What I need
Let me live for a moment in each of those rooms, lit warm and hanging over the street, each room on my walk home. Give me a key and let me stand, let me hear your music and watch your lights and take in the photos on your wall. Let me do it for a moment each, let me come and go, let me see how you live.
I can't hold out much longer, I need someone to hang onto me, I need to be held up. Do it quick, I'm running out. Take off your shirt, I'll meet you round back.
What's next? What's coming, what do I need to do now?
10:41 PM | link
Easter Vision
Three days without a post. Could it be I have some real life?
Onthebus:
Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.
We're currently flying at an altitude of 24 inches off the ground.
If we encounter some turbulence, don't worry, I'll get you there.
One more thing, ladies and gentlemen.
Those of you in the back, please leave the bird alone.
You have your Easter Bunny.
I have my Easter Pigeon.
Please do not step on, harrass, or molest the bird.
She may be setting up shop back there.
Getting ready to have a little one.
Hold on, hold on, hoooooooollldddon.
We're running a little late, ladies and gentlemen.
So hold on 'cause we're gonna rock and roll.
Hold on, hold on, hooooooollllddddon.
It has just come to my attention that
some of you in the back
kicked my bird to the curb.
I'm seriously disturbed.
We're gonna make this one, hold on...
hold on, hooooooollllddon....
Sorry about that ladies and gentlemen.
That was to pay back those of you in the back
who kicked my bird to the curb.
Inthevirginstore:
Our heads are tethered to the wall
and we dance in place,
beats piping through,
we can't help it
we need to move.
7:28 PM | link
Thursday, March 28, 2002
I HEART Cocker Spaniels!!!!!!!
Most people think that when you work for an animal shelter, you work with animals who'll usually be killed. If you live in San Francisco, then you probably know that we're a no-kill shelter, largely through the efforts of generous donors and an aggressive spay and neuter program.
Neither presumption is entirely accurate. The operative word in the no-kill clause is "adoptable"; i.e. No adoptable animal is euthanized in San Francisco. That's an interesting word, isn't it? The truth is that some animals are euthanized in SF; many for medical reasons, many for behavior issues. The definition of "adoptable" changes; most recently it has been influenced by the local dog mauling case.
Now that the owners have been convicted of murder and manslaughter, many owners of dogs with an incident or history of aggression are now calling us, saying their landlords want the dog out. And guess what? We can't take them anymore. In the year since the mauling, we've had to overhaul our entire department's mission away from rehabilitation of problem dogs towards prevention. Because if we adopt out a dog that we know has bitten someone, we could be held liable if that dog bites again. Blame the lawyers. End result being, more dead dogs.
Sometimes we take in a dog with an unknown history, and in the course of its stay, it shows aggression. Which doesn't bode well for the dog. My department is responsible for the decision regarding the dog's future. Usually this is after staff and countless volunteers have interacted, bonded, trained, walked, and played with the dog, the majority of the time without incident. When the decision is made to euthanize, all of the staff and volunteers have to be informed, and since 99% of them have had nothing but wonderful interactions with the dogs, some fallout and burnout occurs.
What's my point? Sometimes, like today, I sit at the meeting table with the women (yeah, I'm the only guy) who must determine whether an animal lives or dies, and I feel love and compassion and empathy for my co-workers. They must weigh the value of this dog's life against the safety of the unknown public, and they must do this often. They must consider if they can defend their actions on a witness stand. And when a dog dies, they must come back to work the next day and resume their duties, and defend their actions to co-workers and volunteers. And they must welcome and care for the abandoned and the abused, the animals thrown in backyards and garages and fight pits, and they must accept that their efforts sometimes fail, and they must decide that the most humane act is death. And they must do this for very little money.
Sometimes I get cranky. People who need purebreds irritate me, and people who put them in shows really give me the creeps. Imagine if we applied the same dog show standards and ratings to humans. Didn't we, like, go through that in WWII? People who don't get their animals fixed piss me off, and people who fight dogs... well, it's not worth discussing. People who accuse us of recklessly killing animals because they believe all animals should live, regardless of where that animal is going to live, need to fuck off. People who neglect or abuse their dogs and then want us to care for them, need to fuck off. People who put lunging pit bulls in their music videos as an accessory to their machismo, need to fuck off.
I met this boy at the gym last week through a friend of mine. I didn't think much of it, but apparently he thought I was, like, hot as shit. He asked my friend what I did, and when he heard that I worked at an animal shelter, he said Well that'll have to change, 'cause I'm not into animals. Guess what he needs to do?
But you? Don't fuck off. Just love the mutts. They rule.
(Confidential to One Half of the Studly Couple: I don't mean your dog. And thanks for rolling with the punches tonight. Next time we'll see a movie not based on a video game. And you're as adorable as ever. heh heh.)
2:06 AM | link
Wednesday, March 27, 2002
Roughing It
I just agreed to room with Ski in a little cabin up at the Russian River for a three-day retreat in May, after my original roommate backed out. One could call this fate working in mysterious ways, though I'm more inclined to consider it just about the stupidest thing I've done in a long, long time. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. Or trial by fire. Or something.
The heart, or is it the dick, knows no reason and why the fuck is that? If Darwin was right, we're wasting a lot of time. Wait, I mean me. I'm wasting a lot of time and at this rate, my surname will never last. Oh this is so boring, and it won't lead us anywhere. I was sitting on the porch steps waiting. You walked up and the boys whispered isn't he sexy in my ear. I thought I had guts. You kissed my cheek. They flirted and you were struck dumb. Come on, I said, letting them watch us walk off together, a wrong impression masquerading as real.
12:24 AM | link
Monday, March 25, 2002
The Artist as a Young Dork
The Tattooed Monk's friend's recent death seems to have triggered a wave of questions regarding his true calling in life. Monastery? Or a spiritual life in the real world? I'm biased, of course. Though I'd love a retreat-style vacation spent visiting him at whatever tranquil place he selects, I'd rather he just stay nearby and help tend to MY needs.
However, I'm beginning to wonder if it shouldn't be me sequestered safely away from the world; meditating, harvesting grapes, and feeding the stray dogs drawn by my Saint Francis-like calm. 'Cause I'm ready to run.
Roommate #1's sweet dog Fannie is driving me absolutely nuts. He leaves her in a crate, because she'll chew anything in reach, but as each day passes she becomes more restless, not less. She barks, she whines, she cries, she moves the crate around the room. That's only one member of my four-man, four-dog, one-cat house. Did I tell you, I'm kind of an...introvert? Got some boxes? I'm ready to pack.
Work is worse. All those trainers, all those troubled dogs. Loud dogs, grumpy dogs, nervous dogs, sad dogs. Watchdog dogs. Don't-leave-me-alone dogs. Let-me-piss-on-your-dog's-bed dogs. I-know-you're-working-but-I-gotta-scream-in-your-ear dogs. I-know-you're-working-but-my-mom-left-me-alone-and-I'm-your-problem-now dogs. Ahem. Sweet lord's creatures, you know I love you. But can't you be more like Louie? I need some rest.
My lack of schmoozing abilites at Friday's informal blogger meeting kept me glued strangely to one spot at the Pilsner, a Juice Squeeze in one hand, watching the others buzz about with impressive social dexterity. At one point I stood alone, convincing myself to look more relaxed, damnit, and the moment hung like a drunken wasp filmed in slow motion, and I set my empty bottle on the bar and slipped out into the drizzle and the dark. Dear beautiful bloggers, forgive me. Try me in a smaller group; I promise to behave.
Meanwhile I'm caught, continually, stuffing my heart down my sleeve when I hang with Ski. He had me speak at a meeting he runs Saturday night, and as an introduction he said "Michael is a dear friend of mine, whom I love very much, and I love hearing what he has to say," and how big do you need the wall writing written, Mikey? Give it up, let him love you in his way.
I spent the afternoon today with another friend, eating omelettes on his back patio in the sun, our dogs sniffing for bacon at our feet, us human folk sharing tales of death. The deaths of each of our mothers, that is. A week apart even. We made each other cry talking about the final days, and we made each other cry paraphrasing the authors we quoted at their services; me, Manuel Puig; he, Virgina Woolf. He's handsome and smart, and since our friendship began with sex, an ongoing mutual desire colors our times together. Yet he's happily partnered, and good to his boyfriend. So we keep that under glass, each of us taking our turns admiring it's complicated shape. I've changed. I don't play with the sharp edges, I don't tease. I leave, wanting it, letting it sleep.
1:01 AM | link
Saturday, March 23, 2002
My melancholy baby
"I learned to feel nostalgia for my own youth while I was living it."
-Edmund White, The Beautiful Room is Empty
There are windows in buildings along Central Park, buildings seen in photographs, towers rising above the green trees, windows you wanted to peer from someday. Don't you know, nobody actually lives there, nobody you'd ever know.
You read a book but when you arrive the city's not that city.
You walk streets at night and you'll never forget.
He pushes you up against a wall, white teeth and rum, you're not from here, are you?
A woman's voice from his bedroom stereo; blue notes in the basement, she's rejoicing and he begs for another chance, and when you leave you'll find that song and replay it as though you could go back (and I'll never forget...)
Rain in another city, sweet boy don't you know, each step forward narrows your life.
2:05 AM | link
Thursday, March 21, 2002
Sorry, fresh out of victim porn...(insert sad face here)
All you sick fucks looking for Diane Whipple's dog mauling photos, guess what, you're shit out of luck here. Maybe you could spend your free time volunteering at a local animal shelter rather than wasting it looking at the sad, empty consequences of people's amazing inability to accept responsibility for their actions. Go jerk off someplace else.
8:33 PM | link
Wednesday, March 20, 2002
Soft Focus
I confess, I used to watch The Real World. I privately thrilled to the combustible drama in that first hip New York City "loft". It was so much fun when people would yell at each other, like Kevin calling Julie a racist because she was white and therefore had power (I took that course in college, too) over him, while he was only prejudiced because he didn't have the power you need to be considered a racist. I thought it was so cool that there was an openly gay guy, Norman (remember, this was 1992). I watched the San Francisco version and loved to hate Puck and of course identified with Pablo and his boyfriend (whom I later saw on MUNI when I moved here) and admired his HIV activism (I was still negative) and cried when he passed away.
That show had an insidious affect on my consciousness. I walked around pretending a camera was focused on ME. I rehearsed the monologues I would perform in the Confessional Room. I constantly analyzed and summarized my reactions to relationships and life events and fantasized how millions of people would follow all of my super-meaningful life changes, my dates, and my art as an emotionally relevant soundtrack accompanied me on public transit. I would, of course, be the most mature member of that season, and my behavior would stand in marked contrast with whatever problem child the producers had found. Other cast members would attempt to pull me into their melodrama but I would listen attentively, nod my head at appropriate times, and then, with an enigmatic smile, deliver a wonderfully wise and clever remark that would demonstrate both my profound humanity and my hard-won street smarts. Fan mail would pour in. Even the camera crew would prefer my company, chillin' with me at a spoken word event or the local gay bar, where I would duck in just to connect with my community, keepin' it real, all the while ignoring the cameras so that I didn't seem, you know, desperate for attention.
Eventually I grew out of the appropriate age demographic, and I have since moved on, abandoning the notion that my thoughts and behavior are critically important to millions of television viewers. I scoffed as more and more young people were led to believe that their opinions were original and rilly important to, like, everybody. I released myself from the compulsion to be famous by the age of 30. I learned how to be just another human being inhabiting this fragile planet, a simple soul, a worker among workers. And then I started a weblog.
Last night Bearbait and I were sitting over coffee, finally discussing my eighth step list. This is the one where you write down everyone you've ever hurt in your life. Then, in step nine, you begin to make appropriate restitutions. Imagine the fun.
After an hour of squirming, I put the list aside and the conversation veered towards my mature handling of recent events. Stop laughing, he was being sincere. Then he said, "Someone asked me something recently and I didn't know how to answer it. They asked me if you ever cried."
For a brief moment that old, familiar camera light shone on my face in close-up. People are talking about ME, I thought. Suddenly I was back in the Confessional Room. I'd talk about how it's hard to open up sometimes, how I keep a tough exterior to hide the eternal pain within, how it's rilly hard for me to trust people. Something by Alicia Keys would play as I stared off into the middle distance, fighting back the tears.
Then the camera clicked off. And it was just me and Bearbait; two men in a coffee shop.
"All the time", I replied.
8:42 PM | link
Tuesday, March 19, 2002
Daddy
What is it about dream sex? I never seem to consummate the act, yet the deliciousness lingers upon waking, coloring the day's absurdities with keen frustration; I wanna go back and see it, feel it more. It's the longing, the teasing, the flirting on the edges of twilight sex, the nakedness in my vision's periphery, the unbelievably pleasing pressure of his body against mine. How come I never thought of that position? How come I can't say or do those things upon waking (alone)? How come when I talk to him I sublimate, smile like a friend, hang up the phone?
Seemingly unrelated, it's striking me that suddenly everyone's younger than me. The boys on underwear boxes, the boys on circuit posters, other bloggers, new friends, co-workers, actors, athletes, authors, boys at the gym. I woke from this dream screaming, HOW THE FUCK DID I GET OLD?
I'm turning thirty-one in about two and a half weeks. The funny thing is, I don't mind. At least, I didn't think I did. I don't drool over the Young Ones. As one half of the Studly Couple said, "I prefer men with a few rough edges, a bit worn, like old boots." (Good thing he's in a couple; we'd be wrassling over the same hotties.) I remember my mom and her partner telling me that their forties were absolutely the best decade. You don't give a shit anymore, they said (well, they wouldn't say "shit"). I pay attention to my elders, believe it or not. I listen when they say follow your heart, life is short, love matters more than work. I listen so I can get a head's start on the rest of you boys. Pay attention, or you'll never catch up.
If it's true (and I wonder) that all gay men are particularly sensitive about getting older, if they truly worship at the alter of the Boy, then I don't find these men terribly attractive. Oh, you only think twenty-year olds are hot? I gotta go, life's calling. I tend to think that cliché is a self-perpetuating neurosis, encouraged by gay media. If everyone shaves their chest, maybe I should, too. If everyone watches Queer as Folk, maybe I should, too. If everyone hates getting old, maybe I should, too. Remember stupid kids saying they'd rather die than turn into that old troll at the bar? Well, not everyone thinks you're the shit, stupid kid. I'd hazard to guess that those of us aging gracefully (say what you will) don't do so in a bar.
Now I'm smiling, because if you're forty, you're laughing at me. You're just a baby, you say. Call me in a few years, when fewer boys watch you walk by. I guess it's easy, aging gracefully, when you're young like me.
7:57 PM | link
Monday, March 18, 2002
We're here, we're queer, we're used to it...
This morning I walked solo into the Hometown Deli, whereupon the Vietnamese proprietess asked, "No dog today? Too cold?"
"Actually", I said, "my ex has him. We have joint custody."
To which she laughed incredulously. "Like kids?"
"Yes."
"Ha ha ha...So she gets him sometimes? On weekends."
"Yeah", I said, "she helped raise him, so she likes to see him now and then," I said, pouring cream into my coffee as that peculiar pronoun guilt rose its ugly head.
"Good thing you don't have kids, huh?" she says, "Ha ha ha ha!"
"Yeah, right," I say, laughing with her as I leave.
Out on the sidewalk I smack my closet-face. "What the hell did you do that for?" I ask myself.
"Sometimes it's just easier to go along with the other person's conversation," I answer.
But the little activist in me is burning with shame. "You should use EVERY opportunity to be out, asshole. Challenge their assumptions. You're taking it for granted. It's fags like you who killed Matthew Shepard."
Well...I didn't really say that last part. But you get my point. Welcome to the abandoned carnival that is my head.
11:13 PM | link
The Ride
Why would I leave? At three I'm sunk in the couch with Sci-Fi, an hour later I'm with Kate at the stables, the wind fierce off the ocean. I close the gate behind us and we wade through the muck, scouting the brown boys for the Junkie. Pairs of heads raise from the troughs and tails twich, deep soft eyes consider us for a moment. I watch them, aware of their sudden strength. But I watch them like I watch dogs; expecting a wagging tail or some other welcome.
Kate hands me a set of brushes and I sweep No-Name Girl's soft hair clean of hay and salt. She tolerates my hesitation. I want her to like me. I run my hand over her flanks, down her long nose, searching for the spots she'll lean into. Not the side of her face, but underneath her chin, a hollow where I scratch and her eyes close briefly.
I try swinging into the saddle quickly as Kate holds the reins, wanting to look self-assured. No-Name Girl steps off towards the pen, yearning for lunch, but I'm able to coax her into following Kate and the Junkie as they set off for the beach. The crest of the hill beckons, the wind nearly blasts me off the saddle, and I grip the reins tightly as she steps, then trots down the steep hill. I'm glad I'm behind Kate so she can't see my white knuckles. No-Name Girl follows the Junkie closely as we descend, picking over the sandy trail through the trees and the brush. Rubbery plants brush the soles of my boots.
Kate and the Junkie rock slowly ahead; beyond them the sun-warmed cliffs, the sea mist hanging in the air. The beach stretches out, empty, and we kick up sand as we trot, No-Name Girl following the Junkie's lead. A fine layer of sand skims quickly in the wind across the beach, and I've never gone this fast on a living creature; her rhythym sets and I'm at her mercy as we fly. Kate can't see me clutching the reins; wildness and terror flashing through me.
Is this who I'm going to be now? Everything's opening up, taking me in strange directions. After a Sunday morning downpour I'm on a horse on the beach. She startles at the bits of seafoam blown free and shooting across the sand. She tries to scale a cliff and I'm going to fall. But I ask her to turn and follow Kate and she does, enduring my weight and fear.
1:15 AM | link
Saturday, March 16, 2002
Being Normal
My doctor calls last night, having read in my records that my mother died. I assume my psychaitrist recorded that in my notes. I have a crack team of specialists handling my physical and mental care, but I'm pleasantly surprised at his empathy. He's a good man. He also tells me that my latest lab results are in and my T-cells are now up to 1100. That's an amazing number. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it." I continue to feel like an HIV imposter.
12:41 PM | link
Friday, March 15, 2002
Ex
There's no ignoring it anymore; he makes me feel like shit. Or, if you prefer, I let him make me feel like shit. Whatever. It's been a year. Every time he tells me he loves me, every time he gives me the look. Every time we fight, he picks up the past and swings like Babe Ruth. I said I'm sorry, I've said it a hundred times. Do I get more sorry with the one hundred and first?
What did she sing? I'm not like I was before. It's been a good year; crazy-making, devastating, amazing year. I don't do those things anymore. It's not a pretty view, but we go back and look, again and again. I loved him for five and a half years. But if I get different and he doesn't, isn't there a point of expiration? When can I stop holding out? What an ugly outfit; it doesn't even fit. I'm no Farrah Fawcett. I had my Burning Bed, trapped on my back on the floor of the closet, those fists sprouting blooms on my face. I don't need to be acted upon anymore. Louie, dear boy, your daddy doesn't hate your other daddy, sometimes people just...get different. So go and have fun, let him walk you and feed you and stroke your ears with warm hands. Come back to me happy, and if you're sad let me ease it from you however way I can. You're a lucky boy; two daddies who love you so much.
8:13 PM | link
Thursday, March 14, 2002
Unforgiven
He calls late, his voice a ghost of itself. He's found another thing, some evidence in some desk drawer, and he wants to know if he was good to me. Who took the photo he wants to know, it's stamped with a date and a cold stone drops in me; I fucked it up again. I'm marked, there's always a sniper up above. I'm still in love with you he says though we both know it's broke. Seconds tick I love you too but he can can hear the difference. The best we both had couldn't hold and what, you think I can go back? You can't. Swallow the pit, face front. You can't ignore the proof; it'll unearth the crap, the slut I used to be. Do me a favor and throw that shit away I say and there's an empty laugh ...way ahead of you he says, Yeah, I'm way ahead of you.
8:39 PM | link
The Cost
The Tattooed Monk's ex -boyfriend used to make him mixed tapes out of his apartment in NYC. He'd design the sleeves on his computer and title each one. Somehow I ended up with one, which is odd since I no longer have anything that plays tapes. It's titled "Bear Heart" and features a photograph of some guys in leather hanging out on the street in front of a bar. Their heads are turned away, looking up the street to whatever is coming their way. I guess I've kept it because the inside cover of the sleeve has a photo of the boy himself, shirtless, with the fly of his pants undone and the thick root of his cock exposed. He's cute, and I admired his bold self-promotion.
The boy died today of stomach cancer, at the age of 32, at his parent's house outside NYC. The Tattooed Monk is in a bit of shock, struggling to ascertain the meaning of his death, as if it held such a thing. He's questioning the value of life, the cost of loving others, wondering if he should continue to bother caring about anyone else. Anyone beyond his small circle of friends.
"I'll just wait it out until I no longer have any friends, then I'll be done with it," he says.
"Well, I'm going to be stubborn and stick around a very long time," I reply.
I'm lucky. Lucky to be a member of that small circle. Lucky to walk beside him on a cold night in the City. We wander slowly, thinking the proper meaning will emerge as long as we keep moving.
2:21 AM | link
Wednesday, March 13, 2002
25 Minutes
-I'm wondering where you are fitting the HIV into your life, what does it mean to you?
-(long pause)...It don't dwell on it much.
-(silence)
-It's funny you should ask that, I was just thinking about it. The other day I was talking to a friend of mine who was positive, who got it when his boyfriend fucked around and brought it home...he's angry about it, betrayed. Me, I'm not angry, I just know I got it from my own actions.
-(silence)
-Honestly, I worry more about the dental work I'm getting done than I do about the HIV.
-(silence)
-I guess...I guess I don't want it to be a part of my identity...you know, how some people make it a big part of their lives, they construct their identity around being positive. I don't want to do that.
-(silence)
-It seems like a waste of time, or energy, to think about it. I mean, I have it, that's all behind me, you can't go back.
-(pause) I'm wondering about the difference you made between you and your friend, you spoke of it as though you deserve it more than he does.
-(silence)
-Yeah, I know. I don't know.
-(silence)
-(long pause, then a smile)
-What's the smile for?
-I feel like you're not saying anything because you think that I'm in some sort of denial, and you're waiting for me to acknowledge it.
-(shakes head) No, I'm just listening.
-I mean, my numbers are really good, I guess if they weren't, I'd think about it. And I'm not really having a lot of sex, so it doesn't come up. (Maybe I'm not having sex because of all this crap)
-(silence)
-(sighs) I can't seem to keep my mind on one thing.
-Yes, I've been trying to follow your train of thought and it seems uncertain.
-I have a headache.
-Did you have it when you came in, or did you just get it now?
-I had it when I came in, but it suddenly got a lot worse just now.
-(silence) If you could do anything with this session that you wanted, what would it be?
-Honestly, I'd just go home.
-(long pause) Well, I'm okay with ending early if you want.
-Yeah, I can't think. I just need a good night's sleep I think.
-Okay.
-(long pause) Okay then. (gets up) Thanks, I'll see you next week.
9:05 PM | link
Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Unadorned
I'm not well. My subconscious is either unstable or very, very angry, because it's killing off the rest of my family. I've been dreaming that I'm the last remaining member of the clan, and calling it a sob fest wouldn't do it justice. Last night I could hold the body of my 26 year-old little brother in the palm of one hand.
I don't know how to make this pretty for you today.
Did you know that it's physically impossible to keep your eyes open when you sneeze? Try it.
On a chalkboard at the Noah's Bagels near my work, they've scrawled "Don't be a schmuck. Try an egg mit." Everyone behind the counter is Latino. Well...I guess the manager is Hawaiian.
No, I didn't watch. And you already said it better than I could.
It's time for performance reviews at work; precisely the moment when I couldn't care less. I won't try to cash in pity points, but honestly, since I got back from the memorial service, I just don't care. How do you articulate that without appearing to emotionally blackmail your employer?
I'm sorry I ever posted someone's search results used to access my page. I did it to be funny, and it's coming back to haunt me. Every single fucking day of my life. Look, "lesbian" is spelled with an "e", not an "i". Got it? An "e". No, I don't have any p-i-c-s of them, and it's an "e". You'll find a whole hell of a lot more by using an "e".
9:55 PM | link
Stage Presence
I nearly had a day without you coming for a visit, but then they elected me facilitator of the Saturday morning 12-step meeting, and I knew it had something to do with you. Or the absence of you. They wanted to give me something now that you've left. Something to return to, each week; some kind of home. A church basement. Wonderful.
I really don't know what to do with you. You should be more than a framed photo on my desk, a ghost who smiles at the moment I look up from a book. Shouldn't you be more than that? You're sitting on my heart and it hurts.
Grief is not a jug of water with a slow leak, your burden lightening as the days pass. Or if it is, there are cloudburts and showers, filling the jug and, as Rula Planet would sing, spilling over.
The girls are a constellation; the sky sings and they fly and fall in the night. A string of lights hangs above the stage; the soundman falters and the song, wrong, spins then stops. You keep a straight face. You work us in the dark, stepping between folding chairs and perching on our laps tell me all your dirty little secrets, feathers rustling and shaking like an animal. Where do you look when you look like that? It's a spot out there, above our heads; it holds your gaze and you hold ours. When your hips knock from side to side we'll give it up, slipping bills in your fingers. This song reminds us of something;everything is going to be all right and our hearts ache as you make us believe that it's true. Please us and tease us, play us and leave us, you know we'll be wanting more.
1:40 PM | link
Saturday, March 09, 2002
A body in motion
You're so afraid. You'll sit on that chair in that room and tell us forever what scares you today. You're afraid of men, you're afraid of your job, you're afraid of success, you're afraid to lose your hair. You're afraid to change, you're afraid of the night, the weekend, the winter, whatever. You've never lost a thing in your life. You need to sit there and tell us how it's scary to have it all; the house and the man and the dog and the job and the money. I'm afraid of being alone you'll say (again) I'm afraid of being in love. And they'll throw their arms around you and say yeah I'm so afraid too and somehow we're just going to have to get through it and you're afraid of guns and planes and arabs and women. You're afraid of your dad and you're afraid you're getting old. You're afraid of intimacy and we all need to hear it, night after night, week after week, you've got it all and you don't even know it.
I don't have time. I'm now, I'm gorgeous, I'm shooting through. I'm a bullet, I'm a tank, I'm a skyscraper jumper, plummeting to earth. I'm moving in slow motion, I'm exploding the car. I'm a city on fire. I'm a man, I'm fucking the earth. I'm due, I'm on, I'm pouring salt in the wounds. The lights can't catch me, I'm sliding through the night. I've lost her, I've lost you, I have it all. I ain't afraid of shit.
2:24 AM | link
Friday, March 08, 2002
Snapshot
The five-block span between my home and work isn't exactly known for its quaint neighborhood "feel". The view from my window looks across a noisy street to a tire shop that's hung virtually every type of hubcap known to man on its building and the surrounding 20-foot tall chain link fence. It's also an area infamous for its prostitution, the heterosexual kind. On the weekends young tight-skirted girls totter in heels around the block in the cold winds. But during the week it's the cracked-out ruins on the corners turning and staring at the drivers of repair trucks and SUV's. These women's faces are portraits in hard living; deeply lined, smiles of broken teeth, scabbed lips and twitching eyelids. Some of them like Louie; they catch sight of him and their demeanor shifts, they bend and reach a hand out, their voices pitch an octave higher, and he gladly greets them with his wet nose and his stunted, wagging tail. They're there at 6 a.m. and they're there when I walk home.
One particular woman intrigued me when I first caught sight of her after work one day. She was different; she looked like someone's mother; young and shy. As if to subvert her presence on the corner, she'd wear glasses and an overcoat and when she'd see me she'd look away. I wouldn't see her often. I wondered about her, wanted to follow her home, if she had one, and watch her when she wasn't here. I reasoned, of course, that it was drugs, some addiction that pushed her out there when the money was gone. I wanted to save her in some nebulous, romantic fashion, but knew I neither would nor could.
This morning I caught sight of a neon yellow flyer tacked to a telephone pole along my morning route; "Please Help Us Find our Sister Vanessa (a.k.a. Holly)". Underneath was a photo of the woman. It had been awhile seen I'd seen her.
I used to buy speed in little bags the size of my thumbnail; the size of my life. I was a frightened, rageful presence behind the dark pit of a bar where I worked several shifts a week. I drank to cut the speed jitters, to give myself the courage it took to be behind the bar. I drank for the courage to remove my shirt on "Pec Night". My weight fell as I erased myself. I'd stay in my apartment as long as possible each day; my forays into the world set my heart pounding. I bought the small bags because I was always about to quit, like a chain smoker who never buys cartons. But I couldn't resist for long. Without speed I couldn't breathe. Soon I'd be back at the dealer's, twenties and tens gripped in my fingers, enduring his psychotic ranting; buying back my life.
It's a good snapshot, though the copier darkens the shadows, presenting her face in high contrast. She's taken off her glasses. Eyeliner sharpens her gaze, a coat of lipstick darkens her lips. Her halter top is barely visible under the folds of her overcoat. The photographer was taller; Vanessa looks up from where she's leaning against a wall. Something I hadn't seen plays on her lips. She smiles, shyly, at her friend.
6:16 PM | link
Thursday, March 07, 2002
Typecast
My buddy at Kaliyuga Arts, the theater company that produced the two plays I've appeared in here in SF, emailed me yesterday concerning a script they're considering for the future. Apparently he thought of me for the part of "a wheelchair-bound paraplegic virgin named Puppy who writes gay male stroke books with gratuitous political content." Naturally! He never gives me something easy to do. I've already started research; two days post-squat workout (the first in a long time) and my legs are useless. Watch me navigate a flight of stairs; fun for everyone!!
The best dreadlocks in jazz, a "smokey" contralto, and a improvised sound studio in a Mississippi boxcar: I'm so there.
Wasn't Blade 1 enough?
Favorite musical moment of the day: the Icelandic princess pitching a cry, high: I luf him I luf him I luf him I luf him.
///
The bus slides through the morning drizzle, containing sleepy commuters. In whose heads I could guess are dreams and lists, hunger and hurt pride. In senior seating someone's mother leans slightly against me, with each green light a gentle pressing against my shoulder. The umbrella dries in my lap. Last night the dream was desolation, and it was no absence or hollow pit. Bigger; an excavation in my heart, a yawning yearning. The bells of my lungs swept out sobs, so loud that had you been sleeping with me, I would have woken us both, and you'd shush me and run a hand through my hair, and I'd be with you and without her.
8:49 PM | link
Wednesday, March 06, 2002
oh, it's April 5th...you were wondering, weren't you?
9:35 PM | link
Instant Oatmeal Messaging
I think I'll change your names now. If you're a repeat offender here, pay attention; R is no longer R, B is no longer B. My alphabet needs more spice than that.
Lil' Gummi: xoxoxoxox
DogPoet: there he is
LG: I miss you. It's raining.
DP: Frizzy weather
LG: Ugh, I wanna shave it off.
DP: That's my usual route
LG: I like it on you. I have one year in a week.
DP: woo-hoo!
LG: If I make it. Nobody understands that I want to take ecstasty. I just had a good time on it.
DP: I totally get it. I sometimes think "can I never ever do that again? It was so fun".
LG: I just had fun.
DP: It led to other stuff with me.
LG: What if I can stop?
DP: What if you can't? Is ecstasty worth it? (I mean that literally, of course)
LG: Sometimes I think so.
DP: What if you get to a point where you can go out on nothing and have an amazing time and not pay for it afterwards?
LG: It's not happening.
DP: Why does it have to be today? You know, LG, I'm just now getting to a point where I'm making friends I could go out with sober. Life is pretty good. The promises are coming true. (restraining urge to be sarcastic)
LG: I'm tired of people telling me what I need to hear. I want to hear what I want to hear.
DP: What if what I'm telling you is better than what you want to hear, but you just don't know it yet?
LG: I'm insane, you know.
DP: We all are, that's why we need to do this shit.
LG: Such language!
DP: I'm a little sailor, at heart.
LG: Shiver me timbers, Olive Oil.
DP: Oh! Paw-pie! Save me!
LG: Is it Bluto or Brutus?
DP: Depends on the episode. The older ones were Bluto.
LG: Exactly! Everyone thinks its Bluto, but our generation knows it's Brutus.
DP: My head, a treasure trove of useless information.
LG: Did you ever watch ElectraWoman and DynaGirl?
DP: OH MY GOD! I so secretly loved them, and they never came on as often as the Sleestaks and the Bugaloos.
LG: :-) I love you. I'm gonna go get a burrito.
DP: Love you too. Don't take ecstasty. Tonight.
LG: I'll try. Bye.
8:24 PM | link
How I became important...
How much truth can you handle when you want to escape? Is a faithful schizophrenic more Oscar-worthy than a philandering, bisexual schizophrenic? When you tell your life story, what unflattering love handles get gently vacuumed away, replaced by a quiet inner beauty; unflappable in the face of countless turmoils? You're a martyr and we love you for it.
8:11 PM | link
How I became an old woman, with 137 cats...
After my mother's death, I discovered that one thing she and I have (had?) in common is a bit of sentimentality, although I wouldn't call it that. She simply saved important things, the same kind of things I've saved; tons and tons of photos from her life, from her parent's lives, from their parent's lives, the college yearbook she edited, newspaper clippings of high school awards she won, marriage and birth announcements, my Social Security card and birth certificate (thank God), her father's typewritten manuscript of a never-published book, postcards, a rosary, my first published poem ("The Sympathetic Rose"; fourth grade, school newsletter, full of big words that didn't make a lot of sense strung together), my old report cards (Michael hands in wonderful assignments, but he can sometimes be disruptive in class) my seventh-grade "autobiography" (wherein I predict I will be single, a seventh-grade English teacher, and the adoptive parent of a daughter), copies of the lit mags that published my poems, a program from an event in which I won the Rose Rees Award for capturing the spirit of international peace as a senior in high school, etc, etc, etc. I had to leave a chest full of these things in Minnesota, promising her partner I'd come back to retrieve it. This...stuff, it matters to me. I thought of her today as I printed out some of the emails I've received through the Campfire, adding them to the binder I've started, behind the hard copies of my blogs that I print out monthly. You never know.
8:05 PM | link
Tuesday, March 05, 2002
Calling your name from another room
If you hate it, I'll change. For you. Anything for you.
Today was my first day at work, blog-free. Groan. Did it mean I didn't check out my non-blogspot companions? Um, no. Everything in moderation.
I've been in contact with Outfront, a GLBT organization in Minnesota that keeps up on legislative issues. They've been helpful in identifying the possible laws that the coroner followed (or ignored, depending on the details) in refusing to release my mother's body to her partner. My contact has offered to help us more if we're up for it. I've been passing along the information to Lee, and waiting to see if she wants to proceed with any part of this process.
In a dream last night, my mother sat with Lee in the corner of a dimly-lit basement party. She appeared as she did before the ALS; vibrant, unencumbered. I looked across the room at her and she smiled, looking inexplicably shy, holding her partner's hand. As I slept something physical moved through me (adrenalin only?). I woke briefly and felt it fading; I faltered on the edge of sleep again I gotta remember this and then another dream took me, and I was gone.
There's a pit of sadness and detachment in my chest, clinging through the day's movements. What am I forgetting? What was the gesture you offered, the moment my blood rushed quick? As the day progresses I am mocked by a message spinning in my head like a song; I can hear the rhythm, I can feel the form, I just can't hear the words.
11:12 PM | link
Blog? Oh, I meant to type "dog". Really.
I should have seen it coming. At work today (a place that will remain nameless from this point on....and actually, retroactively, too) I posted my usual daily blog in between my other tasks. This is something I've done a lot lately, especially because we have a T1 connection, which makes keeping up on my fellow bloggers much easier. Now, I know this isn't really...ethical. I'm being paid to work, not surf, and I have tried to remain dilligent about my work while satisfying my urge to blog and my curiousity about all y'all out there.
Around noon I began to notice an unsettling pattern; whenever I tried to access any site with "blog" in the address or header, I got the "Web site blocked by Sonic Filter!" message like a big ol' scarlet letter splashed across my screen. Charmed, I'm sure. This meant that my site, Blogger, any blogspot site, etc were suddenly off limits.
I guess the jig is up. Big Brother is alive and well and working non-profit now. So, since she lost her job over her blog last week, I am now quite paranoid that I am under surveillance. Or at least my mouse and its movements are. Griping about relevance and a sense of proportion isn't going to make this easier. I can make peace with writing and surfing on my own time. But this sort of episode strengthens this growing ambivalence I face daily; that the gulf between what I am doing and what I want to be doing is growing wider.
Also, more of my real-life friends are beginning to seek out the Campfire, raising a full monkey-bucket of issues. I use initials when discussing others here, yet if you know me in real life, it ain't hard to figure out who is who. So. I don't want to change, I want to keep being truthful. I'm well aware that I tell you more than most. I'd like to keep it that way, and I'd like to keep my friends. But tonight I am worried. I need advice. All you sagely blog veterans, tell this young Jedi how to levitate the log. Thanks.
12:55 AM | link
Monday, March 04, 2002
I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar. That much is true.
Last night was my first ever face-to-face blogger meeting. Organized by Aaron, with Bill, Casey, and Kate and myself in attendance (as well as some non-blogging friends and co-workers of Aaron). We met at Mecca, where I arrived early to find the place packed on a Sunday night with a young trendy cocktail crowd of boys wearing expensive tops. I stood uncomfortably in the entrance (no, I'll hold onto my jacket for now, thanks), glad that I was at least wearing black, fighting the temptation to flee for the hills. Eventually everyone showed up, introductions were made, and we decided to pick another drinking hole, winding up at the Pilsner whereupon Aaron and Kate each pulled out a cocktail glass full of Sambuca from under their sweaters, which they had purloined from Mecca (I gave them a $20 and all I got back was a dollar, so I figured we bought the glasses, Aaron says). Because Aaron's co-workers weren't aware of blogs and because he wanted to keep it that way (I understand, after all, she lost her job due to her blog), we talked about everything but blogs, eventually making our way across the street to Sparky's for some cheap diner fare (All those tables pushed together create a fire hazard, our server told us) and discussed Dream Jobs. I want to write and act without a day job, Casey wants to do non-corporate graphic design, Aaron wants to compile music compilations for corporations to play in their stores and offices, thereby increasing productivity (maybe you could do better than the guy the Gap hired; as I walked by a store today, the Human League drifted out into the morning sunlight), and Kate wants to work with horses, which she's just now getting to do. I sensed a kindred spirit in Kate, and look forward to hitting the neighborhood lesbian bar with our dogs in tow sometime soon. (I ain't going in there alone, you know.) Kudos to Aaron for pulling it off, and I hope all the doorknob hangers earn your Machine every single vote.
This weekend, San Francisco finally got itself one of these. It's amazing this city never had one, and I look forward to seeing how it changes the culture, hopefully fulfilling its purpose and creating a vibrant center of activity. I'm sure I'll be hitting a bunch of AA meetings and literary readings there as the months pass.
On Saturday night I went with the Studly Couple (take it as a compliment, boys) to the Castro Theater to see Trembling Before G_d, a documentary chronicling the turmoil that gay and lesbian Orthodox and Hasidic Jews experience trying to reconcile their sexuality with a faith that condemns them. It was an absorbing and painful movie; I was saddened seeing these people wanting so desperately to hold onto their faith while finding absolutely no support (Pray more, go to therapy and change, the Rabbis told them). I found myself so grateful that my own faith co-exists peacefully with the rest of me. I'm grateful my mother made the difficult decision to leave Catholicism when she married my father, incurring shame and disapproval from her parents, thereby sparing me the Guilt Catholics are famous for. I'll talk more about faith sometime soon; it's something I've been thinking about, even though it can be such a dirty word to bloggers and others of my generation.
Yesterday I walked with Louie to Dolores Park, which was packed on a gorgeous, summer-like day. We made our way through the clumps of blankets and people and food to the "dog area", which is next to the "gay beach". As Louie made the rounds of critters, I sat near a group of boys sunning themselves, sipping Hawaiian Punch (something about that punch made them very chatty) and providing a running commentary on the sociological events transpiring around us, particularly singling out another group of boys. I watched this second group while the first group's conversation played in the background. That one's hotter than the others. Look, that one is cruising the blonde one, oh, wait, look, they're shaking hands...no he didn't, he just took a call while the boy's just standing there, look, his pinky's up in the air while he's talking on the cell, oh look they're leaving now, ummm hmmm...pass the punch, etc. I kept telling myself, we're all alike, we all want love, we're all a little insecure, etc. And then I just left, Louie trotting behind me, the hottest boy in group #2 smiling at me, vindicating me of something, I don't know what.
2:33 PM | link
Saturday, March 02, 2002
Misplaced affection?
On Mission Street, a sidewalk vendor has set out a tray of plastic chihuahuas, the kind you put on your dashboard; fifty tiny heads in various colors, swaying in the breeze.
On Castro Street, Bearbait and I step out of a shop just as a woman nearby finishes a burst of song; we're ten seconds too late; a crowd around her is smiling, murmuring to each other that was really great and one particular woman reaches out to touch her arm, tears running down her face.
Ski is back already; he calls me on the cell just as I'm about to leave the bright sun and enter the cool darkness of the 11:00 Saturday morning AA meeting; he's just down the block and so he meets me; our embrace is long, the entire length of our bodies meet, it's the first time I've seen him since we each lost a parent. I'll probably always love him. During the meeting he rubs the back of my newly buzzed head, my eyes close and for a half an hour I savor the feeling of his fingers kneading away.
Cute bodybuilder boy? Would I pander to my readers' curiosities and divulge the events of last night? Sure. We layed on his bed and watched the first ten minutes of Final Fantasy, and then we were all over each other. It was like having sex with a super hero; the amazing width of his V-back, narrowing to a little, hard waist. It was what it was, nothing more. Would I do it again? Sure. Is it what I want? Not really. I already spelled that out, above.
7:02 PM | link
Friday, March 01, 2002
San Francisco Memory #17
Setting: Louie's Barbershop, The Castro
Year: 1996
Young man enters on a crowded Saturday afternoon. All barbers are busy trimming and buzzing. Young man sits and waits. Watches one particular man get his head shaved: Fifty-something Leatherman; Fu Manchu, bone piercing his septum, biker boots and leather pants sticking out from under the apron covering his neck and torso. Barber takes his time, carefully shaving the man's head smooth and even. Twenty, thirty minutes pass. Leatherman approves, hands back the mirror, and the barber whips the apron off him, exposing a tiny, trembling Yorkshire Terrier, ribbons in its hair, sitting in the Leatherman's lap.
Coincidentally (or not), as I was at the barber today someone reached my site by typing in "Gay+sex+in+barbershop+photos". Sorry to disappoint you: I'm not sharing the hot, man-on-man action pics that were taken while I was there. Let's just say I have a severe case of razor burn, and no animals were hurt during the production. And if I accidentally attract more photo-seekers by putting that search request in my blog, maybe you'll stay for the margaritas.
3:30 PM | link
Sanitized for Your Comfort and Safety
This morning one weary, confused soul tripped over a misplaced link in cyberspace and fell, unceremoniously, into my blog; earning the dubiously exhilarating title "One Thousandth Visitor". I hope it was enjoyable. I report this knowing full well that all you older, wiser bloggers out there can barely remember such an insignificant number. Let me serve as a reminder of your youthful, idealistic exuberance, before your blog became popular, before it quietly and persistently took over your life, sucking you dry of each and every unselfconscious moment you'll ever have.
Tonight is my date with cute bodybuilder boy. Below is an exchange we had. I'm presenting two versions; the first is the one that really happened. The second was born out of a concern on my part that Republicans may not feel welcome enough at the Campfire. All the past entries about same-sex partner discrimination may be unsettling to you, thus, the second version is included for your enjoyment.
Version #1:
Me: Okay, so I'll come over at eight, then?
BB: Great. I'll pick up a movie. What kind should I get?
Me: Up to you. I guess I'd rather not see anything starring a member of the SNL cast, otherwise I'm open. Maybe a good escapist action flick.
BB: Okay, will do. Looking forward to it. See you then.
Version #2:
Me: Okay, so I'll come over at eight, then?
BB: Actually, I've been thinking about this whole gay thing...
Me: Gay thing?
BB: Yeah. Don't you ever wonder if we're missing something?
Me: Um...
BB: I mean, don't you feel kind of...left out sometimes?
Me: Actually, I never...
BB: I want more. This lifestyle that we all lead, it's so empty and fleeting.
Me: We all lead?
BB: You know what I mean. I want to play golf. I want to go to company picnics.
Me: You do?
BB: I want to feel included when guys around me talk about breasts.
Me: I'm never around guys who talk about breasts.
BB: I want my name to outlive me. I'm talking children, lots of them.
Me: What about the population prob...
BB: I'm talking neighborhood action committees gathered to debate sewage alternatives in a housing development out in the suburbs. Preferably one built on drained marshland.
Me: Really?
BB: C'mon. You and I both know that we are completely responsible for the collapse of the family and the decline of values in America.
Me: We are?
BB: It's time we gave back a little. It's time we stop flagrantly displaying our sexual orientation in public. It's time we bought minivans and life insurance policies.
Me: It is?
BB: Yeah, it is. What do you say? Want to go pick up chicks? I'll buy you a subscription to Details.
Me: Maybe you're right.
BB: All those heterosexuals can't be wrong.
Me: Is there a sports bar around here?
12:48 PM | link
