June 27th

Jorgé of the jungle

I think my Spanish is impoving because I'm starting to understand more that is said to me, and the road signs are starting to make sense. Now if I could just figure out how to ask for a place to buy clean underwear I'd be ok.

Part of my Costa Rica Adventure tour was a zipline tour through the Arenal Volcano rainforest. This is fine as long as you don't look down. The harneses they put you in binds in the most uncomfortable places, and looks a little like it was fabricated from of old bike tubes. At this point I found better things to worry about, like the one sound you never want to hear on a rainforest zipline: "Ping!"

The hotel (Las Lagos Resort and Spa) was at the base of Arenal, the most perfectly formed volcano in Central America. It was such the green and black mound it looked like a Special affect by George Lucas and for a few brief moments each day we could see it, oozing steam from it's open crest. Then the clouds and fog rolled in, and the rain came down as if to say "That's enough, move along now, nothing to see here!"

Baseball cards, rare coins, and steaming mounts of boiling lava!

Me and Arenal, a must have for the avid collector.

I realized yesterday that this the third volcano in my life, and once you have accumulated three of anything it counts as an official collection, and your life starts to bend in that direction.
My first volcano was Montserrat, and shortly after my visit there in 1989, she blew her stack and buried the capitol city of Plymouth under 6 feet of hot ash. I don't think they recovered, because every trip to Dominica we fly over it, and the lava flow goes 3 miles out to see.

My second volcano is on Dominca, a mount so active that the harbor below it bubbles like champaign, and the sand gets hotter the farther you stick your toes in. All the beaches are black, and there's a lake where the water is so hot it boils. Dominican history books point to a time in the 40's where after a large boom and earthquake, hot mud rained down on the town for three hours, and the once pristine rivers became oozing gooey grey channels of steeming hot stink. A 10 mile hike through petrified forests will earn you a look and sulfery smell of that magical place. Bring the kids!

Arenal is now the third volcano in my collection, the tidiest, and most hospitable of the three and I'm proud to have her aboard. Hopefully she'll keep her cool until after I leave.


In Los Angeles, it would be 'Makita's House of Pain'

At the spa I had the coffee and sugar exfoliating scrub, followed by a full body deep tissue massage. It's always half way through these experiences when I wonder what the f*ck I was thinking. An exfoliating scrub sounded ok, after the 545 miles of the aidslifecycle it would be nice to get the last of that pacific coast highway grit out of my poors. My therapist's name was Ezmireldafina (No, really) and for the life of me I couldn't say that with a straight face. She was so good with the coffee and sugar exfoliation I just called her Makita . She must have taken 3 layers of skin off of me with her incessant sanding of my flesh, as iff she was trying to soften my edges. I felt like a tijuana armoire when she was done with me.

After an hour of reducing my flesh to mocha-colored pulp, she wrapped me in plastic and towels and advised I rest for 30 minutes. Coffee and sugar does absorb through the skin and I had some wild dreams about being chased by an army of power tools through a Starbuck's cafe. When she came back she helped me up, and I saw what a mess the whole process was. It looked like my garbage disposal blew up all over the room, and all over me. The only thing missing was the lemon wedges and lettuce leaves and I'd be in my back yard after the racoons got into the trash.

Makita stuffed me into the corner shower without a washcloth or soap and told me to rinse off. It took forever without the proper tools. I think she was anticipating this because she needed the time to clean up the room while I was frantically trying to get every last grain of Costa Rican Rainforest morning blend out of the darndest places. The stuff really sticks to you.

On with the show
My full body deep tissue massage was invigorating. When she stroked my shoulders and neck, I moaned. When she did my hands I thanked her and asked for more. When she did my calves, I screached, spun on the table and glared at her. That's when I learned of

They asked me for my opinion in the guestbook. Since my reservation had my home address on it, I felt it was best to keep it brief; "Lovely Atmosphere".

Makita's evil fetish.

In the u.s. when you tell someone you have a tender spot, they avoid it. At Fangus Spa, they zero in on it and pummel it with all they've got. Apparently that's the spot that needs work, right? I'm surprised she didn't call in a couple of thugs in white pant suits to hold me down because I was jumping off the table with every stroke. I was making a lot of noise, but it didn't seem to bother her. I guess she's familiar with men who squeal like little girls. I apologized for all the fuss and she said(and I'm not kidding) " Ees ok, no one can hear you screaming."

Though she probably didn't belive me, I appreciated her attention to the craft. It was nice to have something to complain about other than "She was too easy on me". Besides, I read somehwere that if you're not walking funny out of a deep tissue masage, you're doing it wrong.

That was Wednesday.
Today is Friday.
I still smell like a latté.

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June 24th

Plight of the powerless

It's Tuesday morning and the power is out. Juana says it'll be out for at an expected four hours (at least, that's what I interpreted her saying. She could have been telling me I owe her $4, or I have 4 weeks to live, but I digress . . . )

I've often wondered what we in the United States will do when the power goes out. I don't mean if, because I don't think our current imperial lifestyle is sustainable in today's world, and it's only a matter of time before the lights eventually dim, and then go out completely. If you think about it, we really can't keep going at our current pace, expanding and sucking up more power, exponentially growing every year. Something's gotta give, and with the current fuel prices what they are, combined with the fact that most of our power plants in the U.S are powered by fossil fuels, I'm ready to start my own candle company, and start investing heavily in solar panels and light reading materials.

Ron and Thomas the San Jose Marriott

One thing the fluctuating power issues in Costa Rica have done for me is encourage me to read more, and now I'm wishing I brought more books. I've read through the new David Sedaris' essays "When you are engulfed in Flames" that I bought in the Houston airport and I'm looking around the house here for something interesting to read to help the time pass.

I'm really looking forward to my escape today, for today is the day I steal Ron's car and head to La Fortuna, Lake Arenal and my hot-springs hotel, Las Gatos.
This area boasts a remarkable view of the volcano, access to the hot springs, and I'm hoping, is close to the lake, and some kitesurfing opportunities. All of these things, aside from the transportaton to get there, require little or no electricity. One small step in the quest for energy independance.

Maybe his should be a food blog?

Ron is a foody, for the most part. He loves a good meal, prepared perfectly in a nice atmosphere, and he never forgets a server, a bottle of wine, or a dish.

Yesterday we went to the local Marriot hotl for Sunday brunch, and t seemed vaguley familiar, then I remembered the Ritz Carlton in Pasadena, and had my Aha moment.
The hotel itself is HUGE and beautiful, sitting on what appeared to be at least 50 acres, with two large pools, and a gold course. The buffet was massive and had everything from fresh seafood to pasta, eggs benedict and pastries to make an ironman go diabetic. I can always judge a good hotel from average by the abscene of the plastic frosted flakes dispenser. In this hotel, I never found it, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there, I didn't look very hard.

Since my arrival here we have had authentic norther Italian, Southern Italian, Japanese, Mexican, French, Peruvian, Russian, Thai, and something on a stick that can only identify as maybe something from Ethiopia. We've even been to Tony Romas, and an Outback Steakhouse that Ron considers Australian (I hope he's Kidding!)

One thing we haven't really had, is Costa Rican, and to me that fact sticks out like rooster parts in henhouse. Has the entire country become so gentrified that there IS no sign of local cuisine?
Is my full experience of Costa RIca going to comapre to a weekend in Orange County? Is the only bit of local color available for me to experienece the vision of Juana, the woman that comes to sweep the floors and wash my shirts? It's time I got out of Santa Ana, and head North in search of the real Costa Rica. Volcanos, monkeys, white sand beaches. THAT will be a blog worth reading.

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How do you say "BLOG" in Spanish?

In Dominca her name was Sharon, and she came twice a week and stayed all day. In Roseau it was Maria Alva and she came two consecutive days a week becuase she complained we were "So filthy she couldn't possibly get it all done in one day". She used to leave my toilet bowl water blue and tie my curtains in knots to drive me crazy.

Here in San Jose her name is Juana, and she's friendly enough. Doesn't speak a word of English, so I'm dong my best to communicate with her using made-up spanish words.

I won't go into details but I did my best to find the proper phrases needed to ask her to handle my dirty clothes. I wasn't getting anywhere so I resorted to the inevitable, and embarrassing "Laundria?" She looks at me, eyebrows tweaked, as if she was witnessing a person suffering a stroke, and then held her hands out as if to say "Just bring it to me, asshole!"

Baby steps . . . Baby steps.

Why are you picking on the help?
Our tech guy Eric and I spent a good part of the evening last night discussing what it means to be gay these days. He had a lot of questions, and I’m the only Gay Guy he’s felt comfortable enough to ask the stupid questions to. It’s funny how it’s always the same conversation, just different people. The world seems so very ignorant about who we are it seems, and the pre-conceived inaccuracies are almost laughable.
I can’t say I didn’t have fun with him, and fuck with his head a little bit, but that was just because I’m so bored here and there’s no one around to really entertain me. He left my condo more informed about the gay culture, but a bit confused surely. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t do any real damage, just a quick lesson in what certain orders of salad say about your sexual preferences,(Did you know baby greens=pedophile?)  the subtle art of “eye-brow” communication and what type of foot-signals to avoid in public restrooms. He will definitely be looking at the men he finds “questionable” a little bit differently now, and of course, ordering the soup.

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June 14th

Hairy? Anchovies are hairy. This is something else.

I sent a recent photo to an old friend the other day and he noted that I have not changed one bit since he saw me last, which at first I found remarkeable, and then kinda sad.

Looking back, I can only agree, because through all of highschool, college and the first part of my life in Los Angeles, I resembled what my friend Brian recently referred to as "One of the Kenny's"

Brian "I think you had that look when I first met you, you know, the 'Kenny' Look"
Me: "The 'Kenny' Look? What do you mean,The 'Kenny' Look? "
Brian: "Yeah, you know, Kenny Loggins, Kenny Rogers, one of those 'Kennies' ".

I take great pride in my chameleon-like abilities. It has become my own personal goal to change my look so often that those that see me on an ocasional basis canot help but remark on how different I look. I was proud to hear during my current visit that Ron, my boss who I have not seen in almost 2 years, did not neglect to notice, but only to comment in that he expected my look to be anywhere from a subtle to drastic change from the last time he saw me. I think that was long curly chops and a mohawk, if I'm not mistaken.

Be it 70's sideburns, handlear moustaches, a mullet or colored contacts that glow like emeralds on my cornea, I have been known to go to almost any extreme to be anyone other than the me of yesterday, or even, yesterhour. I even considered shaving my head, and would have if the restoration process wasn't so damn long. There's only so much you can do with a chromed dome.

I

That, or a get a haircut.

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For years I have complained the ALC photographer never saw me, never took my picture, and this year my face is posted all over the place. Another reason why this was the best ALC ever- I have evidence I was there!

Don't get me started about my tray table . . .
My seat was especially difficult in that it would not come up to it's full and upright position at all. It was broken, and floated between upright and reclined whenever I moved. Each time a flight attendant walked past me she would tell me to "Upright" my seat, and before I had the chance to tell her the damn thing is boken she'd moved on, only to return a few moments later pissed that I didn't head her command, and tell me again. Three times I tried to explain that the seat wasn't working properly and she wouldn't have it, she jammed my seat forward violently, pushed some magic button and locked it in upright position, then huffed back down the aisle. When the time came where we could all recline again I couldn't get it down and neither could anyone else in my row. Seems she locked us all in, and don't think for a split second my row-mates didn't blame me for this, they were both a little more than annoyed, and insisted I either find the "magic button" or the flight attendant that locked it. I'm not sure how it happened, but she competely disappeared from the plane. I went up and down the aisle and looked in both stations and there was no sign of her. When i asked another attendant where she might be he looked at me puzzled, as if she never existed, and that's when I remembered all the twilight zone episodes that took place on a planes.

No Habla Espanól
I was greeted at the airport exit by about 300 taxi drivers all asking me the same question.
"Need a ride Mr? Cab? Need a cab?" Little did I know that this would probably be the most Englsh I would hear coming out of a locals mouth for the duration of my trip. If I ever had a need to learn Spanish, it's now. The Ugly american is only as ugly as his monolingualism- and in that respect, I am a monster.


P.O. box Overtheresomewhere
Ron picked me up on the sidewalk and we headed to his condo. I asked him what the address was so I could pass it on and he told me "Santa Ana".
"Street?" I asked, "Nope" he replied.
"No street name?" I asked, confused. "Not really" he replied, "They don't seem to have use for addresses out here, just neigborhood names"
"But how do you recieve mail?" I asked "We don't" he said.
"Fedex?" I asked, "We go get it".

Suddenly my prospects on receiving an incall massage were looking pretty grim.

Casa de la CASA!
At the house I was introduced to my room, my bath and my gate keys. Everything is behind security doors and gates and the walls outside the house are lined with razor wire "To keep the locals honest" Ron would say.

The house is, hello, SPANISH in decor, complete with fountains, terra-cota roof tiles, a courtyard, breezeways, spinning ceiling fans and a bathroom lined with enough sky-blue tile as to make me feel like I'm peeing at the bottom of a swimming pool. It's not a "John" down here, it's called the "JUAN". The joke- the entire condo complex is less than 5 years old. The set crew at Disney couldn't have made this location look any more authentic. It's downright charming!


On my first day Ron took me to the office and introduced me to the staff, and those I'll be working with during this year's marketing campaign. He introduced me to each person as his " . . Long-time-very-good friend and graphic artist Mr. Thomas" I was flattered and a little embarrassed, but I can't say I didn't feel the same way. He showed me to my office, and I was pleased to see it had a door and a private bathroom, aren't I the spoiled bitch today?

Never a dull meal
I can always expect that if there is a decent Italian restaurant within a 100 mile radius, Ron will find it. Italian food is oxygen to him as is good wine and a flat scren TV.

On my first night out we went to Bartolos, a mile or two from the house and I met Chef Carlo-
I must say, this was the best italian I've had since . . . the last time I dined with Ron and our friends from the office. The wine was smooth and fruity, the atmosphere was festive and we were treated like royalty. All the trappings I have come to expect from these trips overseas. Expect, but never take for granted. I would be happy sitting, side by side with Ron on a stool at a windowside counter at Subway. Just one more way the act of appreciation can enhance your life.

The Interview
Chef Carlo Bartolo granted me a video interview about his place. I would be lying if I said the wine had nothing to do with it. What I find the most interesting is that such a great restaurant, with such a fine chef with such very impressive credentials is here, in what seems to me to be the middle of nowhere. I feel like I found a pearl, and I want to share it with you. I can't urge ou enough, if you come to San Jose, seek out Bartolos italian restaurant. The best Italian you will find in Central America, Guaranteed!

He's expanding and actually BUILDING his new restaurant next door, to be open sometime next year. Tell him Mr. Thomas sent you.


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I just finished my 7th AIDS ride from San Francisco to Los angeles, it was an amazing week, really.
I can't remember if I'm repeating myself, but this was the best ride I've ever done, period. I probably say that every year, and at this point, all the years are a blur, but I took a lot away from it and I'm very happy I did it.
Socially, it we a blast being part of a group we eventually called "The Cool Kids", physically I was challenged but not too bothered. Emotionally, I was high the whole time, and for the first time, I did not suffer my standard day 4 emotional breakdown, so I guess I'm finally getting used to this.


First things first: The Tent Mate

Maybe it's because I've been so used to spending my days alone over the last 10 years, maybe it's because at my age I like to have things my way, or maybe it's because I really have little tolerance for people in cold environments, but I've really dreaded the whole "Get Yourself a Tent-mate" policy of the ride. It's mandatory that each rider choose someone to share their tent with, so naturally I have spent inordinate amounts of time and resources looking for the perfect loopholes that will allow me to avoid such a byzantine requirement.
There are people I would like to share a tent with, sure, but typically they'd prefer to tent with someone else, and because of my own neurosis, if anyone admittedly wants to tent with me, I do the social equivalent of running away screaming in the other direction (nope, no self-esteem issues here.) In order for the process to work for me, it has to be done delicately The right balance of preference and desperation, the right person would be not too much of a prima-donna, not too much geek. I finally found the right balance in this year's candidate; Curtis!

Curtis was the best tent mate I've ever had because he's smarter than he is cute, and he's plenty cute. I've learned on the ride that the cuter the tent-mate, the more trouble they are, but if you can offset that with intelligence, a proactive temperament, and good sense of humor you've got a real winner. In summary: Curtis laughed at all my jokes, and had little or no drama so he was an easy fit. Besides, everyone else wanted him so I won.


The Kool Kids

On Red Dress day: Bradley, Curtis, Johanna, Pedro, Nieha, Me, and Levi being fondled by a stranger.

I've never been one that works well in groups, seems getting a group of more than three gays to simply decide where to have lunch is like herding ferrets. The Kool kids were an exception to that rule this year. There were seven of us and I actually felt like I fit in, though I was clearly the oldest in the group, and somewhat of an uncle. Everyone brought a distinct element to the circle with their own style, and for the first time in my own personal ALC history, the group remained in tact with barely a blip all the way to closing ceremonies. I think anyone who witnessed us together was jealous of our bond, or camaraderie, and of course, how very sexy we were. Did I mention we were freaking hysterical?

Tommy's four minutes of FAME


When your too old to audition for IDOL, there's always Night Five

Red Dress Night
To most riders in the AIDS/Lifecycle, day 5 is Red Dress Day. To me, it's more about talent night, the one night a year where I have a captive audience of over 2,000 people where I can get on stage and comfortably scream "Look at me look at me" and get away with it.

In the past I've always done a stand-up routine to mixed reviews, so this year I thought I'd go for the sure thing, and sing. I have a lot of experience in the vocal department, but not lot of people know that because I'm so insufferably shy (shut up!)

Was that Michael Buble's version of Feeling Good- KARAOKE!?
On my performance the overall response from friends and strangers was 'Whoa, Tommy! Nice job- I HAD NO IDEA. . . " My thoughts on that? PERFECT!

I wanted the surprise element to overshadow any missed lyrics or flat notes I might blurp out. Better the audience focus on the fact that the pig can fly, rather than on it's cheap nail polish, right?
Did you get that?
Did I go over your head there?
Are we okay?
Good.

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