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The blog of the 30-something fag- September edition 2005
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Bisexuality immediately doubles your chances for a date on Saturday night. –Woody Allen
Matt and I have set a date. Matt and I will tie the knot New Years Day in the town of Swampscott, Massachusetts. Reserve your hotel rooms now. I will be having a gay marriage.–Ben Affleck
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The Year that was 2004
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2005 Blogs
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Home
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October 31, 2005
Home
 Walking down the street in my home town today, the air will be crisp, and the sun will be shining brightly in a azure blue sky. The maple trees lining the street willl have tiny aluminum spouts punched in their bark, and large buckets will be hanging on them, poised to collect the sap for some mysterious neighbors maple-syrup factory, carefully tucked away in his cellar, some last remnant of a time years ago when the only syrup on the table in the morning was that which you made yourself.
As I walk, the leaves will skuttle out of my way, or in some cases, bury me up to my ankles, letting me shuffle through them and create that loud abrasive whooshing sound that you only hear this time of year. The upsetting of the leaves will give up a fresh smell of moist air from the dew collected under them during the night, and the colors will ignite my senses. All the colors will seem oddly brighter and fresher, as if some gray veil has been lifted from my eyes. Even the common school bus will glow a brighter more vibrant yellow, and blacks are blacker then ever before.
As I stroll past any given house, I may see one or two pumkins on the stoop. Often times a scarecrow stuffed of leaves wearing an old pair of jeans and a flannnel shirt will be standing guard in a lawn chair in the front yard.
After dark, when I light the candles in my pumkins, I'll leave the golden yellow porch light on and one by one or in groups of 4 or 5, monsters, goblins celebrities and the occasional political figure will come ringing my bell, holding open their plastic, paper or pillow-case bags and asking the timeless question of the day; Trick or Treat?
As the night goes on, the kids will get older, and the bell-ringing less frequent. I might hear the occasional car fly down the street with it's teenage passengers whooping and laughing, out for a crazy night of terrorizing teachers by toilet-papering their homes. By midnight there is no one left on the street but me and the moon as a gentle wind blows the last of the leaves from the limbs of the trees and we settle into the season.
In the days to come we'll all enjoy the gifts of this time of year; Apple cider, maple candy, high-school football games, Thanksgiving gatherings, christmas shopping, the first of the snow, Christmas, New Years Eve, all coming one after another like pearls on a string or tiny colored lights along a long green wire that you wrap around the limbs of a fir tree. Family and friends, warm clothes, cold noses, appreciation for occasional sunny days, the sound of a chainsaw cutting firewood in the distance, the occasional plume of smoke reaching up from the middle of the woods, some 2 miles away. Men walking into the town diner in hunting clothes, the sound of a rake scraping across a lawn. These are the things I miss. The things my memory brings back with the flash of black and orange together, a season that last for months and always seems to be gone in the blinking of an eye.
For all those who live in Northern New York, all this begins . . . today.
Feedback to this article HERE
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October 31, 2005
Striking the proverbial nail upon it's head.
There'a this genre of a social scene that I've intrinsically been repulsed by and I never really knew what to call it. It falls somewhere along the line of the "Straight Scene" only not all of the time. Though this scenario never really showed itself in any of the GAY circles I've been in, many "straight" scenes I have wandered into did not have this "feeling" so it's not accurately applying itself to that. I would akin it to "White Trash" but it's not necessarily a white thing, and not always trashy. It's just a scene that seems, well, different and when I fnd myself in it I am intensley bored and can't wait to get the hell out of there.
It was our friend E.K. yesterday who remarked on a similar "scene" at the club TANGIERS in Los Feliz; "It was a bunch of Cheezey guys, hitting on a bunch of Cheezey girls listening to crappy Justin Timberlake or Michael Bolton" She said. We talked for a few minutes about it and came to realize that by vverbalizing our shared recoil we could better put a finger on it, and we did.
The scene was one of Hetero-mediocrity.–There I said it
Have a nice day.
Feedback to this article HERE
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| October 30, 2005
What Am I gonna do with this extra hour?
Some days you feel like you've finally made into the room of adulthood. No longer staring in the window, or hanging out in the threshold of the adolescent door like some earthquake paranoid. Those days come few and far between and as I learned today, keep coming far into your 30's.
I remembered last night to set the clock back, and I got that extra hour of sleep I wanted before a busienss call at 8. I was so proud of myself, I showerd, made coffee, got dressed and settled into the office to call in right on time. Three minutes into the call I realized I had forgotten to put the handset on the charger last night, and this meeting was about to prematurely end really soon. My feeling of grown-up pride went with it.
Feedback to this article HERE
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October 21, 2005
On the train to Solana Beach
Someone sent me this in an email today and I thought it was interesting. I think if Teddy was running for office today on this platform he might not make it to the primaries . .
Theodore Roosevelt on Immigrants and being an AMERICAN
"In the first place we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the man's becoming in very fact an American, and nothing but an American...There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag, and this excludes the red flag, which symbolizes all wars against liberty and civilization, just as much as it excludes any foreign flag of a nation to which we are hostile...We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language...and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyal ty to the American people." –Theodore Roosevelt 1907
Your comments are welcome
Feedback to this article HERE
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October 20th 2005
One random memory . . .
In 1979 My father took us to Canada to a Unique zoo called Park Safari, where all the animals ran free in the sun, and we drove around and looked at them. It was great fun where we slowly inch along in line with all the other Oldsmobile station wagons, as if in some surreal dream parade for the animals. After passing through carnivore country and well within the boundaries of herbivoreland we witnessed a zebra painted jeep chasing a rather fat-assed giraffe across the plain. The giraffe came straight for us, and my father stopped the car to avoid getting in the way.
As this 2 story beast got closer, we noticed something jutting out of her rear-end, and realized that this was a pregnant giraffe, about to give birth to a calf. Out of her back-end were jutting three of the four hooves of her baby, a 6foot tall infant no doubt preparing for a pending launched into the world. My Sister and brother and I were squealing with delight as the show got closer and closer to us. The giraffe came up onto the road and stood before our car as my dad was peering over the steering wheel trying to get a good look at what was happening.
 From the back, all I could see were the sticks of the mothers legs. Her knee-joints the size of softballs as zebra-striped jeeps pulled up beside us like the congo secret-service motorcade- tinted windows and all.
“Oh Dear God!” my father said suddenly, and quickly put his car in reverse to try to back out the way of some impending doom. He looked back over his shoulder to see there was no where to go,cars behind us as far as the eye could see, and none of them interested in getting out of the way. They were all transfixed by this miracle about to occur.
Dad then swung his arm out to hold my mother back and yelled “Hold On! Kids!” as the baby Giraffe came crashing down on the hood of our car like a load of soaking wet bricks, followed shortly buy several gallons of afterbirth which immediately began to steam and sizzle on the hot hood of our ‘78 Custom Cruiser.
The drop was astounding, bouncing upon our car with such as force as to throw all of us around inside like beans in a rattle, it’s a wonder our windshield didn’t shatter. The baby giraffe, lifting it’s head slightly, had the most confused look on it’s face as it slowly slid off the car, over the right fender, and onto the side of the road. The silence in the car was deafening as we sat there in shock over what had just occured. No one said a word, and I looked out to see several people getting out of their cars to get a better look at the new calf, squirming on the side of the road, the mother leaning down and licking her babies head with her long and thick bubble-gum tongue.
I vaguely remember being escorted to a safe zone to hose the car down, and the vets telling my Dad that they would name the baby giraffe after him as a gesture of good will for ruining his paint. This event and some little monkeys peeing on the windshield is all I remember of Park Safari, but the day we saw that baby Giraffe born is a memory I will carry for the rest of my life.
Feedback to this article HERE
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October 20th 2005
Headin' South
Leaving tomorrow on the Amtrak train for Solano Beach. I'm scheduled for meetings from Friday afternoon to Monday morning with the 9th Element Group.
We'll be talking about schedules, deliverables and publishing.
I think I'll wear my shiny shoes . . .
Feedback to this article HERE
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October 20th 2005
My Monthly Rant . . . . .
¿Dónde está su casa?
There's this non-house on San Rafael street. It's the remnants of a house that burned down some years ago, a cement slab over a storage room and for the past few years it's been occupied by Max.
Max lived there when it was a house, and now that it's a hole in the ground, he "inhabits" the space as if nothing ever happened, as if the building was still there.
He works a job, comes home in the evening an says "Hi neighbor" unlocks the padlocks to the chainlink fence that serves as his front door and merrily settles in for the night. For all intents and purposes he sees himself as part of the neighborhood, but there's a problem.
The problem started when Max lost his house, and maybe well before that. Rumors that it was a crackhouse have come across my street, and even gossip that a former neighbor torched Max's house because of the noise, and of Max's friends hanging out at all hours. Regardless, Max doesn't see any difference between the "Then" when there was a house, and the "now" where there's some vague assemblance of a structure, enough to keep the rain off, but no heat, plumbing, or electricity. The neighbors, mostly new people of the last few years, want him out.
 They see trash, hear drunken singing on Sunday mornings and worry about their safety and their families. The thought being; if Max can live in an abandoned building, if his standards can fall so low as to think that's an o.k. place to live, what other standards is he willling to let drop? What is he capable of? How low can he go?
I suppose if Max had a house, the neighbors would just see him as a neighborhood eccentric. An aging original from the first days of the punk-rock scene in Los Angeles. According to some, Max was a pioneer in the mosh-pit, bumping heads with people like Sid Vicious and Nancy. Instead, max's "neighbors" see him as a vagrant, a loud-mouthed bum- a squatter come to degrade property values and rob the neighborhood of the quality of life people expect when they pay half a million dollars for a house.
Last night things came to a head. The department of building and safety has come by to leave official notices on Max's gate, and his next-door neighbor has taken more than one opportunity to express to Max his frustration, and of Max's need to "Get the Hell Out!" The police came, Max was cuffed because he was drunk, and the police took him away. This Morning the Department of Building and Safety came by again, this time with chains and locks and more "Official" notices.
Max is officially evicted.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not really on anybody's side here. I believe the neighbors have a right to draw the line as to what's acceptable and what is not. I believe Max made his bed, and somehow in his own anti-establishmentary ways set the ball rolling for this inevitability, but still I wonder what is to become of him. The cost of living in this town, even in the poorest of neighborhoods, is well over the top for anyone earning even twice the minimum wage. Before the fire he may have been sitting pretty, and now, after the housing market has spun out of control he's missed the boat. Max most likely earns just enough to feed himself and keep his car running, but not enough to put first and last months rent down on a $1400 studio apartment in Hollywood.
This raises another concern, which is probably why I have been having trouble sleeping lately. With the cost of housing in this place so far out of control, how many of us are one good fire away from Max's predicament? How many of us are hanging on a thread just this far away from what Max is experiencing. I know that if something tragic happened to me today I would have a family to fall back on, but will that be true when I'm Max's age?
So now what? If the only hole in the ground he had he's been kicked out of, what next? Where do you go from a hole?
Chances are that when Max comes back- and he will- he promised that- he will find some way to get back in there, and this will go on and on indefinately.
But none of this would be happening, if Max had a house . . . .
Feedback to this article HERE
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The L.A. Times has been runnning articles about the homeless, drug addiction and Skid Row after
LAPD officers witnessed
California Highway Patrolmen dropping a recently paroled state prisoner off in some of the saddest parts of downtown Los Angeles.
Mayor Antonio Villagrosa has
called for an investigation.
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On a personal note . . .
When I was travelling across the country in 1991 after graduating from college, I was shocked and surprised when one acquaintance considered me and my circle of travel companions "Homeless".
I saw us as "Travelers".
We simply stopped in to visit a friend for a weekend and her roommate was appalled that "These People" were let into her house. She recoiled at the thought that we might in some way mooch off of her. She was upset that we used her shampoo. I saw myself as a house guest, she saw me as a vagrant, a bum.
Interesting . . .
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October 10th 2005
So how was YOUR weekend?
Going Analog
Some of you might recall awhile back, Bang and I took a little trip to the Grand Canyon (see The Bitch Ditch-September 2003)
We decided a rerun was in order, and this time we made reservations in advance and packed up the RV with the dogs before heading east. It was a spontaneous decision made Thursday afternoon, we left Friday morning and drove a full 11 hours to Trailer Village, South Rim.
The Glitch that almost got me
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Are we there yet?
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About 8 miles outside of Los Angeles County my phone started making a strange and familiar noise- the whir it starts when the office is trying to page me.
I swear there must be some satellite tracking chip embedded in my ass, because I can't get any wear close to fun before hell breaks loose in the office. I wish I could submit a reimbursement request for all the gas I've burned from turning around and heading back over the past 6 years. Thank God the problem was MAJOR, and way beyond my skill levels (sometimes it pays to be techno-resistant). There was nothing I could do about this particular disaster, even if I had my computer with me. I threw the phone out the window and we continued our trip without the benefit of digital technology. (We did bring 3 iPods though, do they count?)
Camping? Or mobile Hotel room with views?
Trailer Village does something no other campground in California has ever done for me- They answer their phones! One other thing they do is take reservations less than 48 hours in advance. I was really pleased with myself when we arrived to see a big red sign saying "Campground Full" knowing that for once this bad news does not apply to me! It was so worth the phone call ahead, the site had FULL Hookups! (to you non-RV types, that means we had running water, electricity, and a septic drain-pipe to take all our worries away) We could have full hot showers and run the furnace all night and not have to think about it. It was heaven.
I have friends who wouldn't go because they're not into roughing it(?)
 On Saturday we hiked about 2 miles around the rim with the dogs, made reservations for 2 at The El Tovar hotel restaurant, and headed back to our site for a nice long nap. We shared some wine, read the weekend edition of USA today, did 2 crosssword puzzles and watched the elk graze the campground right outside our window.
This may sound boring to you, but to us it was heaven. So nice to be GONE! I would do it again next weekend if I had the (gas) money.
Sunday we loaded up, unhooked our lines and headed west for home. When we got in around 7 p.m. we were both so relaxed and clearheaded we had the RV cleaned out and shut-up within 15 minutes. This road trip was a complete and total success.
If you live in Southern California(or anywhere else for that matter), and your have never been to the Grand Canyon but have always wanted to see it- by all means GO! Whatever is keeping you here will evaporate as soon you cross the Arizona State line- and do yourself a big favor and make reservations!
Feedback to this article HERE
October 2nd, 2005
News of the Weird( . . .Or in California, news of the day!)
I never did get that loaf of bread . . .
The state of California agreed in August to pay $10 million to the family of Marisol Morales, who accidentally drove her truck off of guardrail-less Highway 138, through a fence, and into the California Aqueduct near Los Angeles in 2003, killing her and two of her children. A surviving child will need $7.5 million for medical care, but $2.5 million will go to husband Raul Morales, an unlicensed driver who had originated the fatal trip by dispatching his wife, also unlicensed and just learning to drive, on an errand. [Antelope Valley Press (Palmdale, Calif.)
Feedback to this article HERE
Feedback to this article HERE
At this end, insomnia, at the other end, Halloween.
It's really what I would consider a payback. You buy a house in a beautiful remote part of L.A., with a great view and lots of potential. You like your neighbors and the way the sun comes in the windows, You live in a part of the country where the average day is sunny and beautiful, and all night long you hear nothing but dogs barking, constantly. Bark, Bark, Bark.
If I could complain about one thing . . . . it's 4:27 a.m. and i'm blogging because I'm awake. I'm one of the unlucky light sleepers that if I'm woken I won't nod off again. I may get a nap in later, perhaps around noon, but for the most part I may as well put the coffee on 'cause I'm up!
I have a lot of things to do today becauuse it's the first Monday of the month and I'm thinking I might as well get a head start, so I begin with the first entry of the October Blog. Good, now I have this up and outta the way!
Stand by for mediocrity . . .
 Spent a good part of the day pooring the concrete for the foundation of the last 10 feet of my backyard retaining wall (Yes, this project IS still alive and kicking!). The last 10 feet is the hardest, because the space so cramped and uneven. Its difficult to get into, and almost impossible to dig.
The foundation must be 18 inches below ground level so I'm wondering, after I have scraped out a trennch, where the hell I'm going to throw the dirt? I'm teetering precariously on the edge of a 7 foot wall, with nothing around me and nothing below me but neighbors cars. Then I got and idea.
 I got out the Shop-Vac and using the long hose extension, I sucked up all the extra soil onto the next yard level. When the bucket was full, I spilled the dirt back behind the retaining wall as fill. Worked great, and it took all day. By 4p.m. I was nailing forms, mixing cement and planting rebar every 16 inches. Finally we're getting somewhere.
With half the form poured and curing right now, I can mix and poor the second half tomorrow and level it. Then the only thing left to do is lay the last of the block, cap it, backfill and the ding-dang wall is done.
My God, is there a a more boring blog out there?
Feedback to this article HERE
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