Minty Fresh Memories

Walking.

Through the city this past weekend.

Mostly alone.

I found myself in Hell's Kitchen.
No surprise.
I passed by the old apartment. I stopped in to say hello to Angela at The Coffee Pot. I even ate at Zen Palate. I contemplated a glass of Wine at Riposa. But, decided against it. After all, it was only 5:30p.m. and I hate that place anyway. 5:30p.m. on Christmas Eve of Christmas Eve is beer time, not wine time in my book. So, after one $3 Rolling Rock draft at Cleo's Old Faithful, I reluctantly walked north toward The Shops At Columbus Circle with gift giving intentions. I approach the deli that lives on the southwest corner of 9th Avenue and 49th Street. A deli I pass by frequently with rare attention paid, but today was lonelier than most for me and I found myself drawn to it. Perhaps it had to do with the season or maybe just my hangover. But, for some reason I went inside. I didn't need anything so I bought some gum. I left the deli and found myself heading west on 49th Street even though that was out of my way. Only three strides west and it hit me. This is the corner I told you to meet me on the night we reconnected after some awards show. The same deli where I waited with such intense nervousness and anticipation. I believe I even kept my fingers crossed, hoping you would pick me over the present company at that dank bar we both were in.
That night, I told you to meet me on that corner not knowing whether or not you would or wanted to. I texted you and then ran inside to grab some gum. I then proceeded to devour a whole cig in under 2 mins. This was in an attempt to remain calm and appear cool, only to fail miserably and bring my heart rate up. I remember tossing the gum in my mouth and then chomping on it ferociously. I rubbed the half chewed piece on my teeth aggressively. I guess I was hoping to either sand away the smoke and booze or pass on, by way of osmosis, the minty goodness. I stood there licking my lips and slathering my moustache with it's minty juices hoping to mask any taste or smell of tobacco and nicotine. I was trying to make a drunken-sunrise-walk home as romantic and hopeful as possible. If we were to FINALLY kiss, even at 5am on a topsy-turvy Sunday, I was going to make sure I made the most of it. I went as far as to take the Orbitz out of my mouth and roll it between my fingers in case you kissed my hand. (Freak) Because I probably wanted you to do that. I know I wanted you to kiss me. Kiss me hard. I know I wanted to find a corridor or a quiet stoop and kiss you back. I wanted you to kiss my neck, cheeks, lips...whatever. I remember wanting your kiss more than I ever wanted another kiss. I also remember I was pretty drunk and couldn't possibly properly compare the weight of all my life's desires in just few short minutes. But, it didn't matter. That was all I wanted at that hour of that given day. Or at least the alcohol told me so.

(God to think...? What if you had never kissed me? All that gum exercise would have amounted to nothing.)

But, you did.
You kissed me. I think it's safe to say you kissed me first.
You kissed me with confidence and passion. The perfect see-saw of kisser and kissee by both of us. It was breathtaking. Oh, alright, who am I kidding. It was sloppy and uninhibited. It was lustful and ravenous. It was a year's worth of pent up passion well oiled over the past few hours and loosely falling into place. But, I remember it so vividly.

I remember debating whether we were going to go home with one another. I remember holding your hand and walking/stumbling you home. I remember exchanging numbers and making promises to call. Why after all those years did we not have each other's number? I remember it being muggy and humid. Was it the summer or the brink of fall? I remember you tasting like cigs and booze. All my gum tactics pointless because you smoke too. I remember not caring. I remember liking it all. All of the way it was unfolding.

I knew when I saw you inside the bar that night. The look of excitement and surprise in both our eyes. I knew we would kiss. Maybe not that night but soon there after. I knew we would experience something. It was bound to happen after a year or more of over the counter drugs being doled out to you for free and pleasantries exchanged with a longer hug than normal. Or better yet, a lingering gaze full of curiosities across the room with a barrage of men between us. You always could arouse me without even a touch of hand.

I walked you home that night realizing your powerful energy and saying hello to a new possibility.

Tonight, I walked you home again.
Christmas Eve of Christmas Eve.
I walked west on 49th Street past the evergreen trees lined up outside the deli. I was wishing I could bring you a Charlie Brown Christmas tree and a bottle of cheap red wine that we would finish and eventually toss off of your rooftop. Then I would crawl back into your arms where your mouth would be barely brushing my ear as you softly whispered your woes about all the Christmas music I was forcing you to listen to.
I walked you home tonight and smelled your cologne with a hint of burnt hair from your flat-iron. Cosmic timing played a part and Coldplay come over my iPod and it reminded me of your laptop that sat at your corner desk in your bedroom.
I walked you home tonight. I sat on your old stoop and wished I still smoked. I sat there talking to you in my head. Basically telling you this story that I write now. Now that I think of it, I probably looked a little homeless and crazy. Oh well, I have looked worse before.

I pulled out a piece of the gum, chewed, and breathed in it's minty freshness. Then I said good night and hoped your nose was itching from someone thinking about you.

O Holy Night

White Christmas there was not.

There was no egg nog or plump stockings. I didn't open any presents on Christmas Eve or Day. I spoke only to my mother, missing my father and brother in the hustle and bustle of the time zones and functions. There wasn't a cookie jar full of fattening treats. There weren't any children traipsing and tripping through the house (apt.). I had only two presents under my tree that stood only three feet tall. If we are being honest, the day was lacking a blustering thrill of anticipation. Not to mention pumpkin pie and stuffing.

But, there was still the 24-hour "A Christmas Story" playing on TBS. I had three hours of Christmas music shuffling on my iTunes. I put on my lumberjack socks. I made Hazelnut coffee with soy milk and cinnamon. The lights on my tree remained on from 4pm Christmas Eve until I left the house on Christmas night. Christmas Eve consisted of a steak dinner and a private viewing with Chrissy of my all-time-favorite Christmas movie..."Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas!" I can't imagine a more worthy recipient of this invite than Chrissy and he did not disappoint in his appreciation of the film. We each drank a bottle of pinot noir, then breaked with a cup of java, then toasted with Champagne to our budding but bonding friendship from 2006 before calling it a night well after midnight.

Christmas Day began with reluctance. I had to fight the blues away. I wrapped myself in two blankets on my sofa and began my marathon of "A Christmas Story." Since I still don't have kids of my own, I become a kid myself on Christmas morning. This time instead of screaming for more presents and crumpling all the beautiful wrapping paper I'd torn through, I whined a little inside my head. I wanted my mommy and my stocking full of reasons to visit the dentist. Instead I buried my nose in the aroma of my coffee reminding myself to be grateful for all of the simple pleasures of life, including the flurry of holiday text message greetings that bombarded my razor from 9 a.m. on. I waited to hear from the Nurse, as we had planned to spend Christmas Day together regardless of no longer existing as a couple. I was excited for him to see my pathetic but adorable little tree and how clean the apartment was. I also had more things on the wall since last he dropped by. Overall, I felt that my apartment was a cozy place to begin Christmas, even if you were alone.

I pieced together a festive ensemble for the day's travels. The Nurse and I were going to spend some time together at my place first then we would join The Bears for a holiday/birthday dinner. Blake was born on Christmas. I checked movie times for Dreamgirls, hoping to find a time to include that in my Christmas plans. I put the finishing touches on Blake and Joe's Christmas package and waited.

I returned dozens of messages. I swept up any stray pine needles. I poured myself another cup of coffee, then another, then another.

Needless to say, things don't always work out the way you plan. But, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and made the most of what was left of my day. I had honey baked ham and cheddar mashed potatoes. The Bears bought me a Kelly Clarkson concert T that fits perfectly. We watched clips from old musicals and past Tony Awards telecasts. I even took one cough induced hit from the peace pipe that was passed around.

I raced downtown to try and catch a showing of Dreamgirls, but it was sold out. So, instead I saw some movie about the year 2027 and how women by then will have been infertile for 18 years. It didn't matter what movie I sat through. The popcorn and the soda are enough to keep me happy for two or so hours. I mean it too. You should see the way I shift in my seat and make myself comfortable with a giddy and hungry smile stretched across my face during the previews.

I finished the night by curling up with Harry Potter book 3 and my down comforter. My Christmas mix began it's shuffle. Joni Mitchell hummed softly in the background. I have been growing up for years. But, this year was a big reality check. Christmas wasn't ever going to be what it was when I was 10. It didn't hurt-this realization. It made me yearn for something I couldn't put into words. I was melancholy. I may have been a little lonely too. But, I wasn't sad. After all, it was Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year.



Joni sings..."Oh I wished I had a river I could skate away on...."

Side Show

The midwest can be so awful. It's a hurricane or tornado of ignorance. But it is also a sanctuary of family values and breeding. It's a whirlwind every time I go. This time was no different.

I was sucked into the vortex or maybe even the eye of the storm. I sat peacefully in the center watching the mess fly around me in an uncontrollable flourish of debris and destruction. Except where the eye is usually peaceful, this time I sat with discomfort and my eyes took in all that I witnessed. People. People genuinely happy. They don't need to be fluent in three languages. They didn't need to make more money. They didn't need to have traveled over seas. They didn't need a glass of pinot noir. They didn't need to discuss politics or the golden globe nominations. They didn't need a pair of ugg boots. They didn't need to check their email, blackberry, flight status. They didn't need Chanel Platinum or degree body heat activated.

They were happy with their English language saturated with poor grammar and a red-neck dialect. They were happy with their 21,000 dollar teaching job with benefits and summers off. They were ecstatic about their honeymoon to Orlando or Vegas. Coors Light brought a smile to their face and kept them looking cool and easy going. Telling the same work story over and over paired with a college memory kept the laughter up to par and the conversation at a steady pace. A pair of Faded Glory simple black pumps will dress up all there required functions for the year. They didn't need home computers, their cell phones were used only when they travel, and almost everyone drove back to the hometown with no flight delays or lost luggage. The secret was out....most everything was strong enough for a man but made for a woman.

I realized this weekend that I am not okay with my life as a whole. I realized it has a lot to do with my sexuality. I pride myself on my level of comfort in my own skin. But, I am spoiled. I live in a gay metropolitan city. I work in a reputable gay establishment with 90% gay employees. I have had only gay or straight female roommates. I went to theatre school. I work in the arts. I live in Manhattan.

I live a sheltered life. No different than the one's that my heterosexual, anti-cosmopolitan breeder friends do.

I want to be like everyone else. I want what everyone wants. The easy life. The American Dream. I don't hate it. My life. I don't believe I chose it. My sexuality. I don't think it can change. My sexuality. But, I am not happy. My life and my sexuality. I want what everyone else wants.

I want children. I want my parents to become grandparents. I want to wake up on Christmas morning with a floor full of presents and the house full of cheer and voices. I want for us to be on top of each other with so many family around. I want to take my son outside to go sledding or snowman making. I want to swap pictures of Tristin's first lost tooth and Trinity's first time being a flower girl at the latest wedding. I want to stuff my face with horrible fatty foods. I want to watch football and actually care. I want to have Brenda Lee and Dolly Parton's Christmas Album on repeat. I want my refrigerator to be stocked with Velveeta and 2% milk, instant coffee and home-made bread and cookies. I want individual pudding snacks for all the nieces and nephews. I want dog biscuits for Jake.

I want people to stop looking at me. I want people to stop whispering. I want people to stop dodging the question. I want people to stop telling me how good I look. I want people to stop showing me pictures of their kids. I want the guys to stay at the table and talk instead of step into the lobby to watch the game. I want people to stop being afraid of me. Afraid for the children to be around me. I want the hot football jock from High School to treat me the way he did when he didn't know. I want my outfit to not stand out. I want people to not care. I want people to stop hating, judging, over-thinking. I want to stop being the Side Show attraction at very low budget, dirty and dingy carnival.

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Thank you for your email.

Brief and to the point.

But a moment out of your day, albeit fleeting, that you took to think of someone else.

These gestures are energizing.

Why go through life shrugging our shoulders, flipping our wrists or rolling our eyes? These gestures will not move us or anyone forward. When three simple sentences or a hug can motivate the change we wish to be in the world.

Sit up straight today.

Lying

My ipod was discovered one week later.

I won't even speculate as to why it was gone and suddenly appeared in a random drawer at work. Somebody is lying.

But, thank goodness it is back, because now I can really lie on my sofa and add a melancholy soundtrack to my uneventful days. All the while picking up my phone and emails, only to lie to my friends and family about my busy day.

12 hours later, I can rip the earphones from my ears toss them on the coffee table and lie to myself about how I am not depressed. How I am not unhappy. How this too shall pass. It's only a phase.

"I am just tired. Overworked. " I tell myself.

I lie in my bed, lying to boys, lying to friends, lying alone. I get up only to move to another place where I can lie and possibly create new and more interesting lies.

I lie back and touch myself. My fantasy lies to me. I lie on my back lying about the pleasure I am forcefully trying to experience.

The second movie I watch ends with the lead actor documenting hundreds of people's answer to the same question.

"What do you believe to be an absolute TRUTH?"

iMiss my iPod

It's been almost a week since my iPod was stolen.

I don't know who took it. But, I forgive you.

I think of you everyday. Whoever you are.

You are walking around with my music. My stories. A part of me. I had playlists on there that were tailored to Lynn, the Nurse, Chris. I had lists that were specific to my feelings. There was a sleep list. A California list. A Karaoke List.

I feel a sense of violation.

Your iPod is engraved on the back with my initials (CR+ music = True Love). Do you feel anything when you look at the back of it and see those initials. Maybe it's a coincidence and your name is Chester Robertson.

I hope you love music as much as I do. I hope you love my music. I hope you learn something about the person who created that iPod.

What I hope you learn is how to be sorry for taking something that ultimately can become so personal to another person.

I forgive you because of all the things I just gave you.

You should feel lucky. You have just be enriched by my music, my stories, my life.

A song

The thrill of standing in a pool of warm light and the power of a hushed crowd can overwhelm a performer. But, it was exactly those ingredients that made for an amazing flourish of adrenaline that fed my performance last night.

The song was called "Just Like Magic."

It couldn't have been more appropriate.

Last night was like magic. There was magic everywhere. Magical performances. Magical meetings. Magical laughter, applause, screaming and hollering.

I live in a city that is so full of life and character. I work in a bar with so much talent and creativity. I am a part of a community, at a workplace, in a city that makes me proud and happy.

I am so glad I made it out of my small town life, but more importantly my small town mentality. I could stand on that stage last night and be embraced by my audience, my peers, my friends.

It was not always like this.

"I will not take these things for granted."

Revolving around Evolvement

I want to scream.

You look at me like you always do. You don't have a clue.
I can't tell you what I am really thinking.

In this age of provactive thinking and stubborn mindsets, we all look like we are clawing for an inch of platform on the ladder of individuality.

You don't get it. I don't mind. But, sometimes.

Don't say I trust you. Don't say I need you. Don't be so sure.

You cling to the rough edges of this world like the frayed ends of the scarf that twirls between your index and pointer. Like a security blanket. With nervousness and aniexty you hope the world around you will remain to blame.
In a world of self-analysis and self-reflection, when do we see ourselves evolve. We pull out our mirrors to reflect on ourselves when we know people are seeing us, reading us.
Then we stop.

It's about one moment and one second. Sometimes we have to go around an unexpected bend. There nothing is the same as it was before the sharp turn. Your life may be different than you planned.

Plan. Plan on facing it. Face the facts.
The fact remains, I am not you. You are not me. You do not know all that you think you do.

The choice is yours. As it is mine.
Continue spinning around the outside of evolvement with your skirt spinning and lifting with the wind sometimes with reckless abandon sometimes with nauseating dizziness. OR, or...

Step inside the world that is evolving and stand still. Be a witness. Learn just from your stillness how the evolvement will orbit you through this life, and then...

Scream.

I want to see, feel, be the change I expect in others.

Feed Me...Read Me

I am beginning to feel like Audrey 2 in "Little Shop of Horrors."

I want more. I want you to feed my ego. I want you to stroke it. Nice and easy at first and then just pump it until my head swells and you can't stand to be around me.

This attitude rarely comes around. I have never cared much about what people think. I have never cared if people cared. But, sometimes, you do care. Sometimes you want to know. Not the bad stuff, but the good.

So today is one of those days. I am out and about soley for my ego. Looking for someone to say they think I've got it. Someone to say "that's hot!" Someone to say they read it.

This too shall pass, and I will continue to write about nothing and little somethings again and again. With no expectation and especially no ego.

Scents Memory

If I could put time in a bottle....

September 8th, 2001

The weather was terrific. It was warm without the balm. The breeze was slight; warning you of a "light jacket evening" to come. TallBoring Gary and I packed a lunch and walked all the way from Murray Hill to Battery Park City. We found an unpopulated stretch of grass surrounded by blooming bushes and a few large shade trees. In front of us mostly sky and the buildings of Jersey City. When we laid on our backs the Trade Centers stood so tall you could see them without arching your head back. We hadn't been dating for more than two or three weeks yet. The conversation was never difficult between us, but it was never flowing either. Per his suggestion we both packed a book.

Gary always smelled of nearly nothing. His scent so light and airy it was as if he bathed in Woolite and dried and powdered with Snuggle fabric softener. Nonetheless, on September 8th, 2001 I began to smell Gary as we soaked up the late summer sun. Not just his neck, but the small dent in the center of his chest where maybe a dozen hairs lived. The downy hair in his armpit. I smelled his forearms and felt their smoothness. The smell that resided on either crease of his nose. I reached up his shorts and stroked his inner thigh and then smelled my hand. It turned me on. It began to turn him on. He eventually took the hint and threw down his copy of the latest Alan Hollinghurst novel. We kissed so sensually and so tenderly. We caressed with secret passions. And I smelled him. He smelled so real. So perfect. So new. So clean. I kept smelling him. As I smelled him I become almost ferocious. I was making a memory.

"Your smell, it's everything. It's perfect. It's barely a smell yet so fragrant. It's shampoo and sex. It's soap and slutty-ness. It's sweat and tears. It's salt and sweet. It is here with me but yet it hardly exists. How is this possible? Am I crazy for loving this?" I thought to myself.

Eventually, Gary had to pry me off of him. Although, he did have a huge grin on his face and a smile stretched across his shorts. I am sure he didn't expect me to have this side to my personality. We finished the afternoon fighting to keep our hands off of each other. We strolled back to his place and rolled and frolicked among his sheets and pillows; all which radiated his scent.

Years later I would be in need of some basic moisturizer while vacationing in California. I stopped at a SaveOn picked up a bottle of Lubriderm (the one with purple writing). The instant I applied the lotion, butterflies burst from their cocoons in my gut and my testicles rose up with anticipation.

I am a complex man who appreciates the simple pleasures of life.

But, I would love to put the smell of September 8th, 2001 into a bottle. Just to have forever. To return to as a reminder, when I feel I can't find the simple things to love and adore in another man.

This Woman's...

My mom wakes up at 6:00 a.m. Even on weekends.

She does her stretches and her aerobics; the same set of exercises she has been doing since 1987. Religious exercises that shape her mentality more than her body. She then tidies up the house, packs a lunch for herself and puts out some ground beef to thaw. Jake is now at the door wagging his tail demonstrating the canine pee dance. While she waits for Jake to do his doody, she rummages through her purse for the first of what will be numerous times looking for nothing in particular. A quick breakfast of 1/4 cup of Grape Nuts with skim milk then she hits the shower and spends 20-30 minutes "putting her face on." This prep, with her age, now includes plucking a few random hairs on her chin and upper lip. After the hair spray and earrings are placed it's back to the purse to take inventory of what she may or may not need in there for the day.

Mom sits in the car for a few seconds. I imagine she is giving herself a pep talk. I imagine she is prepping herself for her day. She goes through her mental check list. With a deep starter breath she puts the key in the ignition of her Dodge Caravan and when the mini-van revs the car speakers vibrate enough for her to realize that her boyfriend was the last person to drive. She quickly brings the volume down to barely a whisper of a song. She pulls out a folded piece of scrap paper where she scrawled the address of a vacant apartment. She checks the time and puts the car in drive. She doesn't hear the lyrics unfolding silently through the radio. She only hears a background filler of the faint sound of a female's fragile, air-filled vocals...

"Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside
This woman's work.
This woman's world."

Across town, at the only hospital, my grandmother paces the halls outside Ray's room. In between visitors and passers-by offering their condolences, she talks to herself. It's hardly audible because she doesn't want people to think she is crazy. But, she is. She doesn't feel it happening, even though everyone else can see it. She furiously chants about Ray, curses God, reprimands her children. She scolds the weather, the timing of it all. She aches in her stomach from the sobbing jabs and the starvation grief brings out.

A life is leaving her. It's only a matter of time. A life she shared. Her new life, if you can call it that, will be so foreign after Ray. She's forced to leave the house after his death because it isn't her's and because my mom thinks it wiser for her to downscale her life. The thought of a tiny apartment makes my grandmother's breath short and her hand clutches at an imaginary strand of pearls.

There is a nurse about 10 feet away sitting at the Nurse Station. She is eating one of the hospital's pudding cups, catching up on her charts. The tiny, dusty, beat-up AM/FM radio is softly adding a calming white noise to the otherwise anxious and chilly hospital hallway. She notices my grandmother. She nods an understanding smile her direction. My grandmother stares at her blankly and takes a seat.

Grandma clasps her hands in prayer. She hasn't decided to pray for his life or to pray for his soul to depart from pain. She bows her head, silently sobs and as she begins to greet her lord with unknown words, the voice on the nurse's radio heartbreakingly sings...

"I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking..."

My mother hurriedly signs the lease for the apartment she just viewed in an attempt to beat the trepidation to the dotted line. Grandma will like it. She will spruce it up and make it her new home. Mom has to do these things for grandma. All these things that will need to happen while grandma grieves.

As the dear life of our beloved Ray passes, my grandmother moves into a new life and my mother takes on a new role in life. She begins the last cycle of her mother's life by parenting her parent.

The song remembers when...

"Oh, darling, make it go,
just make it go away now."

A Conversation....

ME: "I don't know. I guess I am just not happy."

HE: "Is anyone happy? Anyone we know, anyway?"

ME: "Thanks for saying that."

HE: "Well...you know."

A fleeting moment of happiness

The Lost Chapters of....

He wakes up with his eyelashes clumped together forming a prison cell over his eyes. The sun blasting through the window penetrates the bars of mascara that have incarcerated his eyes for the five short hours of toss-and-turn sleep he assumes he just had.

As soon as the gates open his eyes start itching and burning. He is squinting and rubbing his eyes like a newborn. The taste in his mouth is a combination of tinfoil, cardboard, and excrement. Equal parts of each. The room is intensely dry but cozily warm, with just enough breeze from a cracked window to keep anyone under the down.

He looks at the digital clock with it's ruby red numbers and reads 9:45
He thinks, "Already!" and "It's Only?" at the same time.

He turns to the other side of the bed. There's no one there even though no one's left.
He himself is no one.
Only glitter traces both his and the other pillow.
He retraces his steps.
Unfortunately, he can't remember anything that follows his impromptu number at 2:00 a.m.ish.

His desire for coffee is strong enough to evoke the muscles in his arms and legs to conjure up some semblance of bodily movement.

He stops at a mirror in the hall.
The blood in his eye's hit's him like a shot.
Before he can self deprecate the sweet saliva begins to form in the back of his throat and the intense, rapid swallowing increases.
He makes it to the bathroom in time, because he is a pro.

With two drops of Visine and a spoonful of Listerine, he's standing upright with his shoulders back and proud. At least outwardly.

No one is still there in the bed.
No one knows and no one cares.
It's back to the neighborhood of make believe.
Where he doesn't appear to have a life that could be a chapter in an Augusten Burroughs Memoir.

SIGNS (Post #5)

December 31, 1999-2000

I sit on the roof top of my friends’ apartment in Silverlake, CA. Some of the people are on acid, some are high from smoking pot, and some are drunk (or wasted rather). It's a new year. A new millennium. I ring it in with cheer in my hand and a pang in my heart. I miss Doug. We ended it just shy of two years. I am loving California. It's my first visit. It makes me hate New York City. I work too much in NY. I am in debt because of NY. I dropped out of school just to stay in NYC. I am barely surviving. But, I am not an oblivious idiot. This is a vacation. Life isn't always a tab of acid and unlimited miles on a rental car.

I met Rob the Z-Man December 31st, and it's inevitable. We are hooking up January 1st. I knew it before midnight and now it is nearly 4 a.m. I let myself get into Rob's TransAm even though I barely know him. But, I joke inside my head that it's been a year. We met in '99 and are gonna finally fuck in 2000. But, when I get into Rob's TransAm, I am really looking for validation, intimacy, love, tenderness, and acceptance. He drives drunk and high all the way back to Sherman Oaks while the sun comes up. We get into his bed that is draped with black curtains boxing it in. This pad is made for fucking. He must know what he is doing. He is older, taller, leaner, and bigger. He is much bigger than me. I ask him to do it. I tell him to do it. I almost command him. "Just DO IT," I say. He doesn't even hesitate. He attempts, but I am tense. So tight, I can't. He keeps trying. It hurts, but I feel like I need it. He turns me over. I bite the pillow, clench my fists, and sob silently. "What am I doing here?" I might have even said this out loud.

I get it now. Maybe not in that pillow biting moment but what followed, I did. Everything happens for a reason. The universe is teaching me-to grow, to strengthen, to listen. I will get through this. Z-man hears my cries. He stops. He lies on top of me and kisses my ear. He asks me if I am okay. I nod yes. He stays on top of me ear to ear, brushing my right arm with his fingertips for what feels like hours but is probably a few minutes. He doesn't ask me anything. He doesn't move. I would never have predicted this tenderness in him. I finally turn over. Our faces are centimeters apart. Through my tears I crack a small smile. He just looks me straight in the eye....and says..."You're a virgin, aren't you?"

I return to NYC grateful to the Z-Man and slightly rejuvenated. I am of course, s little ashamed of my failed attempt at a raunchy, racy loss of virginity, but ready to march through life with a restored faith in man and, more importantly, in myself.

SIGNS (Post #4)

January 1998

I felt I was ready for love. No one else seemed happy for me, or should I say, ready for me. I had moved on from humiliating myself in front of women to wearing my heart on my sleeve in front of men while hiding and lying about it. There had been the 30 something guys I lied to about my age. There had been the 80s fanatic Andrew who broke my heart. The closeted celebrity driven acting student who, shortly after toweling my cum off his chest, told me we could never be and he wasn't even "really gay." Then came Doug. The secrets Doug and I had to keep from everyone. It was so much work and pain. No one wanted us together. I fought and battled with Doug and with those smothering us. It effected my school work, my social life, my sanity--his too.

I came to this city to be myself. But who was that? At this point, I had people dragging me out of the closet. I had other's tell me my acting career would be over if I admitted to being gay. I lost friends who knew me when I was "straight." I thought bisexuality was safer and more accepted. I couldn't distinguish between which gay friend was truly a friend or which ones wanted to sleep with me. And I had people who didn't believe I was old enough to even understand anything.

This wasn't how I imagined discovery in the big city.

That night, I took the stage in a new musical called "The Human Heart." "How apropos," I thought. My parents were in the audience oblivious to my "other" life, oblivious to my strains and struggles. Oblivious to who Doug was to me as we shared the stage. Oblivious to the human-ness of my heart.

My character Sam was to committ suicide in the end of Act I. He couldn't take it. Sam couldn't last long enough to make it to the second act. He felt misunderstood and lost. His perspective on life left nothing at the next bend in the road.

Where was his hope and faith? Maybe the same place mine had gone?
Over the weeks of rehearsal and performance I had developed a very unhealthy connection to Sam and my own personal life's Act I.

So, the end of Act I approaches and as the music speeds up and crescendos, Sam pulls a gun out of his pocket and stands at the top of a wooden stairway with it pointed to his temple. The prop gun goes off and Sam is supposed to drop and dangle over the banister. Instead, my body began to shake as the gun approached my head. My knees were buckling and my heart was beating rapidly. Sweat immediately covered my forehead as the migrane made it's home behind my eyes in an instant. I pull the plastic trigger and begin to topple over the railing only to fall completely over and crash to the stage floor 8 feet below me. The sound of the audience was that of utter amazement of how real the suicide looked.

As I laid in a pile of sawdust and sheet music, the universe began to speak softly to me again. The signs were flashing before my mind's eye as I lay with my eyes closed. Love, too, was speaking loud and clear. As were the stage manager and a dozen actors, and I awoke from my brief blackout with Coca-Cola and aspirin being lifted to my lips.

The show finished. I didn't tell my parents about my fainting spell or my aniexty. I remained cool and collected as any actor could. I recall introducing Doug to my parents as "my friend." It was all too fast and far too brief.

But, I stayed in this life and in this city for two more years looking for Doug to love and save me.

SIGNS (Post #3)

May 1997
Only a few short weeks after my arresting token debacle was the end of the year party for my college. I had completed my freshman year. There was beer, pot, dancing, and sexuality flailing about and crashing into one another on the dance floor. Proud boys approaching me. Knocking on my closet door. Asking me to join them on the dance floor. I denied them all the while brushing their shoulder, hand, thigh before returning to the next girl in line to disguise me.
Later that night, in a drunken attempt to use the public bathroom in my dormitory, a cowardly boy found me in the dark and bravely made his descent into me. It was a crash landing. I survived. But, with injuries.
I awoke on my stomach. My cheek was drenched in my own saliva. I pulled my pants up and looked in the mirror. I left the 2nd floor bathroom with baggage.
What kind of sign from the universe was this?

SIGNS (Post #2)

May 1997

As Desiree and I were being hand cuffed, shouted at, and shoved into the back seat of a cop car on Broadway and 79th Street, I couldn't help but think that I might be able to get away with never telling my parents about this.

We were poor college kids (18 and 19 years old) desperate to get the hell out of the dorm (crack house) and create some sort of fun. We emptied our pockets. Collectively, we had enough money and tokens for two round trip subway rides, two huge cafe au laits, and maybe some sort of pastry. We chose to go to BMW's on 7th Ave and 21st Street. It stood for Beer Music Wine. But, they were also a cafe, so no ID check at the door. But, they had live music and it was free. 10:30p.m. and we were out the door and on our way to the subway.

It wasn't until after fingerprints, mugshots, 9 hours in a holding cell and a court date set for the second week of June, that I realized there was no explaining this to my parents. "Ma, Dad...umm I have been arrested, but it's nothing to worry about. I was just trying to save a little money. We pushed both of us through the turnstile on one token. They were undercover."

Now I would have to stay in NYC to attend court whether my parents liked it or not. I re-booked my flight, missed a wedding rehearsal dinner (that I was singing for), all for $1.50 token violation by two piss-ass-poor college kids. I sat in a diner with Desiree and picked at my cheese fries, ignoring the universe that was practically spelling it out for me.

SIGNS (Post #1)

August 1996

With a grin from ear to ear but a heart rate of a marathon runner, I wait for my luggage at the baggage claim area of La Guardia Airport. I am not sure how I managed the three huge suitcases and two carry-ons, but I make it to the yellow taxi line with a look of utter astonishment. I made it to New York City. I was about to get into a taxi all by myself. I confidently direct my cab driver to my destination, all the while checking the cheat sheet my Resident Director dictated to me over the phone. I put the cheat sheet back into my file folder, toss the folder in the back window and gaze out as we drive over the Triborough Bridge. We arrive on the Upper West Side and I step out of my first NYC Taxi. There's a doorman and 20 floors of stories awaiting me. The driver slams the trunk closed. I tip him. The doorman asks if I would like a cigarette. I ponder my freedom to decide for myself and realize I left my file folder filled with every single important document an 18 year old boy from Iowa could possibly need in the back window sill. Documents that include my birth certificate, insurance papers, social security card, bank documents, traveler's checks, you name it. I leave my luggage at the front door of my building and proceed to chase the taxi from 77th and Broadway to 73rd and Broadway. I feel like I am running faster than I ever did while competing in high school. I jump the median on Broadway and scream at the old lady who is opening the door to my fate just outside Citarella. I scare her enough to have her raise her hands over her head as if I were to arrest her. I retrieve my files and plop down on the curb to cry and, also, to decided if I should listen to what the universe might be trying to tell me.

On "Pretty..."

He approached the microphone ferociously and to everyone's surprise had placed a high speed fan at the foot of the stage on the floor. When the song hit the first chorus of "Since You Been Gone" his version of Kelly Clarkson would have blowing locks of music video hair as an exclamation point to the song's message.

The crowd went wild with screams and applause. The fan was the essential element to the performance, and it blew the audience away, sweeping them into the concert hall he had created in his mind's eye. His nerves slipped off of him every so smoothly and the remainder of the song's performance was a rousing success. As a matter of fact, he won. He wasn't aware the evening was a competition and not just a staff talent showcase, but by surprise he took his place in line while the audience decided the fate of he and his other talented employees. He was the manger of the club and politely claimed his title while handing over the top prize to his runner up. His debut in drag performance and a winner. Not too shabby.

He looked pretty. That's what everyone said, anyway. And if you could get past the idea that you knew who he was, he truly did. The makeup was done by a professional ex-Mac make-up artist turned Drag Queen of The Year! The hair was made up of two wigs piled on top of each other. What a heavy load that must have been. The outfit sickly replecated that of the Kelly Clarkson smash hit video. His body was lithe and lean with muscles lightly casting their lines along my exposed arms. There was work involved in this transformation to pretty. A few people crowned him as "K.C. Sunshine!"

But, It's all about the fan. His beauty and success wouldn't have such impact without the fan. The Fan solidified it for the audience. From the speck of glitter serving as a nose piercing all the way to the fan. This Queen was going all the way and leaving no detail unnoticed.

He didn't feel "pretty" per se. He felt funny. He felt frisky. He felt oddly sexy, but, not pretty. He accepted his accolades and awestruck looks with a flair of diva-ness and an air of modesty. He wasn't used to this attention regardless of how many people "knew" him. This pretty thing had it's perks. Being "pretty" was a good thing. People give you things. People dote on you. People fondle you. People even get out of your way.

It wasn't until a month later when he doned a dress again that it dawned on him that this is how it must be for the pretty boys too. He began to realize that the pretty boys he worked with everyday knew they were pretty and life was easier for them. For one imparticular; his right hand man. His right hand man was more like a left hand man. Awkward, sloppy, untrained, frustrating, difficult but less used and abused than the right hand thus...prettier.

His assistant is pretty to most people, sexy to some, hot to others, and icky to few.

But he is pretty to all the right people. He can get what he wants or better yet, get away with what he doesn't. It's infuriating to many but particularly the manager. It's as if this assistant has been blessed with the fan. A fan that works a lot like K.C. Sunshine's fan did in the performance. Just when you least expect it he turns on a switch and he looks radiant and beautiful to those he needs to manipulate. Everyone is blown away and swept into the land of distraction. Their heads nodding yes to questions they don't hear. Their mouths gaping open to eyes that can not see. People moving out of the way for him and giving him all that he wants and doesn't.

I do it too, sometimes. I see how the other's treat him and I follow suit.
My prettiness was put on. One shot deal. I have tried carrying around that fan. It does nothing for me.

His is part of his make up. He's increasing his personal load by carrying around a fan to help lighten his professional load.

What a lot of work being pretty is.

Stop. Change.

Sometimes, when two people talk long enough with one another (say hours) and thoughts are free flowing, bouncing of one another like the discussion is made of rubber, discoveries can be made.

She told me to stop trying to change. Stop trying to make the change happen. Especially with the intangible. Let it change on it's own.

Let it.
It.
My feelings.
My emotions.
My thoughts.
It.
My heart.

I have always been the guy, like so many others, who pushes forward, moves on, plows ahead, etc., etc. "Shake it off!" The phrase used by so many coaches in my childhood and adolescence.

My friends are my life coaches. They coach me to get up off the couch. They coach me to take a breather and plant it on the bench when it's time.

One of my favorite coaches is pushing me to stop forcing change. To relish. To languish in my state. The good, the bad, the beautiful. Until it or I change or not without force. She reminded me that we live in a society geared and focused on getting over, moving on, or as she likes to say-'push it to the wayside.' When something sad happens we have millions of suggestions being thrown at us as 'how to' move on. When tragedy strikes we have dozens of people and things urging us to remember to laugh.

I agreed.

I don't want to get over it. I don't want to move on. I'm not ready to pretend it didn't happen. It won't happen. It never happened. I don't want to force myself to go through some given set of circumstances to prove my life can go on. I don't want to make the "normal" bold strides with the expectation of a certain outcome that will only be false and contrived by me. I don't want to stop missing you. I don't want to stop dreaming. I don't want to stop hoping. I don't want to stop fantasizing. I don't want to stop feeling. I don't want to stop aching.

I want to brood, plan, ponder. I want to yearn, desire, reminisce. I want to long, laugh, and cry. I want to hold on. I want to keep believing. I want to toss and turn. I want to sigh.

Until it slowly evolves into something else. Until IT transforms from tears to laughter. From anguish to relief. From intolerable to consolable.

I am not ready to make anything happen. I am just letting "ME" happen. The most I can do, right now, is deal with IT, and the rollercoaster ride IT brings with it.

I need an Ace or a King

Recently, my friend joely posted on her blog with the title Solitaire. It was a haunting title for me. Lately, I have been passing my subway time by playing the solitaire game that comes with my Motorola Razor phone. I go through solitaire phases. Sometimes to kill the time I read, other times it's ipod listening, then there are the solitaire times.

Solitaire times usually come when my mind can't stay focused on a book because it will run back into the wilds of my racing thoughts. Solitaire times usually stay around a bit too long when my emotions can't seem to listen to a whole song with out using the song as a background track to the stories of my life.

The biggest issue I am having right now with the solitaire on my razor phone, is that I have yet to win a single game. I can't remember if I ever have won a game of solitaire on this phone and I have had this phone since October of last year. But, it has really begun to upset me in the past few months. The paranoid me thinks, "What does my phone have against me?" The perfectionist control freak in me thinks, "What wrong moves am I making with my cards? The self-deprecating me thinks, "Maybe I don't know the game of solitaire and it's not the game for me."

I want to scream at the screen of my phone when I have run out of options with my solitaire cards. I have to reluctantly give in to failing at this silly game. I flip my phone closed and open again to start a whole new game.

Somewhere on the other side of the technological world there is a dealer of those cards and this dealer has yet to deal me one workable hand of the simple game of solitaire.

Somewhere on the other side of the world there is a guy who is winning at solitaire. He may even enjoy the game. Maybe he was so good at solitaire, he's advanced to games with more than himself.

I am on the other side of this world losing. Playing day after day. Desperately trying to learn to win a game against myself. Equally frustrated and sad at each loss.

I don't think I am cut out for solitaire. I don't know how long I can keep up this losing streak before caving into my side of the world.

I am moving toward the acceptance that solitaire is not for me. I am not cut from a solitary cloth. I am not made to be solitary.

But, if I never learn to conquer solitaire, will I ever be ready for the games that are played at the next level?

"You gotta fast car"

I am not sure if Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" was as much a part of his youth as it was mine, but that song was so heavy with hurt. I remember not really knowing what it was about for the first few years after it was released. I remember later in college thinking it was such a weird song to have become so successful. Now, years later her self-titled album found it's way back into my life and I've discovered how many other songs on her album I love. The song "Baby Can I Hold You Tonight," which was later a shitty boyband cover. The song "For You," that only people who really gave the full album a listen will remember and love. As I sit down to try and recap the past week of my wild and crazy ride through my state of mind and California state, I can't help but think of that song. Although, the song's lyrics when you listen to the whole thing don't truly reflect my week in sunshine and bliss, a few of them will have to do for this post.

"We'll take this fast car and keep on drivin'" she would sing.

Rosas was a fast car. Rosas was the name he assigned her. Not for reasons you might expect. The car is not red or pink, it doesn't have a name similar to a flower or a petal, and Rosas owner was not of the latin or Mexican persuasion. In fact, the fast car is a sleek Mazda3. Black with a sunroof, and soft black leather interior. Four doors. Because he hates the idea of himself or anyone for that matter crawling in the back seat. Besides, the doors on two door cars are so much heavier and large. Rosas name was assigned shortly after he arrived in WeHo and met the numerous flower sellers that stroll the Santa Monica Boulevard strip at night approaching bar hoppers and restaurant goers offering "rosas." Except it must be typed phonetically so that you may see how it sounds when the short and stout Mexican mama offers them to you or when Carlisle, Rosas' corn-fed, white, southern boy owner speaks her name in an over pronounced Spanish accent.

"Rothath?" "4 dollath."

This is how he spoke to his car whenever referring to her. "Oh, look how pretty Rosas (rothath) is after her wash." Some would say it's childish. I called it charming. Because he said it with such earnesty. He wasn't joking. Mazda3's name was Rosas. Besides, I have aunts and uncles who still name their cars. We all have, at one point in our life, named our cars. I just haven't had one in ten years, so I forgot how much people really get into referring to their car by their new given name. By day 4 of 8, I was ridin' the Rothath (rosas) Band Wagon with the best of 'em.

I never could have imagined the view from Rosas while on the Pacific Coast Highway. I mean I knew it would be pretty and unique, but I had no idea it would be breathtaking and fantastical.
Every twist and turn revealed a different view of the sky, ocean, mountain. Just around the bend would be a scene from some movie about uncharted land or undiscovered country. I never tired of the next turn or bend in the road.

With the sunroof open and the music on just loud enough to be filler during silences and soft enough to allow conversation to be effortless, we drove the 8-9 hours. We stopped nearly two dozen times for yet another perfect photo opportunity. I remember Carlisle laughing at my fear of heights and brushing it off with the utmost confidence. Like a parent who let's go of their kid's bicycle seat when you first take the training wheels off. With a nonchalance that should be studied, he laughed at my dramatic display of fear and told me to brave it or stay in the car. So, there now exists a photo of me clutching a bridge that must have been 200-300 feet above a thin river of water branching out to meet the ocean. The look on my face after braving my fear (slightly) is that of genuine fear and dramatic interpretation of fear. It's priceless to say the least.

Rosas has a Bose sound system. She has been blessed with good, strong senses. The 80s collection CD I purchased in LA specifically for only one song comes up on Rosas' disc changer. I ask Carlisle if he minds if we skip to track 18 and then start the CD from the beginning. He is an easy type of guy, so, of course, gives me the okay. I know how crucial it is for the driver to like the music. Especially if that driver has driven the entire stretch so far. So, needless to say, Carlisle's best interest was at hand-not my need to hear "Hands To Heaven" by BREATHE. So, there its--the sun, the clouds, the breeze, the winding road, the edge of the country, the ocean and the song of all 80s love songs playing at perfect volume. Carlisle let's me sing along and doesn't say a word when I don't hit the high notes and turn to silent lip synch. His hand reaches across the gear shift and gently falls onto my thigh. Nothing else. No eye contact. No squeeze. Just a delicate hand draped ever so gently across my trembling thigh.

"Tonight I need your sweet caress..." the song belts.

His hands are beautiful to me in this moment. How have I never noticed the strength and beauty in his youthful hands? How have I never noticed his knuckles and the soft light hair on his wrist creeping slightly onto the back of his hand? The color of his string tied bracelet suddenly complements his skin tone on his hand and arm. His shirt is rolled to just below the elbow exposing the perfect amount of a forearm with soft viens appearing across the top and several more barely visible along the bottom of his arm. Like roads, they eventually intersect at the bend in his elbow. I feel this intersection with my first two fingers softly gliding over his skin then slowly back down to his hand and all the way out to his middle fingertip. I continue to sing the song. Again, I miss the high note and mouth the words instead.

"Tonight you calm my restlessness, you relieve my sadness..." the songs moves into the saxophone instrumental break.

The song. His hand. Bring me back to Henry's Skateland in Smalltown, USA. I asked Stephanie if she would meet me by the fir tree and kiss me on the lips. We did too. I relay a bit of my 80s past to my younger travel companion. He doesn't recognize the song. I don't mind. I don't bite back with a bitter banter about the good ol' days, or how old I never intended to be. I just give him more details about why I loved this song and why I still do. He nods his head a subtle yes and agrees it's a pretty song. He doesn't need to recognize it. He recognizes what it means to me. He doesn't need to think it's pretty. He thinks it is and because I do.

His hand makes it's way back to the wheel during sharp turns, but it eventually finds it's way back to my thigh. Never caressing. Never squeezing. Never sexual. Only intimate. Only soft. Only a reminder. Only a gesture. If I lift a finger his finger meets mine listening to the debate of whether they should intertwine or not. So available. So easy. So comfortable.

For months, I have been starving for affection. Taking it in brushed elbows and arms of strangers around the waist. Taking hugs from friends for a moment too long. For months I was convinced it was something I needed. Taking pats on the ass as compliments. Taking drunken thrusts as attraction. Taking drunken kisses as meaningful.

I begin to think of Tracy Chapman's song..."You've gotta fast car...is it fast to enough so that we can fly away...I gotta feeling that I belong....Aye, I gotta feeling I could be someone, be someone,...be someone."

All I needed was in that fast car, Ms. Rosas (rothath)! The surge of positive energy that came from Carlisle's gentle hand hit me like the waves that were crashing into the cliffs 300 feet below our winding road. I wasn't starving for affection. I was yearning for meaning, simplicity, and truth. Thank you Rosas for being that fast car. Carlisle, "just remember when we were driving, driving in your car speed so fast I'd feel like I was drunk, and city lights lay out before us and your arm...."

No words to say. No words to explain. This feeling inside. I have....

Airports

Even if I weren't sad. Even if I didn't miss him. Even if the vacation had sucked. I would still feel a grey, cold, chalky sadness in my throat and heart when climbing through an airport. I hate them. Airports.

Looking back at my crossroads...a really bad metaphor

People use the phrase "at a crossroads" far too often. They always say it the same way too. They take a deeper breath than normal and force themselves to speak the cliche with the utmost confidence. "Sounds like you are at a real crossroads in life," they say with a air of authority. Like they've been at that same crossroad before. When in actuality, I believe that "standing at a crossroads" is a fleeting moment in comparison to the road you just traveled and the road you end up choosing.

When I reflect on my "standing at a crossroads" moments, I see myself stopping, resting to catch my breath, looking in all directions and then taking the road my heart leads me to. Just like that, I am no longer at a crossroads. I am now on a different road. I am scared when I end up taking the "road less traveled." I am sad when there is no one "on the road" with me. And, often taking the new road is far more challenging and emotion filled than the "standing at a crossroads" moment. But, the saddest and most unfortunate thing is that the people who over use the "crossroads" phrase are generally the people still standing at them. I am not so far from my most recent crossroads that I can't still look back and see the ones I love still standing at them either scared to choose or more frightened not to try. Or worse yet, not able to admit that life moves on an endless winding road with twist and turns and if you continue to make house at the crossroads, you will only be forced to play a continuous game of chicken while dodging those who come to your crossroads and actually make a choice fully embracing the risks.

A metaphor that, now that I have over used in every way possible, will hopefully never find it's way back into my vernacular.

Sensorial Sentimentality from April 2004

Now, I pray this is not too much for you.
Please don't run. This is my retelling of it.

The smell is not pleasant. The noise obtrusive. The subway platform is sprinkled with passengers. I feel as though I can hear a collective sigh as we all gaze deep into the tunnel searching for the next approaching coach home. Alas, no trace. In my case, I am on my way to your home. I catch my self checking my reflection in the C LOCAL across the platform. Not in the window. But in the dark box designated for the train label. It serves me better.

Should I read? Listen to music? And my heart beats. I think people are looking at me. I pace back and forth. Eight steps North. Eight steps South. To the rhythm of my heart. I carry on like this. Only stopping periodically to check my reflection again. As if my nappy wisps of hair have really moved on the platform that seems to be devoid of any air. My coins are dancing the Tarantella with my fingers. I realize I am doing it, and I hate that I am. I can't stand that sound. It reminds me of old people. Of people in line at the grocery store. People from my hometown. People at a bar. People who aren't really listening. I stop.

Inside the train. I sit up straight, without my back touching the seat/bench. A sure sign of my uncomfortableness with my own nervousness and insecurities. I am such a control oriented person, I try to force my heartbeat to match the revolution of the subway wheels. Chung-CHUNG. Chung-CHUNG. To no avail. It disobeys me and continues to patter away briskly. The next thing I know. The street.

Your street. I am walking. Turn left, a gust of wind. "MY HAIR!" I feel like I might have said this out loud. Not at a volume anyone could hear but me, but, nonetheless, still out loud. The homemade bouquet/note I plan to present to you is being ironed out between my hands. Building number 712. Apt #52. "Should I ring the doorbell or just knock?" I think to myself. So, I do both. I also think to myself, "Why can't this door be more of a reflective surface?" You don't answer the door. I am actually glad. It gives me more time.

"Shit!" did I say that out loud? I hope not. There you are with domestic-esque, kitchen thingys in your hands. "God he is so handsome." I tell myself. "God my mom would say, it looks like he makes a good husband." I think to myself. "God stop thinking about your mom right now." "God just stop thinking and say HI."

Pleasantries exchanged. My unconventional bouquet. One kiss. Three more. Each one a little more brave than the other. Yellow looks so good on you. Red looks so good on me. We look good together. Being in the kitchen adds an aroma to the moment. Citrus in the air, bread too maybe. And a warmth. My nerves ease slightly. I detect excitement in your eyes. Could it possibly match mine?

Dinner. Savory. I remember wanting to remember the spice of the pepper mixed with the sweet of the citrus. I remember wanting to remember the moist beads of your forehead from cooking. I wanted to look at more than your ass in those gorgeous pants. I wanted to make you laugh. Typical of my nature. There is so much I want to remember.

My thoughts speed through me. Smell him. Dior? Right?
Kiss him, again. Make a toast. No, too many words. Words can scare people. Just make a memory.

The movie. Hilarious. Interesting. Your laughter sporadic but genuine. Your body pressed to mine. The instantaneous comfort lingering between. Both so unsure of what to do with it.

The bedroom. A place that is yours not mine. A body that is yours not mine. Explorers on an expedition without a map. Where might X mark the spot on him? Where might X mark the spot on me? I believe in buried treasures. I believe in sparkling discoveries. I don't believe they happen in one expedition.

Morning. The cool breeze of the oscillating fan mixed with the warmth of the red sheets. It is a new place. It feels foreign to me too. I try not to be afraid. Even though I may not speak the language, can I get along in this place? I was happy. I was scared. Then I was happy again. Then I was with you. Then my concern, my heart, my mind, and my soul were with you. "Where is he?" I think. "Where should we be?" I question. A kiss good-bye unlike any kiss I have given or received yet. Not bad, but in an all-together different family than all the others.

The day continues. I smell you. It is sense memory. That damn cologne. It is not just in my sense of smell, it is now in my mind's nose. I read your email and write my own. I sigh. Relief that is. A sigh of comfort and joy. Another long breath out. Then I sense something. I need a breath mint. I had chicken with garlic sauce tonight. Thank God for curiously strong mints.
Thank God for curiously strong words.
Thank God for curiosity and strength.

We will talk soon, and let us both fear a little less and feel a little more.

Coming Home

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Blogfish (A blog that is selfish)

In a world of selfishness, a city of shallowness, and a circle of self-involvement I hesitate to even relay the experience from my last post and then proceed to use this post to comment on it.

In my world, when you talk about not being selfish you get reminders signed, sealed and delivered by your friends, your colleagues, your peers, and strangers telling you that you are just like them. Selfish. Because if everyone else is selfish like us we can rationalize it. It soothes the pain of our own embarrassing admission of being completely and utterly self-involved. We listen to a friend, a co-worker, a guest on Oprah talk about how they are trying to be more selfless and thoughtful and we roll our eyes and sigh. We call them self-righteous. Because we can't stand that "new age' bullshit. Don't start that "be a better person" tirade. Stay with me in this bottomless pit of self-involvement, seclusion and oddly enough exclusiveness. Because we actually believe (especially in NYC) that being selfish is important to survival. Because we believe in order to get anywhere in life everyone has to be (and I quote) "a little bit selfish." Maybe to a certain degree this is true. But, we metropolitan, cosmopolitan, 9-5ing, wine and dining, manhattanites have gone too far. We have cut out any middle ground between selfish and self-righteous. Because we need things to be cut and dry. Linear. Like the streets we tread on daily. A grid. Where each person can fit into their own categorized square box. And then proceed to not think outside of it.

As I continue on with my "tirade," even I can't help but think I am sounding self-righteous. But, if sounding self-righteous is the first step in realizing other people are around me, then I will risk it. If sounding self-righteous is the worst outcome of learning how to thrive in this world instead of just survive, then I will risk it. If my blessing from Sherman has me talking for days, weeks, months about the change it has stirred in me and that sounds self-righteous, so be it.

I want to surround myself around caring, nurturing, generous and selfless people. I want to stop letting all of my life's little issues bring me down. I want to stop using my issues and the state of down as an excuse for my attitude and behaviors. I want to stop expecting people to understand. I want to let go of my frustration when they can't. I want to stop making it about me. How do I do that?

I turn around and post on my blog. One of the most selfish things to exist. I fail miserably by writing in my blog, making it all about me, then posting it for the world (a dozen or so readers) to see.

Self-righteous is defined as piously sure of one's own righteousness; moralistic. And, pious is defined asprofessing or exhibiting a strict, traditional sense of virtue and morality; high-minded; commendable; worthy.
Those things don't sound so bad to me.

But, I have years of jaded, bitter, lonely, selfish learned behaviors to unteach myself.

Sherman's Blessing

3:58 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I called out to the driver of the taxi to stop on the far corner of my block on the upper west side of Manhattan. I handed him ten singles and said good night. I slid across the back seat to exit, according to the law, on the curb side of the taxi. As my tired ass slowly glided across the black pleather seat it bumped into something. I urgently fumbled for the object, assuming it was my precious razor phone falling out of my pocket or better yet my grip. What I found was a very bulky, black leather wallet. In my dazed state of exhaustion and confusion I almost handed it to the driver passing the ball of responsibility into his court. Just before making the hand-off, I remembered that I didn't trust an ounce of one single, solitary cab driver in this stinkin' city. So, with reluctance, I tightened my grip on the massive brick of a wallet and proceeded up the five flights to my apartment.

Inside my apartment, I immediately got to work on tracking down the individual who's wallet was left behind. I leafed through the right side of the bifold wallet. There I found Sherman's Driver's License, his four credit cards, his two bank cards, his social security card, his insurance cards, his Medicare card, his medical supplies delivery service card, his senior citizen Metro Pass, his crumpled instructions for what pills to take, how many and when, his veteran's benefits card, his library card, a few receipts, and two random business cards for Jewish organizations. On the LEFT side of the wallet was all of Shirley's cards. Her driver's license, her Medicare card, insurance cards, prescription cards, MTA pass, everything but credit and debit cards on her side of the wallet. I stopped and pondered why the man would be carrying all of his wife's life of identification in his wallet. The thought crossed my mind that she may be crippled. The thought crossed my mind she may be dead and he carries her with him this way. The thought crossed my mind that maybe when two people get this old together (83 and 80) they are together every moment of everyday and it only makes sense to carry it all in one place.

After a 20 minute 4 a.m. call with AMEX, no luck. I did close down Sherman's card for him but there was nothing I could do at 4 a.m. I rifled through the wallet again and created my own story for Shirley and Sherman. They lived in Brooklyn (at least when the licenses were issued). I wondered if they had a huge apartment. I wondered what war Sherman was a veteran of. World War II perhaps. He would have been 20 years old the year that victory came to the Allied Powers. I wondered how much money was on their senior citizen metro passes. The longer I looked at his photo on the veteran's card and her photo on her i.d., the more I felt for them. Losing your wallet sucks. But, imagine being a senior citizen with your life's most important documents and nearly $150 in cash gone in the 37 seconds it took to pay and leave your taxi cab.

I went to sleep. I think I had selfish dreams about winning lots of money or being given some cash reward for my find. Then I jumped to a completely unrelated dream where Travis from "So You Think You Can Dance," was in a play that I was directing and I asked him to create some choreography for me. We both (in the dream) loved the song "It's Not Up To You" by BJORK. He was delightful to work with and had massive amounts of respect for me as a director and an artist. The last dream I remember having involved me walking on this elevated runway that was probably 100 feet wide and the entire length of central park. It was just suspended in mid-air. I was walking with purpose and was sweating. It wasn't a cat walk it was like an airplane runway. There were very few people on it with me and I was walking/running much faster than all of them. I wasn't afraid of what was at the the end. In my dream I knew the runway was coming to an end at 59th Street and I knew that whatever happened I would be okay. I zoomed to the end and when the runway ended I kept going. I wasn't flying. I was still walking. But, I was suspended just above the streets at 20 or so feet. No one could see me. I was floating. But sadness came over me. I started to step inside my own dream for fear that I was dreaming of my death. I abruptly woke up and looked at the clock. 11:53 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I spent the remainder of my morning (ah..em afternoon) tracking down Sherman and Shirley again. I called a few more of their credit cards and finally found out that one of them had already been cancelled by Sherman himself. A few of the companies I spoke with tried to phone him but no luck. I gave each company I spoke to my name and phone number just in case they got in touch with him.

Finally, it dawned on me to try doing an internet search. (internet in my own apartment is a new thing...so I was a little slow on the uptake) There it was. His name and the matching address on his i.d. But, in order to get his number you had to pay for the "extra special" search. I did it. I got the number and I called. It rang and rang. Then it rang some more. I hung up feeling defeated and on the brink of fed up. This 'do-good' crap isn't paying off, I thought to myself. Ten minutes later I tried again. I must have let it ring a dozen or more times. Just when i was about to flip my phone closed, a fumbling receiver makes it's way to a quiet, scratchy voiced man with the sounds of phlegm forming in his sinuses...there is a least a six or seven second delay in his "hello."

"Is this Sherman _____________ ?" I ask.

"Who is this?" He asks after another six or seven seconds.

"Is this Mr. Sherman and Shirley ___________?" I ask once more.

"This is he. Who's this?"

"I have your wallet, sir. My name is Clem. I found..."

He interrupts me. "Who is Clem?"

"Sir," I say over him, "I found your wallet in taxi cab in the wee hours of the morning on my way home from work. I work in the service industry until very late that's why I was in a cab." I was so desperate for him to trust me that I had to try and prove my sobriety and responsibility for being in a cab at such a late hour. The power of our elders, I must say.

Then came a painfully long pause. I actually said "umm sir?" He finally spoke in an even more hushed voice than before peppered with more gravel in his throat.

"Bless you." He said so simply.

After a twenty minute conversation about where my office was located, what my cell phone number was, how to spell my name, and a few repeats of all of that, we made a date to meet in the lobby of my office at 5:30 p.m. It was about 3:10 p.m. at this point. He had a very long commute ahead of him living on the extreme edges of Brooklyn. I flipped my phone closed and folded the wallet with the seeds of a smile planted deep within my soul. I flipped back open my phone to call a friend and share my story. I was only minutes into the story when a call beeped in. I was sure it was him. I don't know anyone with a 718 area code. (And that wasn't intended to be snobby) I hung up with said friend and retrieved my call waiting.

"Clem? It's Sherman. What time did we say we'd meet?" He then repeated the address again for the eighth time, the spelling of my name for the fourth time, and my phone number for the sixth time and we said good-bye. Well, I did at least. He just hung up the phone with no salutation.

I made my way downtown clutching to the wallet for dear life. God forbid I finally locate the guy and then I end up leaving it on a subway seat. I exit the subway in midtown and head toward my office. I try to imagine his height and if he wears his age or not. I step into the lobby of my building and his back is to me. I instantly know it is him. One, because there is only one other person in the lobby and they are a busy bustling by. Two, because he is eyeing the six elevators with such focus and anticipation. He is early. So am I. I hope he hasn't waited long. I pause for a moment and take in his frail little frame, his oversized white canvas shoes, the plaid button down that is also too large for him. He must be 5' 7" and weigh about 100lbs. I don't want to startle the gentle man, so I walk timidly around him in a sweeping circle so that I may have our first introduction happen face to face.

"Sherman?" I inquire with a huge smile that says 'trust me...I am harmless."

"Clem." He replies with an air of exasperation. Like he has been holding his breath all this time in the lobby until I appeared in the flesh. I am sure the thought crossed his mind that he made this long trip into Manhattan only to be played by some cruel teenager.

"Here you are, sir. " I handed him his wallet like it was the book report I wrote for "Lord of the Flies" in the fifth grade. With pride and honor.

"Thank you, young man." There are lots of breaks and pauses for breath in his speech. "You are...such an honest man....There aren't too many people like you." Periodically, I nod thank you and give an aww shucks expression. He is not finished talking though. Everytime the break in speech is long enough for me to believe he has said his peace, he begins again.

"May I call your parents?" What for? I think to myself. "I want to tell them how proud of you they should be. I want to thank them for doing something right in raising you to be the selfless, honest person you are today."

I thank him for the gesture. He says he wants to give me something for my troubles while reaching into his pockets. I explain how it was no trouble and reach out and stop his arm from digging any deeper into his trousers. He then proceeds to explain why all of his wife's identifications are in his wallet. And, without turning this into a hallmark commercial (if it hasn't already) let's just say his wife was in the hospital the night he lost his wallet. He needed to have all of her information in case any emergencies or formalities had to be dealt with. He looked so tired. Yet, when he looked at me, he looked surprised by the world. He began to mutter thank yous softly to himself while looking down at his payless shoes. I stood there silently. He just kept shaking his head in disbelief or of awe. I didn't know if I was supposed to ask questions or stay still.

Then the greatest thing happened. He reached for my right shoulder then my left one and with a grip stronger than you'd expect he started to shake me a little. It's hard to put into words. I am a much better demonstrator than storyteller. It was like he wanted to throw his arms around me but he shook his arms instead when they made contact with me. This was probably to remind himself I was a stranger and to keep me at arm's length. He knew my shoulder wasn't the one to cry on. He was looking down again. Finally his grip loosened slightly and as it did he looked up with tears down both of his cheeks weaving through the rivers of lines etched on his experienced face. I sank in his rivers. I dove into this stranger. I hugged him with all the emotion I could muster for a man I hardly knew. I told him things would be alright. I told him to keep his money and go buy some flowers for his wife. I cried with him. One, because I wanted him to feel safe in doing so with me. Two, because he moved me.

"God Bless you," He said. "Even if you don't believe in a God, and I am not asking you to, someone or something has blessed you. I hope you continue a blessed life and get everything you deserve."

I began to thank him repeatedly. I suddenly felt thankful for him and this experience. I wanted to ask him to keep in touch. I wanted to go to Lenox Hill Hospital and meet his wife. I wanted to walk him to a cab. Instead we parted with awkwardness and waved good-bye.

Sherman shuffled out of my lobby while I proceeded to the elevators of my work life. He ended up stopping twice before leaving the building all together to look back in my direction. He couldn't see me because the brightness of the sun outside contrasted and made the lobby appear dark.

Ding. The elevator arrives. I step inside and ride it to the seventh floor alone, allowing myself to squeeze out all the tears I could in the seconds it takes an elevator to climb seven floors. I must have looked like I was ringing out a wet rag. I scrunched up my face and wept silently for five to ten seconds. I was trying to get it all out and not carry it with me.

Sherman fell into my lap and walked out of my life in 13 hours. But he did so with the deepest sincerity I had ever witnessed and a flourish of vulnerability that will stay with me for a lifetime... I hope. He made me think. He made me feel. He made me proud. He made a difference.

The Visit...Part I

He sits next to me, and after 29 years of being my father and not always playing the role I might add, he still can't say it, admit to it, embrace it, apologize for it, see it or hear it.

"IT," being most of his actions.

The rationale he creates for his behaviors in the past has only gotten worse over the years. There is an excuse for everything. Everything he kicked in 1985. Everything he threw in 1991. Everything he left in 2000.

He sat on my couch for the first time in ten years with little forgiveness, remorse, self-reproach or sadness. He did admit to having regrets. That's a step. But, not a step in the right direction. No complaints and no regrets is my motto. "All you give is all you get," goes the song. I will admit that just the fact that he wanted to talk this candidly about the past and the present is his way of giving all he can in order to get back all that he has wanted from his son throughout our life and relationship. I am not overlooking the leaps and bounds he has made as a person since the divorce, since my coming out.

"I know I got out a hand a few times, Clem....but...I wouldn't call that abuse." He says to me facing forward as I sit to his left looking right at him. If he really believed he didn't abuse me (and my brother) wouldn't he be able to look me square in the eye and say it with confidence? I didn't even bring up the topic. He did. How did we get here? He asked if there was anything about my childhood that still affected me. I talked about all the financial hardships we faced and the way we dealt with them as a family still has an affect on me now. He took this sharp turn himself. He wanted to talk about this part of my childhood. He was still haunted by my childhood. Before jumping up off the couch to explode, I realized this. He does know, somewhere deep inside his mind and/or heart, that he was abusive. He does know it shouldn't have happened. He does take some of the blame. Before I began my tirade on the meaning of abuse and who can decide what is considered abuse, I took into account how difficult it must be for a father who wants his sons to love him in a way they never have to sit and fully accept blame and call "IT" abuse. It's an nasty word. It's an ugly misdeed.

But, I told him. I told him that was exactly what "It" was. You did abuse me...us.

I could have sat on that couch and given him specific examples. I could have used the most horrific ones. The ones that left spider vein bruises across both of my buttocks. The ones that sent me flying over the loveseat. The ones where my head came close to cracking the pavement while I humiliatingly pissed my pants at 12 yeas old. But I didn't. I didn't need to. He didn't need to hear it. He knew. He knows the times. He mentioned the time Cole and I disappeared to the creek to play and shouldn't have. He mentioned the time I begged to come in from the rain with my sore shoulder and I just couldn't throw (didn't want to throw) another pitch.

He didn't say he was sorry. He said he regrets "some" of what he did to me...us. I realized that if I want to continue to have a relationship with my father, if I want to send him into the afterlife with no resentment and anger, if I want to make the most of the last half of his life on earth with me, I was going to have to forgive him without an apology. I have grown used to this throughout my life. It wasn't something new I had to do. I had forgiven him for each instance when they happened and he didn't say sorry. He might have said the words back then but they didn't come from him. Mom would always be standing right beside him coaching the next phrase out of his mouth...

"Tell the boys your sorry," she would coax.

"I'm sorry boys." He would say mechanically.

"Tell the boys you love them," mom would encourage.

"I love ya." He would mumble.

He still gargles those words to this day. But, I know that he does indeed love me. I love him too. I know that he is sorry. I forgive him too. Some things are just known. They don't need to be said to be known. I would love to hear 'I am sorry' someday. But, I don't NEED to hear it in order to forgive him. I don't NEED two little words to move on in my life. I don't NEED those words in order to patch the remaining holes in the tattered and torn relationship between us.

I think, maybe, that is unconditional love? When you don't need anything from the other person and you can love them wholly and fully? Maybe? When there isn't one or two little requirements you need to meet in order to share my love with you? Is this close to what unconditional love is? Maybe.
Maybe it's just between me and my Dad.

There's more to the visit to come.

Can't take the heat!

No matter how often I shower...
No matter how little clothing I wear...
No matter how much darkness I surround myself with...
No matter how high the AC is on...

I still fee like a raisin. Wrinkled, sticky, chewy, gummy, gooey, doughy, not that tasty but still good for you.

Make it stop!

Sending me on a Rollercoaster Ride

It begins when I look at him. The attraction on my end is instantaneous. He, on the other hand, is aloof. He doesn't show signs of reciprocation or signs of repulsion. He is entirely too neutral. There are a few others around too. All attractive and enticing in their own ways. I set my sights on one and pull my focus toward him.

From a distance, he looks so intimidating, magical, breathtaking, sweeping. I am filled with anticipation and fright. I am sure he looks better than he really is. I am sure up close I will see the parts that make him up and hold him together. I am sure he won't look as beautiful up close as he does from a far. I want to run to him. But, I know that the sooner I get there the sooner it is over. As I approach, my heart rate quickens as my nerves tighten. What if I don't like him? What if he doesn't do it for me?

He makes me wait for him. Others are waiting too. He makes me share him with others. He makes me jealous.

Finally, my chance has come. I hop on his train (of thought) knowing he is the only one with the path insight. I give up all control. (Which is so unlike me.) We go slowly at first. Climbing up the hill of introductions and pleasantries with the utmost caution and intensity. The anticipation is killing me. I can see the top and it looks like it could be exhilarating. With all my insecurities and fears tightly packed inside my soul and wrapped in my body with a smile for a bow, I hold on tight and let it ride.

There is a huge fall and my breath get's taken away. Then I brace myself for another uphill climb. This one is faster, smoother, and feels like a blink in time. There are ups and downs and more twists and turns. We pull up to the end and I leave. I am exhilarated. But I am tired, shocked, excited and scared. I can't decide if I should do it again or if he even cares that I do it again. Will it feel the same if I do it again?

I get on line hoping it will be worth the ride again. I do it again and again.

I am a rollercoaster junkie...

This can be a good thing and a bad thing in life.