took in the head and went to work.

After a few minutes, he pulled back and indicated he wanted me back. He went back to the position and his warm, wet mouth went to work again. Soon he was near that point of no return, that point when his nuts told him there’s no turning back.

He was ready to shoot, and wasn’t sure the other guy was the swallowing type, so he reluctantly extracted his member and let the other guy watch while he finished off in his own hand.

Evidently the other guy was also close, and started to shoot after just a few strokes of his own hand after watching. His cum splattered on the tile floor, a few large splots of white that quickly turned clear.

The deed done, they quickly exited, satisfied for another night. He took another trip back two days later and the hole was gone, replaced by a riveted stainless steel shield on both sides.

Craigslist #2 - Sorry To Tell You

All right, here's a request his wife would surely approve of. And, of course he doesn't want to do any of those gay things like kiss a man. Jesus!

I am seeking a married man to suck on a regular basis - m4m - 44
Reply to: XXXXXXXXXXX
Date: 2007-10-25, 9:59AM EDTI am a clean cut professional married guy who would like to give oral to another married guy on a regular basis (no one time hook ups - no exceptions). Looking to hook up with a man who doesn't suck cock but enjoys receiving oral and does not mind that he is being sucked by another guy. Just looking for something casusal, I am pretty straight and masculine and I am not into kissing or fem stuff nor am I looking for a boyfriend. I am very discreet and require the same from you, I am disease free and need to stay that way so you need to be clean, and you need to know of a place to meet (and it can not be out behind a tree somewhere). I have a family too so times are limited but would like to meet like twice a week to keep you satisfied, but am willing to get together when ever you are horny and need release. I would prefer a cock that is cut. Your age and race are really no big issue, although 30-50 is preferred. I don't need a hard body guy but no one real obese.

On the other hand, he's pretty low maintenance--maybe I should send him a note....

No, not this time.

Veggie Curious

“I want to try to be a vegetarian,” asked my boss. "What do they call that?"

“Veggie curious,” I replied.

Being veggie curious is where it’s at in my household, at least since child #2 decided to be a vegan last winter. Not being a total stranger to a vegetarian diet, more of a veggie-curious guy all along, I’ve been really enjoying cooking when she and her roommate come over.

She’s always amazed how I can toss together a little entrée in about ½ hour and I enjoy teaching her and her roommate about how to cook. Last week’s dinner included:

Stir fry: eggplant, mushrooms, onion, garlic, fresh yellow beans (microwave steamed for 6 min. before), purple bell pepper. Season with McCormick’s savory mix (mainly rosemary), salt and pepper. After veggies are stir fried, add ½ can of Ro-tel tomatoes with chiles.

While I made the stir fry, #2 made falafel from a mix. We never had them before, but they also turned out great. Nice, crispy and tasty—much better than a chicken nugget any day of the week.

Roommate assembled the salad (organic mix) with heirloom tomatoes

Bread (local bakery)

It was mighty tasty.

Having her over, cooking for her—cooking for others always puts a smile on my face.

Journalism 101 for Matt Lauer

All right, I'll admit to having a crush on Matt. Especially after seeing him without his shirt on. Nice abs, Matt. Too bad you spent all that time in the gym instead of in journalism class. Or perhaps with a gay man who could have prepped you for that interview.

First of all. Don't ask whether Larry Craig is gay or not. Of course he does not identify as gay. He's afraid of admitting to himself what he's been hiding for years.

Here's what Matt should have asked:

Have you ever had a sexual encounter with a man?

When was it? Did you ever receive or give oral sex with a man? Did you mutually masturbate with another man? Did you receive or give oral sex? Did you ....well you know where this is going.

With how many men, etc?

It's simple, Matt. Ask the right question.

Who cares if he thinks he's gay or not. He's obviously an idiot, and a liar. He's a Senator, for Chrissakes! If it walks like a duck.

Second big question for Matt to ask:

What do you mean by lifestyle? Cuz if you mean behavior, then you're busted, buddy. Because part of the lifestyle is having sex with other men.

How simple can it get?

F-Buds

Fuck buds

Neither Tom and Jerry, Bugs and Daffy, Lenny and Carl, or any other male couple in popular culture effectively represents the bond between two fuck buddies. Two men who are into each other sexually, respect each other on a social level, and have a good time together.

I’ve had a few fuck buds over the years. There was a succession of them, actually. There were the repeat guys I met at the rest stops and parks. Lots of those guys back then were married, like myself. The ones who were fuck buds were more than quickies. We wouldn’t just have sex, we would talk. Some of these relationships lasted two or three months, some lasted many years. Some were a little twisted, like the guy who drove a Coupe DeVille to the local softball fields and propped his size 12 pumps on the dashboard for those who were interested. It wasn’t his shoes, but his gently graying, well groomed façade, a Midwestern version of Ricardo Montalban, that led me to his car. But I digress.

Eventually, I learned, they all end. And that’s perhaps the roughest part of having one. How do you balance the need for good sex with the need for everything else in life? Good sex often takes the back seat (and not in a good way).

It seems the key to a long term relationship with a bud; however, always hinges on a few key areas.

1. a shared level of sexual intensity
2. some level of common interests
3. able to be honest about the relationship
4. able to respect the importance of keeping other commitments

Hmm, sounds a lot like a bf, minus the dating.

If I Had Come Out

If I had been able to come out to my co-workers last Friday, it would have happened like this:

Me:

Hey, folks, I'm gay.

them:

Chill, no prob, man.

Ok, here's the story. In spite of my mental preparation, our little department never went out for lunch last Friday, which precluded us from having a regular meeting spot that would be conducive for my little revelation.

I'm not really worried about it. When it happens this coming week, I'm sure it will work out fine.

On to other posts.

Outing Myself

I thought that ?? (movie/tv character) was gay.”

“My first boyfriend was gay, I’ve never really understood that.”

“It’s O.K. You can tell us.”

All right, the first two are actual co-workers’ quotes from this week. The third one I made up because I couldn’t remember the one my boss said today. But it was, overall, a week that offered up a variety of opportunities to talk about being gay. Coming out was/is on my mind, and if I had felt that any of those were the right opening line, I may have jumped on it.

I know, those two of you who are reading this, that you might have expected some grand post today. Have patience. The specifics are that our department has a weekly luncheon on Friday, and that’s where I planned to step out. Besides, the office magpie (and I say that in the most Christian way, possible) was home sick today, and I deserve to experience her reaction fully.

So, tomorrow it is. Day late, maybe, but who cares.

I’m sure it will be just fine. For chrissakes, I’m working with two English majors and a Theatre major. As if that’s not gay.

Working Man

I much prefer working to the alternative.

One of the tenets of my Calvinist upbringing was the importance or value of work. A man's occupation (sorry, women, this is my past) was his reason for living, and it was mine as well. There were, of course, caste levels in the occupations, as there are today, but inherent in Calvinism is the notion that good, honest work itself is of value, and that no occupation should be considered unworthy. I learned that in college, anyway, and it was part of our church community's collective mythology.

My successful corporate career was testament to that; I was a loyal, work-focused, company man. I thrived in that place for many years. I lived its values and was, I believe, a credit to that organization. And when I moved on, I carried that sense of the value of work.

But during those corporate years I also yearned for the day that I could get away from the 40 hour grind. I remember leaving the building some nights, and wishing it was the last time I left that building. I would dream of taking a couple of years off for myself, wishing there was a way to trade a few years in my early 40's for working a couple of years when I'm 65. Turns out, that's what happened. I got my wish.

After leaving that company, I went to a competitor. From there I was downsized. Being out of work for that year, during my initial separation was cruelly hard to take. But, the reality of it was that I was more upset about losing my job than I was about losing my marriage.

I know now, I wanted freedom, not freedom from work.

These days, I'm happy to be working again.

Tomorrow's topic? Burnout.

The Trailer and the Track

Let’s do a photo inventory here:

Single-wide trailer with awning

Twin propane tanks in front that look like giant scuba tanks.

Taurus SHO (Red, generation II)

Weber-style grill with chrome top in the front yard

Card table with tomatoes for sale

Backyard above-ground pool

Large sunflowers in front

Check, check, and check. Nothing really surprising.

But wait. What’s that? It’s a race track in the back yard! How wonderful is that? It even has its own start/stop stand. Gee, and there’s even a watering/grading unit to keep the dust down, and a giant “Hoosier Tires” sign along the fence. All on one of god’s little acres.

Each day, I drive past that little trailer with the race track in the back yard. It’s about two or three miles away from my workplace—just a hop, skip and a jump from town, as they say. Driving by, all I get is a long look each day, heading west in the morning and east in the evening. I will probably always speculate about the lives of the people who live there, but having seen it for six months now, what strikes me most about it is not just the novelty of a short dirt track in the back yard; it is how well kept the property is.

Neat plantings surround what I imagine is a 60’s vintage unit, and the mature trees around it suggest it has been at this location for about that length of time. It was probably a nice trailer in its day; certainly it was well made to last this long. The lawn is always well kept, too, as are the cars and truck in the back. No abandoned cars on this lot, nosirreee!

For the longest time, I never saw any of the people who lived there. Until I did, it was easy to objectify this little place—make fun of it a little, and I did just that when I mentioned it to my co-workers. “Have you ever seen that place?” I asked once, describing it in a condescending tone.

Lately, I don’t see it that way. I saw the guy who lives there a few weeks ago. Although I was flying by at 60 mph, he looked like a regular guy. His husky-mix dog was following him around, wagging his tail. He tossed a ball ahead, leading out to the track. The guy just looked like he was enjoying his life.

Happy is the man.

Coming Out, The Reasons

“Can I bring up a personal topic to share?” Pretty lame.

“Does anyone know what day/week this week is?” I can’t believe I even typed that one.

“I have an item I wanted to bring up this week,” Hmm, that’s not too bad.

I know it doesn’t really matter what I say to open up the topic to my coworkers.

I know it really doesn’t matter how I bring it, up, I just have this persistent feeling that I should celebrate National Coming Out Day this year. Why, my dear readers ask? Why now?

I need to do this for a variety of reasons—some personal, some political, but mostly because I feel at this point it’s the right thing to do.

I imagine we’ll be chatting together, just the five of us. It will be at one of the local restaurants--our regular Friday department lunch. The group includes my Boss M, a young married guy, and coworkers A & K & C, who are women—one in her 40s, two in their 20s.

Ok, that’s the scene.

But why bother telling them? As one friend said, “They probably figured it out by now.” In the six months since I’ve been there, I’ve talked about many things, but never much about my social life or the reasons for my divorce.

Here’s the personal reasons:

I want to be able to use the correct pronouns when and if I discuss past, present or future social encounters. Instead of saying I went out with a friend. I want to say, my buddy Frank and I.

I want to be able to ward off potential “matchmakers” who may think I’m just the catch for their lonely sister/aunt/neighbor. You know, the one with the great personality.

I want to be able to at some point, introduce a partner or date to these people, without springing it upon them by saying, “Oh, by the way, my date is Jeff”

Here’s the political reasons:

I want to be a voice for issues that are important to me.

I want to be a silent citizen, too, to show how “normal” I am; how normal “we” are.

I want to be able to live in a society that values diversity. To do that, I have to be who I am.

Next Friday, here goes…

Typing that sentence made me smile. I think I’m really ready.

Congratulations to Me

Six months ago, being able to say that I have gone for this long without a cigarette would have been a stretch. I truly did not think I could quit. In fact, I was afraid to try. I was afraid I would fail.

Twenty times five equals 100. That’s how many minutes I spent smoking each day.

The fact is, I had been a smoker since I was 13. I never really quit for more than a day or two. Smoking was my crutch. I recall talking to my wife once, after a job interview. I told her that I had been asked how I dealt with stress.

“That’s easy,” she replied, almost too automatically, “You go smoke.”

The reality was that I smoked for a lot of reasons, to satisfy a lot of needs. I smoked out of habit—the nicotine urge that springs forth as an ugly reminder to fire up.

I also smoked to reward myself. If I had written a good introduction, or had just made progress on a project, I would light up and savor the moment. I smoked when I was bored, anxious, nervous or edgy. I always smoked in a bar setting. I always smoked just before arriving home. I smoked because not smoking would mean that my ex-wife was right.

But I quit for myself.

I am so much happier now.

Thank you, Chantix.

Photo by Request

Of the few comments so far, there has been a request for a photo of the 63/64 (I believe it’s a 64) Valiant Station Wagon that I see every day on my commute.

To GP, here it is:

I think it’s for sale. too. Shall I inquire?

Simpsons are back

Yay, the Simpsons are back,

I don't have the energy right now to write a unique tribute to this show, but tonight's opening sequence was brilliant.

Spiderpig.

plus:

Steven colbert,

duffman

Good stuff.

Will it Play in the Heartland?

Gay bars closing? A sign of the future?

If you read the gay press, you may have gathered this week that the era of the gay bar is over. Based on a number of bar-closings in some major cities like Orlando (ok, well a mid-major city, anyway), some gay pundits have determined that gay culture is on the wane, and that is because we, as a group, are less likely to seek out our exclusive haunts, since we have so many straight friends who like it when we call each other “Mary” at the local sports bar.

Somehow, I think the issue is a little more complex than simple conjecture about a few bars closing and whether there has been any real social progress in regard to gays and straights accepting each other in a shared bar or open public setting.

Last time I checked, gay still doesn’t play in the straight bar world. I mean, one or two of us in a bar is always ok, always has been—as long as we know our place and act straight. Play by the rules—flirt with a woman, even. Compliment their shoes—oops, that’s too gay.

According to Kinsey (the movie and the PBS documentary as citations), gay bars were a refuge, a place where men (primarily) could do all those things that couples take for granted. Behaviors like hugging, kissing, dancing and flirting among same sex individuals and couples were, in that day, subject to prosecution (and some might argue, still are). Bells on the doors of gay bars, and discreet entrances were there for a reason--to keep such things off the street. Gay bars served to let gay men and women interact without fear of public reprisal.

One of my biggest frustrations with coming out after a long standing opposite sex relationship, was the social restrictions I felt about public displays of affection. Although we rarely walked hand in hand, doing so with my wife would never have caused a stir because it is acceptable public behavior for straight couples to do so. However, when I started dating men, and when I have had a boyfriend, how we behave always depends on the town or community where we find ourselves. I struggle with that double standard.

Last winter, I went on a day trip to the Detroit International Auto Show with a guy I was dating. At the event, we never put an arm around each other, never had an overt or even a covert gesture of affection, such as a hand on the knee or a quick pat on the shoulder. We appeared as straight friends that day, not potential partners. But something in the crowd made me feel that anything other than that would have been socially unacceptable in that setting. I don’t like how that feels.

Sometimes, that frustration comes out. Last summer I was in Chicago, visiting a couple of close friends. Staying with us was a wonderful man I know from Ohio. When it was time for him to leave, I gave him a huge hug and kiss in the parking lot of a restaurant where we had just eaten breakfast with our gracious host. I didn’t care that others might see us kiss. I was from out of town. I didn’t have to deal with any long term retribution for doing so.

Until men and women are free in our society to publicly express their feelings towards their same sex friends and lovers, there will be a need for gay bars. Until I can walk hand in hand to my movie seat with my next date without getting a reaction, I will have to go to a gay bar.

Until then, I will remain somewhat frustrated.

Television

The screen measured only 15 inches from corner to corner. The case was silvertone plastic, with ivory trim and a built-in handle. The magic was inside.

Buying a TV was not an ordinary purchase for a 7th grade kid, but it was something I wanted badly enough to save for for over six months. It was also a purchase that needed approval. Twelve-year-olds in my day and age, weren’t exactly allowed to make such purchases on their own.

I worked them from all angles. I told my mother that a portable TV would be nice for her to use in the kitchen while she ironed. I told my dad that he could watch baseball when mom or my sisters were watching something else. I told them all that this TV would get UHF reception for that new public TV station that was going to start up soon.

It worked. One cold, late February Saturday, my dad and I went to the radio & tv store. Among the Mediterranean console stereos, and the Early American swivel console color and black and white TVs in various sizes and finishes, was a largish portable RCA model. It had “a screen you won’t have to squint at,” my dad said. I think it cost $107. My dad threw in another $15 for a chrome stand.

In my room, I could watch what I wanted. I had craved Star Trek, Laugh-in, Room 222 and many others in reruns and production that my family did not watch.

For many years I could not see certain shows because of their supposed poor influence on our family. Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie come to mind for their support of witchcraft and magic. My Mother the Car also fell into that category of “things we don’t watch.” For some unknown reason, Lost In Space was also banned, and for many years I had watched that show at a friend’s home, two doors down. Batman and the Monkees, too. My cultural heritage was slipping away from me, right before my eyes!

But now, the years of parental dominance were finally over.

I also discovered Johnny Carson that summer.

Life has never been the same for me, really.

Commuting New Car? (part 3 for now)

The trusty Toyota yields in the face of the Civic Si. No surprise here, really, is there? A 1990 Camry DX vs. a 2003 Civic Si? I mean, the DX vs. the Si; suffixes tell the whole tale, don't they?

But on my way home from the dealer, I stepped heavily into the trusty Toyota's gas pedal, and heard the predictable push of the valves and the groan of the exhaust of the once admirable, 2.0 twin cam engine, which was always more about transportation than enjoyment, anyway. It brought disappointment to my face after test driving said Civic this evening.

Not yet, say I, to the beautiful six speaker sound system that will some day shamelessly sing Karen Carpenter songs to the masses imprisoned at intersections.

Not yet, say I to the beautiful moonroof, which allows a view of the stars while staying warm through three seasons.

Not yet, say I to the pressure (as in "you may feel some pressure" as this happens) in my neck as I downshift and accelerate to 60 in what seems as an instant, compared to the trusty Toyota, which somehow was just fine until I test drove that Honda after work.

Not yet, say I to the smile that came on my face. I have to figure out how to pay for this simple luxury.

Not yet.

Soon, however.

Commute - Part 2 Road Time

The lengthy, and somewhat relaxing commute leads to think time on the road. I'd like to think that absence of good radio, and the recent malfunction of my car's cd player (after the recent theft of most of my cd's--but that's another story), lead me into introspection, but that's not really true. I can daydream and pontificate on a variety of topics. Today's topic is road music: guilty pleasures.

I confess a soft spot for the following 80's bands. I'm not sure why; outside of that these were not the mainstream "pop/culturally significant" bands of the 80s, such as U2, REM, and, well, U2 and REM, eh?

Here's a few that always get me going:

Def Leppard - Pyromaniac
VanHalen - mostly Roth stuff because he had such attitude, but occasionally Sammy could hit it.
AC/DC - Back in black sounds better than ever
Journey - Lovin' touchin, squeezin, et. al.

Ok, I guess I'm listening too much to the "classic" rock station on my way to work. Back to NPR tomorrow. I promise.

The Commute (pt. 1)

Just about the time the trusty Toyota hit top gear, I glanced to the left and saw a man taking aim with a rifle. Fortunately, his back was to me and he was aiming at something in the field behind his driveway. Still accelerating as I drove out of town on my way home from work, I didn’t get much more than a glance. Another little visual tucked away from my daily commute.

Some trips I spend the time checking out the out-buildings; other times it’s the crops. Vacant farms, beautiful gardens, and a 1963 (I think) Plymouth Valiant Wagon. All on a 40 min. drive to and from work each and every day.

Leaving my house, I navigate a few city streets until I reach the freeway. Since I leave the house just after 8, traffic isn’t too heavy and I’m quickly up to speed on my way out of town. The trip consists of 30 miles of freeway traffic, and 10 miles of rural highway.

Although I look around while on the freeway, I can’t really see much at 75-85 mph. The driving is too competitive anyway, and I’m always more concerned about making good time. It’s when I hit that last stretch that I ease up, look around and enjoy the view.

Earlier this week in the morning ride, a small falcon crossed over just ahead of my car, on its way across the field, probably in search of a better view of the cornfield. Other days it’s seeing the older farmer who walks along the side of the road, accompanied by a poodle-mix dog, also of a certain age trotting gamely behind him. I imagine her name is Sandy.
It’s usually a very nice drive, and this time of year, I’m looking forward to seeing the fall colors. The winter? Well, I’ll think about that when it comes.

Craigslist entry #1

And I quote,

"I am lookin for a young dude that just wants to come in, get sucked off, and leave. I am not brad pitt, so if he's gotta suck you off lol, i dunno, but i'm not him. I am attractive, tall, strong, chub, good looking and talented. I am away from home on business, and I want a young dude. I will host, totally discreet, totally nsa.. I will swap pics, but if you're serious just send yours, i'm not all that picky, and you don't be either. If you're not willing to email a pic at first, give me ur details. IF YOU ARE OVER 30, i probably will not respond.. I DON'T CARE ABOUT DICK PICS...JUST SEND A NORMAL ONE, CUZ THATS ALL I HAVE... IF YOU WANT MORE THAN A BJ, I AM A TOP, BUT IF YOU'RE BI OR STR8 I'LL BET YOU JUST WANT HEAD...AND I'M COOL WITH THAT! GET AT ME "

I love the way it accellerates into ALLL CAPPPPPSSSSSS! Nothing like free ballin with the typewriter.

I am not gay? Get serious

If a man gets his dick sucked once in a while by another man, and knows how that is accomplished in men’s rooms, that does not automatically make that man a homosexual. Those sorts of hookups go on all across America. Don’t believe it? Check out Craigslist personals. There are tens of thousands of men every day who, like Senator Craig, think that way about themselves. After all, they may have only done it occasionally; they may have done it out of sheer sexual convenience; they have only been on the receiving end of an oral, or perhaps a top. Throughout it all, they may have never even kissed another man. It could happen that way.

More likely, I think some of these men are confused, and others, perhaps, are being opportunistic. In any case, all of them are lying to themselves and their families. They are ashamed of what they do. Their acts provide an outlet, then their deceit and shame takes over for a while, but the need or desire always comes out again—sometimes in very destructive ways.


Many of these men, certainly those of a certain age and status, have never had to confront themselves with that central question. And there are many other traditionally-raised younger men who are simply afraid of being gay men.

I was one of those men.

Seven years ago, I had to make that decision. I had been waiting for my time—when the children would be old enough to know me on my own terms, rather than the ones I knew would be defined by my ex wife.

I had known I was gay for many years. I had endured a horrible, empty marriage. Yet admitting to myself and to my family that I was gay was still the most painful leap I have ever taken. It was a step into the void, where my future was uncharted. It would have been so much easier to have an affair with a woman than to come out as a gay man.

Fortunately, I had a core of friends who did not forsake me. My children, too, stayed by my side—as we grew to understand together who dad is.

For those who are struggling with this issue. Come to terms with yourself. Look around you. There are strong, good men who are out and gay.

But for men like Senator Craig, whose shame in this instance has driven him deeper into denial. You get what you deserve. You will never be free.

Blogworthy

Blogworthy

Being new at this, I am still searching for a voice in this medium. I must admit to having started this blog with less than a clearly focused goal. Therefore, one of the biggest challenges is to determine content. That, for me, can be a tough, since I’m not usually self-directed as a writer.

I’m a hired writer--hired to write news, ads, corporate crap. Give me a topic about corporate safety, and I have five paragraphs ready for print, including quotes and colorful examples. About myself, it’s not so easy. Although I could come up with a quote and a colorful example from this Friday night's take home (a very nice and horny man from Kansas City), I'm a little hesitant to be so revealing about myself.

And that’s part of the goal of this endeavor. To find my own voice. To challenge myself to speak out on issues that are important to me, and that I feel are important to share. I’m the decider here.

So, on that note: this blog is dedicated to things I find blogworthy, and things I do not:

Blogworthy
About being gay
About being 50
About children (mine)
About neighbors
About ex-relationships

Non-blogworthy
Babies
The weather
What I had for breakfast
What I did this weekend
Karaoke

Ok, that’s a start.

Thursday's my night

For the past, gee, let me think.

For the past 25 years or so, I have been visiting the same bar. It used to be called the "Frolic," and now it is called "The Elbow Room." It's the sort of place that Cheers could have been, before the writers and set designers got ahold of it and made it really something detestable, like the series ended up being.

I digress. Thursday has often been a good night out with my straight friends. I've known most of them (all three) since grade school/middle school.

So, it's a comfortable get together. Lots of mutual jokes and mocking of past failures. Ex-wives and former dates are mercilessly tossed onto the pyre of laughter. Add some politics and topicality, and you're gold for the evening.

Topics from tonight included:

1) A thorough discussion of the qualifications (large breasts) and relative intelligence of the Hooters International Contest, which was playing on the big screen TVs. Instead of the evening gown competition, it should have been named the "sluttiest prom dress EVER contest."

2) High school teachers we still hate.

3) ED drugs are not just for straight men (I brought up that topic)

4 or 5 beers later, it's time for bed.

Get a Queue

This is directed at you, Ms. 20-sumthing chatting on the phone in the red Passat, not that you’ll ever be exposed to hearing or seeing this. This is for you, too, grandpa in the Buick. Accellerate for chrissakes! This is also for everyone who shuttles along aimlessly through life like they drive. Have none of you ever learned how to queue?

The English know how to queue. So do the Russians. But most Americans can’t spell or even pronounce it. It means, keep up your place in line. Pay attention. Watch the light. Just fucking pull your goddamn car ahead. Move it a couple of feet to allow those who have other agendas in life to pass. Inch it up, baby. Let the person who’s behind you secure his or her place in line, or make it through the light.

It’s so easy to do. And it will make everyone’s day a little brighter. Especially mine.

Thank you for listening.

Eeew, That’s So Gay,

While searching for the spot to restart the video after a long string of commercials, I slowed down the tape, and ended up running a bit of the last ad before the show started back up. Will Farrell was on screen, kissing another guy in an old promo for Saturday Night Live. A groan traveled across the classroom.

So, it didn’t really surprise me that the audience groaned during the Simpsons Movie, when the two cops kissed and ducked into the restroom and ignored Homer and Marge on the lam. Nor did it surprise me today, when in my doctor’s waiting room, I heard a portly, mid-40’s guy admonish a tyke who had grabbed a squeeze toy, “No, boys don’t play with pink toys.”

When that is the reaction of the general public, it sometimes causes me to despair. Much has been said and written about the use of the word gay, especially in recent usage, as a pejorative term. And, although I’d like to think the tide has turned in the use of “gay” as a bad label, I know that the feelings that lay behind that usage still remain. Kids didn’t learn that attitude from themselves, they learned it from adults.

When I was young, I was formally taught that black people were called “colored” or negroes. We didn’t see many in my little suburban community, and my father occasionally would use the N-word to describe them and their demands—primarily in regard to real estate and moving into neighborhoods. To be fair, he was more ignorant than malicious, and in those years, he probably was lashing out because he felt our value systems were being challenged as society changed during the 60s.

I recall traveling to Florida in 1961; I was six. I remember seeing the signs for “colored” and “white” at restaurants and gas stations. A few years later I found myself on an El-train in Chicago, sharing a bench with an older black gentleman, with my mother and her friend keeping watch over me from across the aisle. I also remember being in Washington DC, seeing Resurrection City, on the eve of RFK’s funeral in 1968.

What made me change? What was it about those years that made me a different man than my father?

I think it boils down to the simple fact that people took a stand against injustice--a public act or voice against discrimination and separate treatment. Rosa Parks, of course, is the patron saint of the modern Civil Rights movement for a very good reason.

Now that I’m a gay man of 50 (ok, 51), it’s time I do too.

Marketing 101

Gay men always look at men who are not wearing shirts. When I was a young boy, it might have been a neighbor (or a friend’s older brother or dad), or the boys at the local pool. As an adult, it’s the construction guys or the guys at the gym I look at. Helloooooo Nurse!

I have a theory that it’s because guys can stare or look at a guy’s chest pretty much without causing homophobic reactions in straight guys. In fact, straight guys like to show off their chests. But this isn't about straight guys chests. It's about men's chests in general.

So, naturally, a weekend of seeing perhaps a thousand men’s bare chests in all shapes, sizes and degrees of furriness was just the tonic this soul needed mid-summer.

A few random thoughts from Market Days. Maybe some topics to write about in the future.

Did you know that there are three streets in Chicago that rhyme with vagina?

When you are walking with a very furry, handsome man, some people just want to touch the fur.

If these folks really love their dogs so fucking much, and are selling doggie t-shirts with slogans like “I have two daddies” with a dog between two stick figures, please do your dogs a favor and don’t take them to a street festival with wall to wall people and 90 degree heat and hot pavement. Think of the dog’s comfort.

Same advice for strollers. Dog strollers, too.

If underwear is your outfit of choice, choose your Sunday best, please.

Is the stubble chest look really the way to go?

Twister at Steamworks with men in Speedos is fun

But I digress.

Thanks to my gracious hosts and reuniting with a friend, a good time was had.

aka the cheese stands alone

For now, its the working title. Not original, I know. The heigh-ho the dairy-oh, the farmer takes a wife, you know the tune.

Somehow it does end up with the cheese being alone. That's where I come in. For now.

Not only is this title stolen from that song, it is also stolen from a college friend who claimed her first book would have this title. Well, I haven't seen it out yet, and I always thought it was a good one to use. Sorry, P. (Gosh, I'm going to have to come up with some sort of fake names for everyone.) Note to self--keep phone book handy for fake names.

So yes, this cheese is alone. Also, for now. I guess I am LTR-minded, and would gravitate to that someday, but I'm mostly enjoying my single status. Fifty-one, good health (relatively). Employed. Gay. Dad with kids. But also on my own.

More about me later--not that that's the point of all this anyway. Now you know where the title came from.

The Cheese Stands Alone

What, you thought I'd write something for a first blog entry? C'ome on, I have to think about that a little.