It's getting hot in here.

The city is boiling over.

You know the feeling. You put the pasta on to boil in a smaller-than-recommended pot. You wander out of the kitchen for two minutes to send an email, change the music, or answer the phone. And then you hear it--that sizzling, popping sound of the frothy water overcoming the sides of the pot, splashing down and frying into a huge mess on your stovetop. You run to catch it, but by the time you've heard the sound, it's too late. Your quick pasta dinner has turned into a mess. You'll spend 20 minutes just cleaning up the stove.

It's not yet noon and New York City is 90 degrees. Back in Kansas, a 90 degree day in August was almost a blessing. But here, everything is paved. My walk to work takes about 20-25 minutes and is about 25 blocks, which is about 1.25 miles. By NYC standards, I have a very easy commute, because I don't have to use public transportation. In the course of that mile walk, I pass exactly zero blades of grass. There are no parks or grassy medians. I suppose there are trees, but trees along 9th Avenue are bedraggled stick figures which provide no shade.

Everything here is covered in concrete, asphalt, and buildings. Put a couple million people on top of that surface and the city literally begins to cook them. Being on the streets of Manhattan in August means getting sautéed with all the homeless, tourists, bridge and tunnel jackasses, and poor souls like me who can't afford to get out of town during the stinky season. It quickly becomes a vile stew full of vicious glances, sharp elbows, and angry growls. It's nothing short of a miracle that people aren't brawling in the street.

I'm heading out to get a salad for lunch. I'll do my best not to throw my cell phone at someone's head!

Blogging in the Dark

I've been in a very dark place lately. I can't talk at all about what has happened, so it's difficult to blog about the issue.

I generally deal well with emergencies. In an acute situation, I'm your go-to guy. I can identify a problem, research possible courses of action, analyze the pros and cons of each, make a decision, and resolve the situation. I'm not always correct, of course, but for better or worse, I get things done.

Unfortunately, my skill in this area drops off markedly when the situation becomes chronic. I'm an excellent sprinter, but I'm useless in a marathon. Anything that requires long-term planning is beyond me. I just don't have the discipline. Eventually I'll get tired and distracted, and my attention will wander off to something else, leaving that problem which required a long-term solution to fester.

Moving to NYC was a huge effort. Packing, disposing of nearly everything, shipping, closing up life in Kansas, setting up accounts here, finding a job, finding an apartment, joining a gym, etc., etc. Check, check, check...I took care of it all, with very few bumps in the road. A few months later I found myself with nothing to do, no problems to solve, and feeling terribly alone in a strange city.

Building a social life in a new place, especially NYC, requires patience and persistence, and I found it much easier to stay in my apartment and have dinner delivered.

Fortunately, I eventually worked my way out of that quagmire and developed a life I love here. But as often as not I don't solve the long-term problems. My finances are a mess. My career is something I fell into, rather than planned. And so on.

Life has changed once again. The problem is solved, inasmuch as it can be. The course is charted and the ship has sailed. I am left to deal with my emotions, which won't return to "normal" for some time. I don't like it one bit and I'm not doing very well. It's dark in here.

A little indulgence can't hurt.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There's a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true

One day I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why oh why can't I?

My baby is sick!

I haven't been posting much lately, and this trend may continue, as my Powerbook decided to die yesterday. I'm still working on getting it in to the Apple Store to see a Genius who can make a diagnosis. Keep your nuts crossed that it won't be too expensive.

Emmel.

Well, another IML has come and gone.

Some quick stats: this was my sixth IML. Since "coming out" to leather in 2001 I have only missed the event once. In 2001 I attended after having my first leathersex only two weeks before and I saw my first puppy party. In 2002 the man who would later become my Daddy took me to my first puppy party. In 2003 I was wearing Dad's collar on a full-time basis and at the end of the weekend he asked me to figure out how to move to NYC. In 2004 I was one Summer class away from finishing my college degree and on the verge of moving to NYC. In 2005 I judged the IML contest as a New Yorker.

By 2006 things were very much on the rocks with Dad & Moose and none of us went to IML. I don't even remember anyone bringing up the possibility.

Thus, IML 2007 was a transitional year for me. For the first time I went as a single boy with a full understanding of leathersex, the leather community, and the possibilities around me. For the first time I was obligated to no one but myself.

In some ways it was a quiet year. I did not have sex. I did not play. I flirted and licked some boots in the 16th floor cigar lounge, but that's as far as anything went.

In some ways it was a boisterous year. I reconnected with friends from Kansas City, friends from around the country, and many of the beautiful men in the IML class I judged. I passed out trick cards shamelessly and gregariously introduced myself to anyone who seemed interested or merely came too close to me. I was "on" in every sense of the word. For the first time since learning the meaning of leather community I was free to socialize at my own breakneck pace, unfettered by the need to let someone else take the lead in all things.

In some ways it was a new year. I shared a room with my club brothers Rare and Jink. They're the absolute bee's knees, and that's really all I can say about them without getting mushy, which I did more than enough of in the last post. It was the first IML each of them had attended. Rare found a new appreciation for his own hotness. Jink found new success in his work at the Leatherman and Fort Troff booths. I discovered new friendships with Matt, Christophe, and Max. Densemore is full of new life experiences and a new appreciation for NYC. And there was new leather everywhere, plus lots of other new stuff that I've forgotten due to a new appreciation for Jack & Coke.

And now, more than a week late with my IML blog post, I have new custom-made leather pants which are payment for my work at the Leatherman booth that weekend. They're the low-waist jean cut, in all black, modified with shallow L-pockets in front, inside pockets in back, light grey stitching all around, and a dozen other little changes to make them fit me just right. I love them and my butt looks fantastic in them!

And while it may sound shallow, my friends, if your butt looks good, then all is going well in the world.

Joy, without irony.

I'm in my hotel room at the IML host hotel, having a drink and dancing around to Tracy Bonham. I'm about to go down to the vendor mart and work at the Leatherman booth. Many of my friends are with me this weekend. Many of my friends who aren't with me this weekend nonetheless feel close to my heart.

There are times when a good feeling overcomes me so strongly that I want to cry. I like those times. I want to remember those times more often.

It's joy, without irony.

Chicago!

I've been very bad about posting lately. I'm trying to feel bad about the fact that the situation is not going to improve until next week, but I just can't. I'm on my way to Chicago for International Mr. Leather!

IML is one of my favorite events of the year. It's held every Memorial Day weekend. I first attended in 2001, two weeks after having my first leather sex. I was a ridiculous train wreck of a boy that first year! By 2005 I had been invited to judge the contest, which was one of the more amazing experiences of my life, and something I'll never forget. Things which happened at the intervening IMLs were often milestones in my life and leather career. Last year, after five in a row, I took a year off, and I really missed it. I can't wait to get back this year!

Happy Memorial Day.

Superstar!

You are The Star

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Star is one of the great cards of faith, dreams realised

The Star is a card that looks to the future. It does not predict any immediate or powerful change, but it does predict hope and healing. This card suggests clarity of vision, spiritual insight. And, most importantly, that unexpected help will be coming, with water to quench your thirst, with a guiding light to the future. They might say you're a dreamer, but you're not the only one.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Well, yes, I could have told them I was a star. Everyone knows that, right?

However, right now I'm a very sick star. Haven't been feeling well for days. Fighting off some kind of stomach bug. It's quite debilitating and depressing.

Hopefully I'll be back on my feet in a few days. I still have organ recital reviews to write!

Center City Pipes.

On May 5th, rather than drunkenly celebrating Cinco de Mayo at my local Mexican restaurant, I attended the Organ Recital Marathon at the Kimmel Center in Philadelphia. I was interested in this event for two reasons: Dobson built the new organ at Kimmel and has just won the contract to build the new front organ at the National Cathedral, and hearing four recitalists back to back will afford a unique opportunity to compare style and skill.

First I'll review the Fred J. Cooper Memorial Organ. The instrument has 125 ranks and 6,938 pipes. It was built by Dobson Pipe Organ Builders of Lake City, Iowa. Manuel J. Rosales of Los Angeles consulted with Dobson on the tonal concept. The organ was built in stages: the facade and large 32' pipes were installed when Verizon Hall was completed and the remainder of the organ was installed during the Summers of 2004 and 2005, with tonal finishing taking place (at night!) in the months thereafter. It's Dobson's Opus 76, and it's a good instrument. My overall impression is that it's a very American and very secular pipe organ.

Most pipe organs one will hear are in churches. This organ, however, resides in a modern, acoustically-tuned concert hall. Entering the hall feels like stepping on a taught guitar string which is waiting to be plucked. The room is not reverberant, rather it's designed to move the sound quickly to every seat in the hall with a minimum of interference and distortions, where the tone dies soon after the audience hears it. Verizon Hall is an excellent achievement in acoustics and is no doubt perfect for nearly all the music performed there, but it is not the ideal room for a pipe organ. Doors which can be opened all along the side walls serve to reduce the sound-dispersing surfaces and add more flat, sound-reflecting surfaces, but this measure only serves as a crutch for the organ.

As an example, consider how your voice sounds while singing in the shower. Nearly everyone can sound decent in a live, hard-surfaced room, but singing in a room with wall-to-wall carpeting requires a lot more attention and skill. The same effect applies to pipe organs, most of which benefit from residing in churches that are more reverberant than your bathroom. Because a live acoustic has become associated with great organ tone, many will say that the room in which the instrument resides is at least as critical to the instrument's success as the pipes themselves.

Thus for the first few notes I heard from organ, I was a bit disappointed by the dry nature of the tone. Nearly all the tone heard happens as the organist has the keys depressed. There's no chance for the sound to "bloom" in the room.

After a while, however, I grew accustomed to the difference and began to pick out some of the finer shades of the instrument. I had been warned by a friend who played it prior to the inaugural concert that the various divisions sounded very much the same, just at different volumes. He was very much correct. The primary organ tone had a very wide dynamic range, but it did not vary much as different stops were used. The Great division sounded very much like the Swell, just a bit louder. The various trumpet stops sounded with the same tone at different volumes. While this might initially be viewed as a criticism, I imagine that the "sameness" of the instrument was actually intentional. In a concert hall environment where the organ will mostly be used to support orchestral and choral music, having a very even tone is probably critical. And the tone is very even, indeed. Soft, nearly inaudible sounds transition smoothly as more stops are added, adding dynamic possibilities beyond those afforded by enclosing the pipes. An organist and conductor are going to get exactly what they expect as the volume increases, and I can see where that will make this instrument ideally suited to its purpose.

With that said, an even tone is not really my favorite. I want more complexity to the principle stops. I want the party horns to sound distinct. I want an instrument that can convey a dozen dramatically different tone colors in the course of an hour. I want to be surprised that I'm hearing the same instrument every time a new piece begins. I want the final, grand chord of a big piece to reverberate through the room, taking five or six seconds to fully fade. The Kimmel Center organ sounded very nice, but it never surprised me or bowled me over.

The most unique sounds came, I believe, from the Positive and Solo divisions. Of course it's difficult to tell which divisions are being used based solely on which manual the recitalist is using, but by watching closely I think I got a fairly good idea of what was happening. Every now and again a new sound would emerge from behind the facade, and I'd smile. There were by no means enough unique sounds for a 125-rank instrument, but neither was the organ completely boring.

The Pedal division was also very successful. The lowest notes were bold and dense, and while they also suffered from the dry acoustic, overall they were very effective. There are four (!!) 32' stops, a number I've rarely seen in organ specifications. There is even a 64' stop included called the "Contre Bombarde Ravalement," and while I don't fully understand what that means, the name suggests that the lowest pipes of the rank are 64 feet long! I wonder if perhaps this is achieved by stopping the end of a 32' pipe, resulting in the same tone that would be produced by a pipe twice as long, while sacrificing a bit in terms of volume and depth. However it's achieved, when the Pedal is fully cranked up, I could really feel the music in my chest.

Edit: My organist friend, on whom I am bestowing the pseudonym 'Dashing,' has reviewed my review and learned me a thing or two. The 64' rank, rather than being an entire Pedal rank of that size, is really only three pipes: the A, A-sharp, and B below the lowest C in the 32' Contre Bombarde rank. My first question was: if these notes are below the lowest key on the Pedal compass (pedalboard), how does one play them? It turns out they sound when the A, A-sharp, and B Pedal keys next above the low C are depressed. This lends additional gravitas to pieces (mostly French) which end on a big A or A-minor chord. Because these are the three notes immediately below the 32' C, the pipes progress in size incrementally from 32', and probably only reach a length of 40' or so. The 64' rank does not actually have a 64' pipe, as it never goes down to the next lower C.

Also, the Contre Bombarde is a reed pipe, and some of my beliefs about these pipes were incorrect. Stopping the end of a reed pipe (a "resonator") would not serve to send the tone an octave lower. That only works on flue pipes, and works best for wooden pipes. In a reed pipe, the note is produced by the reed in the boot of the pipe, and the resonator only serves to amplify and lend depth to the sound. Therefore, the resonators of reed pipes need not necessarily be the length of the rank, i.e., a 32' reed pipe may not have a resonator that is 32' long, although that length would be ideal. Considerations such as cost and space might lead an organ builder to use a smaller-sized resonator.

Of course the most common problem with evaluating an instrument is that I generally only get to hear one organist playing at a time. It would be very easy to chalk up my reactions to the Kimmel organ as being influenced more by the recitalist than by the organ itself. However, in a feat of genius, the Organ Recital Marathon included four artists, each filling 45 minutes. In the course of my Saturday afternoon I heard dramatically different styles both of repertoire and organist, so I think I had a fair sampling of the entire instrument.

So to sum it all up: it's a good organ that is (intentionally, I think) a bit bland. I believe it will serve the Kimmel Center well. I have high hopes that Dobson will build a somewhat more interesting instrument for the National Cathedral, and as they will be incorporating the "most beautiful stops" from the old Aeolian-Skinner they will be replacing, I think my hopes will be fulfilled.

In the next few days I'll be reviewing the performance of each of the four recitalists. I'm sure you can't wait!

Out and about.

A very wise friend of mine says, "The secret to living in New York is getting out of New York as often as possible."

This weekend I went to Philadelphia to visit my friend John and to hear the Organ Recital Marathon at the Kimmel Center. It's only $35 round trip on NJ Transit/SEPTA---I'd cost me more to stay in NYC!

Above you'll find Jason, John, me, Alvaro, and Price. John is a very good friend who I've known for years now and who I visit often. Alvaro is his very groovy roommate who is a clarinet player and who went to church with me today. Jason is a friend I met through John a few years back, and Price is a friend of all theirs who lives in Tampa and who I just met this weekend as he was also visiting. We're sitting in Rittenhouse Square and below you'll find some more photos of that very beautiful park on this perfect Spring day.

Later this week I'll write up reviews of the Kimmel Center organ and the recitals, as well as a review of Sunday morning Mass at St. Mark's Church.

Beam me up.

So, here's the thing. I love NYC. I mean like, I love it. Like, totally.

Here's the dealio: last night I received my own personal tour of the great organ at St. Mary's. Above you can see a photo of the organ. While the instrument has been tonally finished in the past ten years or so, the case was never built due to lack of funds, so the pipes stand stark and exposed to the French Gothic church. I love the raw look of it.

We started in the basement, where the huge blower pumps air upstairs to be used in the pipes. It's a pretty huge and impressive piece of equipment and a critical piece of the whole works which is hardly ever seen.

Also in a room downstairs is a huge collection of old and currently-unused pipes and organ pieces. It's amazing! Full ranks that for whatever reason they're not using right now sit on shelves just waiting for their chance to blow again. All the works from the old console are set up--all four keyboards and all the stop draws, so you can see how it originally looked.

The basement itself is incredibly eerie--it's a giant open space filled with old furniture and other detritus, and the whole room is crossed at regular intervals by giant steel beams which give the pillars holding up the church extra strength against cross-winds. I'm told that various horror movies have filmed down there and I believe it.

Soon enough we proceeded on to the grand finale--playing with the beast. We headed up to the organ loft, where the giant console just barely fits in the narrow space. The addition of solid state electronics would probably allow for the console being half its original size, when everything ran on pneumatics. The air is piped up from the basement in conduits disguised to look like pillars, where it fills up various wind chests, which are basically giant bellows compressed with springs or weight. My friend took me through how the console worked, and about half of what he said I already knew or made common sense, and the rest was just Greek. I'm still not sure what the "Unison Off" knob does. And the couplers are still a bit confusing--I understand the concept, but I wasn't seeing the reasoning why any one of them would be on or off at any given time.

My friend the guide played some pieces for me, and he beat himself up for not playing well, not that I could notice. I was so happy to be so close to the magic! I have no idea how he or any organist can coordinate their hands and feet to make music like that. And playing a fugue is just crazy difficult--the artist must keep three or more phrases going at all times, and I don't know about yours, but my mind just doesn't work that way!

Hearing the organ in the loft was much different than being in the church. In the loft the pipes are directly above your head, speaking out into the room, so you get almost no direct sound from them, only the reflection from the walls of the church. Because of this, it seems like the church is actually making the sound, rather than the organ above you. The effect is quite dramatic--it's as if the high altar, rood beam, and stained glass windows are all singing at you in the most beautiful of voices. All the hard surfaces and the long, tall, narrow shape of the church give the room almost perfect acoustics. A loud chord on the organ will reverberate for several seconds; I counted at least five or six. The whole building seems to ring like a bell.

In a word, it's spectacular. I can't believe how lucky I am!

The Internet judged me and found me uncertain.

You are Agnostic

You're not sure if God exists, and you don't care. For you, there's no true way to figure out the divine. You rather focus on what you can control - your own life. And you tend to resent when others "sell" religion to you.

What's Your Religious Philosophy?

Swiped from Word of Mike, thanks!

Frankly, I think I'm more of an agnostic theist. Sure, the concept is inherently contradictory, but then so am I.

I think the ability to admit both doubt and a lack of understanding requires a lot of strength. Having faith can sometimes be the easy way out. Accepting that which cannot be proved also means that at some point one gives up being analytical.

Or so it seems to me tonight. Ultimately I must admit I have nothing but questions.

Fortunately I enjoy omphaloskepsis.

If I knew you were comin'...

Once again I failed to take any photos last night at our monthly bar party, so above is a photo of Spiky at the December party. It was the club's anniversary, and thus the cake. Spiky's looking a bit fey, right? It's the smile. He's new to the whole upturning of his mouth. Plus he usually only shows his teeth when he's about to bite, spike, or otherwise spill your blood. He'll get better at it.

Last night we had a great turnout for the leather-themed party. We raised $565 for the Leather Archives & Museum (located in Chicago, and serving the world). Coincidentally, this week (or was it last?) is National Library Week. Special thanks go out to International Mister Leather, The Leatherman, Greco Gear, Invincible Latex, Boy Butter, and LA&M itself for providing prizes.

Naturally, I have denim burns on my lips and nose today. Balls-to-boots for $10 is definitely the best deal for raffle tickets, especially if I'm the one measuring your inseam! Though I may consider only being thorough with the guys wearing leather next time, that way I can go to town without drying out my delicate complexion!

I know, right? Yes, I'm a big fag.

I smoked another cigar when I had a break from the party and I received good smoking advice from Thor and Badfaggot. I may actually get good at this! I enjoyed it very much, but this morning in church I found my voice to be strained. I hope it was all the talking last night and not the cigar, or it was the cigar, perhaps I can train myself to inhale less smoke.

It's a beautiful Sunday out there, so I'm going out into it! Cheers, queers.

Resistance is futile.

I considered posting something sad or moving, but as is my habit, I am dismissing the negative and approaching a difficult topic with humor. So, now that I have you primed with my 'Puppy on a Bun with Stars and Stripes' ploy, here's the pitch:

HIV/AIDS is a plague. Y'all know it and there's no need to repeat the details here.

The AIDS Walk New York benefits the Gay Men's Health Crisis and other AIDS service organizations. These organizations do good work and they need the money.

Please sponsor me in the AIDS Walk New York.

I don't care how much. $5 is great. $10 is better. $100 is insanity.

I'm walking with the team from my church, St. Mary the Virgin in Times Square.

You have my deepest thanks.

More requests for your assistance will follow.

Have a great weekend!

Smoke it.

On my way home from work this evening I picked up cigars for Rare and me. There's a great little cigar shop around the corner from where I live, which I've often found full of cops and older Latino men, all puffing away. It's nifty.

Rare agreed to teach me how to smoke a cigar. Being Thursday, we were of course headed out to the Eagle for Code. I took to the whole procedure with gusto, and I'm told I did a fairly good job. I don't yet have a good appreciation for what I'm supposed to be tasting when I smoke them, but I think that will come in time.

As I was saying my goodbyes, a handsome gentleman with whom I had been flirting admitted that he could not often come from his home in Massachusetts (Edit: it was actually Rhode Island. I only had two beers, I swear!) to the city on Saturday evenings (when we have the NYboL bar party) because he is a church organist. He was a bit taken aback when I flung my arms around him and began humping his leg with an enthusiasm that belied my professed fatigue. Even more amazing, he may just be a top, as he took this proximity as an excuse to grab my butt. Fortune smiles upon me!

We flirted and made out and exchanged little bits of pipe organ gossip. I sternly admonished that he must email me so that we could continue. I think he just might do it.

So put that in your pipe an smoke it!

P.S. The above photo is the pipe organ in the new Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles. The facade, like the crazy stainless steel building which houses it, was also designed by Gehry. The instrument is by Rosales. I've yet to hear it, but I'm very impressed by its radical good looks, and I very much hope it will have the same effect on my ears as it does my eyes.

Pride, distilled and not paraded.

Okay, admittedly, the above photo is not from this evening. It is from LLC X, and it's NYboL posing with some Congressman. It's a pretty cool moment.

Unfortunately, I didn't take my camera this evening, so I don't have a pic of five of the boys attending the NGLTF annual awards and fundraising dinner at the Grand Hyatt. But boy did we attend! Rare, Bonfire, Spiky, Amber Waves, and I turned out our formal leather as if we had some idea what we were doing.

We were completely fabulous, five leatherboys in a room full of suits and power dykes. You should have seen the faces as they arrived at registration and saw all of us in our colors. Naturally we made quick friends with the Imperial Court of New York.

I'm very proud of my boys tonight.

And more than just a little proud that my boys, in the midst of a room full of individuals standing up to give thousands of dollars, led by Amber Waves (a candidate for Cruise Director status if ever I saw one), managed to pull our table together to give another $100. Empress XVIII Gefel Tefish, whom we had charmed at our table, took the mic and announced that the "New York Lords of Leather" had come together to make our gift. We, of course, shouted "boys!" in unison. It was flawless.

The A-list fags had no idea what was hitting them, but I think they enjoyed it.

Somebody pop me.

Green is for new.

My nephew really is the cutest baby of all.

NYC has been drowned in a deluge today which can only bring more green.

Father Daddy said to me after church this morning, "You know, wool dries much faster than jeans." I love that he is now chastising me for coming to church dressed too casually. I say this without irony--I couldn't be more glad to have someone caring what I look like at Mass. However, I'm not yet sure whether I will allow it to work.

Robert McCormick, the organist/choirmaster at church, is one of the finest improvisationists I have ever heard. Both his prelude and postlude were improvised today and they were both very fine.

This weekend I fessed up to Scooter about some recent happenings and that felt nice. He seems very happy and very close to Juicy B, which makes me smile. He should never be without a co-conspirator.

I had a long and long-delayed telephone conversation with my father today. It was satisfying. I forget that I enjoy speaking with him. I spent too much of my life dreading it. At the end I even shared a little of my truth--something I am not accustomed to doing with him. He offered help with my recent financial difficulties and I explained that I would never, ever ask for his help. I think he understands a little of why, but I also think he missed the underlying message. Reiterating to someone who has just said they will never ask that they need only ask really doesn't get anyone anywhere. *le sigh* It was a very nice sentiment for him to express, and a marked departure from the rest of my life, so I am not complaining. I'm glad I finally called him back.

Rare brought over a large bottle of gin as the call was ending. We had a lovely, wandering, drunken conversation. One day I will understand how he and I can think so alike about some things and so differently about others. I have really wonderful friends.

All the world is green, wet, and new, all over again.

Not really, but a bit.

I haven't forgotten that I have a blog. I've just been a bit busy and under the weather and holy...all at the same time.

This year I went to Passover dinner with Bonfire. There I believe I picked up a cold. I took lots of Zicam but it still sapped my energy last week. Then I finally joined my church, and then helped decorate it for the Maundy Thursday/Good Friday vigil, both in the same day. And then finally it was Easter Sunday. Bonfire came to church with me, where Mass was fantastically beautiful. I didn't tell him, but he was baptized a little during the service. Then there was a lovely brunch with the boys. And THEN there was more church...thirty minutes of organ recital and then Evensong with the choir.

See? Told you I'm holy.

Beep beep.

I live on a street which is one of the few routes to get to the Lincoln Tunnel. Ordinarily this is not a problem. Traffic is heavy and noisy, but low rent and good location make up for it.

On sunny weekend days like today, suburbanites flock to the city as I described in yesterday's post. At dusk, they all try to go through the Lincoln Tunnel back home to New Jersey. All at the same time.

As you can see above, this causes some traffic congestion. In response, everyone from New Jersey honks their horn. Continuously. Whether it helps or not. Whether there's any point in it or not. Basically, as soon as they see the light turn green, every New Jersey driver on the block lays into their horn.

One day I will organize a convoy to someplace in suburban New Jersey. I will have 100 vehicles in my convoy. We will drive into their nice, quiet neighborhoods. And we will honk our horns. All at the same time.

I need a tan.

This may or may not be my ass, but either way, I'm white. Very, very white.

Jink and I had a quiet, relaxing afternoon. The temperature was nearly 70 degrees and the sun was shining. We picked up ice cream at Mary's Dairy--the best ice cream on the planet, in the author's humble opinion. The West Village was quiet in the lull before the weekend migration in from Long Island and New Jersey, when straight people by the tens of thousands will take their grandparents to shows and restaurants, vainly attempting to assure themselves that it's "okay" that they've settled down to suburban life. Because, you know, the city is just a bridge or tunnel away. Having dodged strollers on countless beautiful Saturdays in the Village, I found the quiet, good weather combination to be a delectable, albeit a tad eerie, treat. I savored it.

Struck by inspiration, I convinced Jink to take the short jaunt West to the Christopher Street Pier park. We found two empty chairs begging for us to sit in the sun and breeze. The conversation wandered from silly to serious and kept coming back to one topic: Summer. New Jersey looked beautiful from those chairs and tugboats dragging barges laden with huge cranes looked stately in the still-sharply-angled sun of late afternoon. Summer was undeniable this afternoon.

Of course, Jink and I made plans. That's what we do. Had we a calendar we would have been blocking out weekends. There will be the Jersey Shore. There will be Fire Island. There will be leather--judiciously and minimally applied. There will be trips to giant New Jersey supermarkets that cost half of what we'd spend in the city, and there will be meals cooked for friends who never knew we could do it so well. I confessed to a childhood filled with camping hundreds of miles away from civilization--preempting my own prissy complaints about fully-equipped gay campsites and a professed inability to live without room service.

This Summer I plan to get a tan the old fashioned way.

Transfixing!

Here I am on March 19th with Buck Angel and Bonfire, hamming it up at the Black Party movie premier, of which Buck is the star. I noticed Peter snapping photos of Buck all by his lonesome, so I grabbed the flamer, dragged him across the room (kicking and screaming--can't you see how he hated it?) and we plopped ourselves down in the middle of that photo shoot. Seriously, Buck is hot and all, but our fabulousness brought everything up a notch. *grins*

Later that evening I must have said something smart as Buck was walking past, because suddenly he reached out and grabbed me firmly by the throat! Arf. When he felt I'd been adequately chastised he let me go with a little push and wandered off, shooting "nice Adam's apple" back over his shoulder. Hot.

The only Brady I want.

Brady Quinn. Oh, Brady. Brady, baby. Brady, Brady, Brady.

Say it over a few times. Let the name roll off your tongue. Say it once for every ab. Say it at least three times for each nipple. And mumble it into that navel all night long.

I was cleaning up my desktop when I came across a little collection of Brady pic I'd downloaded on impulse a few weeks ago. Honestly, I'm far past my online porn phase. I went there and did that in the late 90s. Lately the only porn I bother to have on my computer are those movies I make myself, and I don't think I'll be posting those any time soon.

Maybe it was the doctor in the photos. Maybe it was the fact that the man is being ogled and evaluated like the slab of meat he is to me. Maybe it was the hyper-masculine video of him doing some outrageous feat of bench presses.

Whatever. I lust for Brady.

BPM at the BP.

Yesterday, or I should say the day before yesterday, as in Saturday, I went to the Black Party. The boys and I had been hired to do a little stage show which consisted of putting together a dungeon bed and sling while everyone watched. Michelangelo, the producer who got us into this job, has a fantastic outlook on fetish that puts a priority on the process and exactness of what we do--turning the mundane or exotic into ritual--and it vibes with me and my compulsions very well. I think we gave him what he wanted; there were a few starts and stops, but overall it worked. For this we got in free, which at $125 per ticket, is no small thing.

Now everyone is going to have some opinion on the Black Party, and as far as I can tell, they go toward polar extremes. You either love it, wouldn't miss it, and accept it for what it is, or you hate it, wouldn't be caught dead there, and probably mock those who you believe are foolish enough to pay that price for entry. I'm not quite crazy enough to make an attempt at talking anyone out of the second camp, so if you're one of those, this post may bore you to tears.

Going into it, all signs pointed to me enjoying the experience. I love to dance. I love music and light shows. I like to dabble in a little public sex in the corners. I like looking at beautiful bodies and creative costumes. I can put up with the silly, overblown attitude of some of the circuit queens. I enjoy getting caught up in the moment, in the sheer hyper-reality of what is happening.

I was not disappointed. The production was beyond belief. Lasers, lights, dancers, video screens, thousands of beautiful people...it was something to see. As I told many over the course of the party, I'm just a kid from Kansas, this was my first Black Party and indeed, my first circuit party, and thus I'm fairly easy to impress. But while my New York-imposed dismissiveness demands that I excuse my enjoyment of the thing, if pressed I could not deny that I would most likely love it just as much on my tenth visit as I did on the first.

I didn't have a watch, so time was fairly meaningless to me there, but I believe it was about halfway through my 14 hours there when something strange started happening. I began to run into people who were totally unexpected and out of context.

Top Dog and Headmaster were the first. I've had a little crush on them both for a while. Top Dog and I frolicked and fooled around, finding interesting and fun ways to turn each other on. Headmaster was subjected to one of my very long rants on leather and politics, and even some leather politics, from which he gracefully and kindly extracted himself when he'd had enough--understandably, as it was more than most would take. We danced and I grinned like a kid in a candy store; I knew I looked like an idiot, but I just couldn't help myself, it was too much a fanboy's dream come true.

And then there was Joe. I haven't blogged about it yet, but I met Joe a week ago at the Buck Angel movie screening. He's the closest thing to a blog daddy that I have--though he'll hate hearing that term applied to him, and it's hardly the "traditional" blog daddy relationship. Couch Stalker started out as a joke I made to Joey, who took it seriously and started this blog and then gave it to me. The format has changed a lot from those early posts, but in a very real way I'm writing today because of Joe.

The fact that I spotted him at the party wasn't a surprise, it was the nature of the contact that was unexpected. Talking with Joe is so new that I'm still nervous and falling over myself. For a week now Joe has been a real person with whom I've had conversations and non-stalker interactions. And it's great--Joe is just as interesting, intelligent, and sexy in person as he is on his blog. But reading a blog is not knowing someone, and for all that I'm a child of the computer age, it turns out once again that knowing someone is better than reading them.

Joe and I hung out for quite a while. We snuck outside to have a cigarette in the 53rd Street sidewalk smoking corral, where I was painfully reminded that it was nearly lunch time on Sunday, and where he took a photo of me shirtless and in skinny jeans (that would not stay on my ass) with a couple of orthodox Jewish men in the background. We talked about the paradox of D/s relationships when the sub is also a masochist. He told me stories about sex in the 1970s and he explained what the DJs were doing and how morning music works.

At the Black Party! I really hadn't counted on the event being anything more than debauchery and fluff.

Of course there was a lot more. Spiky turned it out like only Spiky can--motorcross body armor, goggles, army helmet, intense kneepads--he was fierce. Tall Top managed to get himself leashed and tied on stage, something I'm sure we'll never let him forget. Bonfire was looking fine and totally in his element helping Michelangelo run errands. Satan's Straight Boy was extremely helpful and bemused by the whole thing. Papa was all kinds of fun--he doesn't realize how much he's the social center of a very extended group of excellent guys. Adonis is a dancing fiend who is gorgeous to watch, and I suspect he may have danced out a lot of his recent stress.

There was more, but I have to keep some it for myself. Plus I've probably forgotten a lot of things--14 hours is a long time to be at one party. And I think I understand why this can happen only once per year--it's just too much to do it any more than that--but I'm certainly looking forward to my second!

Pretty deep.

I like church. It's pretty.

No, I'm not particularly religious. I mean, I tend to agree with the basics of Judeo-Christian ethics and morality, but I'm very undecided on the specifics of most church teachings. It seems to me there are reasonable sociological explanations for most of the Christianity story. Furthermore, organized religion has been and is too often used to exclude, oppress, injure and kill. I won't even get into the economics of the whole phenomenon.

But I was raised a certain way. My paternal grandparents are quietly and devoutly Roman Catholic, as was my maternal grandfather, so I was often taken to Catholic services. My maternal grandmother, however, is a devout pentecostal, and as a child I generally went to church with her at a tiny Assembly of God parish around the corner.

My parents were not observant of much anything, so on the rare Sunday morning when I was home with them, we usually had donuts and a big brunch. So while I learned all about Jesus during the many weekends spent with my grandmother, I didn't have my parents really encouraging me to believe deeply. The result is a spiritual agnosticism. Yes, I'm a Christian. But I do not feel strongly that Christianity is the one true way. Whatever god is, it's not a power that humanity can begin to understand. The forms I use to get in touch with god are a result of my upbringing and I follow them because they work for me.

For me, church is pretty. Pictured above is the interior of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Times Square. I believe it's one of the most beautiful places on Earth. The liturgy is equal to the space. When I'm there I am serene, reflective, and peaceful. I hear sermons containing ideas I can put to use in my own life, like love, welcome, patience, forgiveness, and thankfulness.

This Lent I have been going to church a lot. I'm excited for Easter. I no longer feel conflicted about doing so and still keeping my agnostic beliefs. I go there because it makes me happy, and that's all that matters.

Issues abundant.

In the course of re-reading my last post, I realized there might not be enough context for my family's pinata bashing, especially if the reader is new to Couch Stalker. A while back I posted about the Christmas traditions of my father's family, which include the clever ruse of pinata bashing in order to keep the grandchildren from realizing that one of the uncles is dressing as Santa upstairs. Sounds a bit silly, I suppose, but for most of my single digit years I really believed in that magical visit every year. It was totally cool.

Above is a photo of me hanging out with my one and only nephew, Anthony Otto, while I was visiting Kansas during the 2006 holiday. He is, without question, the most adorable and intelligent baby who has ever lived.

My sister does not plan to call him Tony, thank gawd. His middle name, Otto, is my late maternal grandfather's first name. I learned of Anthony's birth and his name via a voice mail which came late in the night and which I heard while walking uptown on 9th Avenue on my way to work. My grandfather was an incredible man who had a big influence on my life, so I was very touched that my nephew was given his name. I think that's the only time I have cried on the streets of NYC.

Bonfire slept over last night, after NYboL's monthly bar party. He wasn't into going to church with me this morning, so I snuck in on my own, only ten minutes late. The choir sang a modern setting of the mass which included many discordant sounds and unusual patterns, and I found it refreshing and beautiful. For some obscure reason, on this particular Sunday in Lent, the restrictions against using the organ are relaxed. I was enjoying the postlude and checking my text messages, Father Daddy snuck up behind me, put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that he's the kind of rector who will forgive me for using my cell phone in church. My jaw hit the floor; I was so startled I didn't even have a snappy comeback! We had a nice laugh.

For now I have a little serenity.

The family issue.

As evidence that my father's family must surely be descended from Spartans, I present a photo from Christmas Eve 2006. As you can see, violence is encouraged early in life, and rest assured once the pinata breaks open, it is every grandchild, cousin, niece, nephew, aunt, and uncle to himself during the scramble to collect the most candy. Being the oldest of my generation in the family, you'd think I'd clean up, but let me tell you some of my cousins are big, muscular, (dare I say a little sexy?) brutes. I let them have at it; I can buy candy at the store and I care not a whit whether I return to the clan as king. I take after my mother's side of the family, the Croatians rather than the Spartans. I've no idea which child is demonstrating such fine form with a stick in the above photo, nor do I recognize any of the people in the background, but I am undeniably related to them all somehow. At least they're civilized enough to hold the Christmas violence in the basement; I won't frighten you with the photos of the decor upstairs, other than to comment that everything on the walls features Jesus somehow.

I'm feeling familial this weekend...more to come!

It eats your brain.

I made meatloaf and scalloped potatoes for dinner tonight. As usual, I looked up a few recipes online, and then I did it my way. And (not necessarily as usual) they turned out well! Yummy yum yum.

I am somewhat distressed by how much I enjoy watching Family Guy. It's crap television, right? And yet it amuses me.

I am not nearly so distressed by how much I enjoy watching Ugly Betty. It's really, really good television! Of course it may just be that I idolize the gay assistant. His suits are absolutely gorgeous and I could never pull them off. His hair is absolutely fabulous and I quit trying to pull off that perm back in 1996. He is everything that a gay assistant should be; he is my idol.

I ate too much meatloaf and scalloped potatoes and now I feel fat. I've bought a pint of vanilla ice cream, which I will smother in Hershey's chocolate sauce, and which will take all my pain away.

I want to be raped!

Last night NYboL held the first event planned by its newly-formed social committee: a movie night out to see the film 300. Attendance was good; I won't name them all because I'm not feeling creative enough to make up blog names for those who don't have them yet. I was very glad that several associate members of NYboL were able to attend. While full members of the club must be leatherboys who can attend a majority of club functions, the intent is not to exclude those who have time restrictions or different orientations, and it's nice to see that inclusive philosophy really work.

The movie, however, was horrid. Yes, yes, yes, the men are all hot muffins. However, I can't even throw out the "visually spectacular" praise which can often be given to bad films (I'm looking at you, Lucas). Of course it's a matter of taste, and I must admit that mine is perhaps a bit more delicate than the general public, but there is simply too much blood and gore. The stunning Greek interior spaces and landscapes of golden wheat and mountains are far outnumbered by the amputations, gougings, beheadings, corpses, deformities, monsters, and a plethora of other exotic horrors. The plot was silly and senseless. The writing was unremarkable. The acting was overblown to the point of hilarity. It's possible for a film to redeem some of these deficiencies and gross visuals (Pan's Labyrinth) but 300 doesn't come anywhere close to doing so.

After the movie most of the group hopped the train down to Pieces for karaoke, where we witnessed Rare and Huge singing the song about doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel. I'll be selling rights to the photos on eBay soon. Apparently we all got a good huff of Bonfire's coat while we were on the train; spray painting outerwear is all the new rage for kids these days.

Look ma, pics!

Here's a pic of the interior of Cielo, a small dance club in the Meat Market area of Manhattan. Yes, the walls and ceiling are finished with cylinders (it's akin to a log cabin), many of which light up, creating a fun lighting effect in the room, when combined with the fairly standard dance floor lighting.

Last night Adonis and I attended Super Snaxx, a party featuring DJs Rick King and Gustavo. It was the first time we'd been out dancing together and I'm glad to report that his freak is just as crazy as my freak, so we got along just fine. Frankly, I danced my ass off and I'm rather sore today. It feels good.

The music was all over the map, frequently venturing into some very esoteric territory and requiring a "Beam me up, Scotty!" moment. Most of it encouraged me to move my booty, however, so I'm glad that these guys will have the upstairs room at the Black Party. At least I'll be sure to enjoy some of the music during my first trip there!

Michelangelo was working the door and was charming as always. It sounds as if I'll be able to volunteer for him this week, thus earning a ticket to the Black Party, which I'd otherwise never pay $125 to attend. Yeehaw!

So I've got a pic and a couple of hyperlinks in this post. I'm experimenting. I hope that these things will add some interest to my blog posts and ground my topics in the literal rather than the metaphorical.

Once we danced.

You handed me the headphones as we walked East on one of the teens. It was long, you said, but amazing and worth it. At first I had trouble focusing. There were words, there were cars, and there was the city. But as it built things fell away, and there was the ramp up, and it peaked, and it was incredible. I loved it like you.

Later I asked you for more. You sat with me in a living room and listened to them all, writing down names to satisfy my need to know. None of them had quite the same magic, but they were all special, because you gave them to me.

I admired. I envied. I loved what they were to us and I loved that you never questioned my hunger. I imagined you saw a kindred spirit. I cherished.

We sat in your room, drifting away. You had more and every one was exciting, or maybe sharing them was as good for you as it was for me. I didn't question. I relished.

We bounced together under the lights, among the glitter. We heard the first one start. It was overwhelming and flawless. It was all around us and it moved us. We shared it, reveled in it, were amazed by it. We knew it was unique. We grooved together like we believed it would never happen again, would never be so good, would never be so ours.

Somewhere, later, we lost it. Somewhere we lost us.

But once, once we danced. What else is there?

Scattershot won't kill you.

A friend is out of town on business and I miss him. I'm frustrated because I want to talk to him and I can't. For all their magic, cell phones don't compare to being in the same space with another person.

I apologize for the recent spat of song lyric posts. It's a habit from my teenage years. I'm not very good at expressing my emotions, so when I get upset I run to music, and nearly always to angst-filled songstresses. I do feel I'm somewhat reformed, however, as this time I held my transcription work down to three songs, when in fact there were nearly five times that many whose words were demanding to be shouted. That's progress, right? Right?

A few weeks ago I had a conversation about catalysts. Chemically speaking, these are substances which facilitate or speed a reaction, but ultimately have no place in the resulting compound. The conversation extended this definition into metaphor and we talked about how we believe it's possible to be a social catalyst. I haven't yet decided whether such a thing would be a gift or simply incredibly sad.

Listening closely.

They told you your music
Could reach millions
The choice was up to you
And you told me
They always pay for lunch
They believe in what I do

And I wonder
Will you miss your old friends
Once you've proven what you're worth
And I wonder
When you're a big star
Will you miss the earth?

And I knew you'd always want more
I knew you'd never be done

Because everyone
Is a fucking Napoleon
Everyone
Is a fucking Napoleon

And the next time
That I saw you
You were larger than life
Yeah you came
And you conquered
You were doing all right

You've got an army
Of suits behind you
You'd rather he was willing
And I said I used to
Make a pretty good living
But you must make a killing
A killing

And I hope that you are happy
I hope at least you are having fun

'Cuz everyone
Is a fucking Napoleon
Everyone
Is a fucking Napoleon

Now you think that is
That's the way it's gonna be
So that's what this is all about
And I think that's
The way it always was
You chose not to notice
Until now

Well you know that
There's a problem
You called me up to confide
And you go on for over an hour
About each one that took you
For a ride

And I guess that
You dialed my number
Because you thought for sure that
I'd agree
I said that baby
You know I still love you
But how dare you
Complain to me?

'Cuz everone
Is a fucking Napoleon
Because everyone
Is a fucking Napoleon

Napoleon
-Ani



The wind is ruthless
The trees shake angry fingers
At the sky
And the people
Hunch their shoulders
Hold their collars over their ears
And run by

It's a cold rain
It's a hard rain
Like the kind that you find
In songs

I guess that makes me
The jerk with the heartache
Here to sing you
About how I've been
Done wrong

I am sitting
Watching
Out the window of the coffee shop
And I am waiting
Waiting
Waiting for it to let up

And I am rocking
Like a cradle
Warming my hands
With a cup in between
And I am leaning
Over the table
Holding my face over the steam

And before it gets so cold
That the rain turns to snow
There's just a couple things
I'd like to know

How could you do nothing
And say I'm doing my best?
How could you take almost everything
And then come back for the rest?
How could you beg me to stay
Reach out your hands and plead?
And then pack up your eyes
And run away
As soon as I agree?

It just all slips
Away so slowly
You don't even notice
Until you've lost a lot

You've been like one of those zombies
In Vegas
Pouring quarters into a slot
And now I'm tired
And I'm broke
And I feel stupid
And I feel used

And I'm at the end
Of my little rope
And I am swinging
Back and forth before you

Before it gets so cold
That the rain turns to snow
There's just a couple things
I'd like to know

How could you do nothing
And say I'm doing my best?
How could you take almost everything
And then come back for the rest?
How could you beg me to stay
Reach out your hands and plead?
And then pack up your eyes
And run away
As soon as I agree?

The wind is ruthless
The trees shake angry fingers
At the sky
And the people
Hunch their shoulders
Hold their collars over their ears
And run by

And it's a cold rain
It's a hard rain
Like the kind that you find
In songs

I guess that makes me
The jerk with the heartache
Here to sing you
About how I've been
Done wrong

Done Wrong
-Ani

Thought I had a witness to this crime.

Last Christmas Eve in Topeka, Kansas, I patiently explained to my aunt that walking the sidewalks of New York City is just like driving the highways of Kansas. You are aware of the other people on the road only to the extent necessary to make sure they aren't about to wreck into you. The comparison is perhaps inadequate to describe how pointedly you must work to ignore the others on the sidewalks in the city as you walk them alone.

When walking the streets in a group, however, people gain certain advantages. Invisible bonds of gait, stride, and purpose join together two or more people walking as a group. The solo dancer on the pavement may choose to work with or go around the bonds between walkers, but only those who have created the ties may truly break them.

When I shared the metaphor with my aunt, she looked very sad. At the time I thought she really didn't understand what I was saying, that in fact it was as okay to ignore other walkers as it is to ignore other drivers, but now I'm not so sure. Walking alone lately, I have wondered whether I don't envy the Midwestern drivers their thick skins of metal and glass, which prevent the traveler from forming those idle, inconvenient bonds which hurt so much when they are inevitably broken. Maybe it is a little sad.

Gayer than thou.

Often times I don't feel that I'm very gay.

I'm a princess, yes. But that doesn't necessarily equate with the mainstream notion of "gay." Nearly every pair of jeans I own cost less than $50. I don't wear loafers. I'm much more comfortable in "working class" environments (with the understanding that in NYC the working class is, for the most part, commercial rather than industrial--who does manual labor in the new millennium?).

The foregoing are all subjective and debatable, but perhaps most importantly, my social life is confined largely to the leather community and contacts I've made therefrom. Whatever else it is, that social circle is undeniably a bit outside of the "norm" of gay culture.

Anyhow, this weekend I'm in DC visiting Scooter. He and I go way back, which is another blog post, maybe tomorrow. Once upon a time we tore up the Kansas City leather scene. Scooter, however, has the ability to move outside the leather social scenes and into the mainstream. It's a thing I envy and admire, and on occasions when I visit, enjoy moving around in his wake.

So we went shopping yesterday and tore up Pentagon Row. We took over the Denim Bar, which is staffed by faux hipsters who didn't know how to deal with a couple queens who like to lounge while discussing the relative ass benefits of each pair of jeans. I left with a very cute pair of painted-on jeans...no, I don't need another, but I didn't have this particular blue wash yet. Then we hit the maul and camped it up with the over-gymed queen in Guess and found some startling deals at FCUK. I bought the most adorable blue corduroy jacket for like 70% of its original price...holla for not paying retail! We shopped so much that we were nearly late getting home to get ready for our evening's festivities.

We arrived at the DC Gay Mens' Chorus looking very dashing. Scooter was in some new slim cut jeans, a blue and white shirt layer from Guess, and a green military shirt-cut jacket. I was in jeans, a grey Salvage print thermal, a light yellow Banana button down, and the blue FCUK cord jacket. We both looked hot and terribly, terribly gay. We heard the Fauré Requiem and the Rutter Gloria, as well as some old gay mens chorus standards. The audience insisted on applauding between movements, which was odd, but overall it was a lovely evening. I even ran into an old acquaintance from Kansas who works on pipe organs, so we were able to dish about the National Cathedral for a little. Fun!

The afterparty is where things really got gay, if you can believe it. Someone told Scott that I looked like I was from Manhattan! It was an oddly triumphant moment to realize that I could be so convincingly mainstream NYC gay that I might fool someone into believing it. Of course the façade would never hold up in the city, but that's hardly the point--for a moment, several states away, it worked.

Later, at The Eagle, a bear from Philadelphia told me I'd be really hot if I'd just lose the angry, bitter attitude. I wondered, then, whether it might not have been the clothes that fooled them. Ouch. I staggered back to Scooter's place and thoroughly passed out on the couch.

Perhaps I'm meant for NYC more than I care to admit. What a terrifying thought. I don't want to be that gay.


P.S. Shout out to my Heeb-boo! Love you, Big Papa.

Appropriate Death Music

well hey do you do judo when they surround you
a little mental yoga will they disappear
it's grim but never dubious as motives go
no matter what it takes she promises a show

thunder wishes it could be the snow
wishes it could be as loved as she can be
these gifts are here for her, for you, for me

i watch me be this other thing, i never know
if i'm marooned or where the purple people go
then lily white matricide from vicious words
it doesn't leave a scratch so therefore no one's hurt

thunder wishes it could be the show
wishes it could be as loved as she can be
these gifts are here for her, for you, for me

and on and on the nurses make it clear
just when you escape you have yourself to fear
a restaurant that never has to close
breakfast every hour it could save the world

so hey do you do judo in your finery
an angel's face is tricky to wear constantly
thunder wishes it could be the snow
wishes it could be as loved as she can be
these gifts are here for her, for you for me

purple people (christmas in space)
tori

Secret Santa.

On my father's side I am the second oldest of something like 25 grandchildren. I've lost count, actually, and the number is still occasionally growing. I have one cousin who is older than me, but she lives in Washington state, so when I was young she was rarely around to challenge me as leader of the pack. Not that I ever wanted to be leader of the pack, but there were some benefits to being oldest.

Also, no part of my father's family is Latino. The significance of this will become clear later. Members of my father's family are mutts; they're mostly German, I think, and probably some Dutch, but no one has ever really been clear about the matter. They have been in Kansas for many generations, and only with my grandparents' generation did they become city dwellers.

When I was growing up we always drove to Topeka on Christmas Eve, where my paternal grandparents lived, to celebrate. It was a special trip, because while Kansas City is only an hour from Topeka, my parents were busy with school and work and rarely had the time or resources to make the drive. My Grandma was pretty darn cool and I like hanging out with her.

And, more importantly, Santa came to deliver my Christmas gifts.

Anticipation began to build on the highway, when we'd hear reports on the radio of Santa's sleigh being spotted on the weather radars. By dinnertime I was nearly too excited to eat and both my brother and I were on full hyperactive burn. After eating a little we were all shooed downstairs to the basement family room, where a piñata was hanging from the ceiling.

Yes, a piñata. My aunt made one every year by hand and filled it with money and candy. By the time I was old enough to remember my first piñata I suppose I must have been four or five years old and I had...oh, I'd guess six or seven cousins. Actually, I don't really remember the first one, I just remember that Christmas had always been this way. It seemed to me that this was what one did for the holidays. Starting with the youngest grandchild, we all took turns swinging a plastic bat at the dangling piece of paper maîche, until finally one of the older grandchildren burst it open at the seams. My aunt was a very thorough piñata builder, so this could take quite some time. I remember the mad rush to grab candy as a vicious, every-kid-for-himself sort of dash.

Of course, this was all a diversion.

Some time after we'd gorged ourselves on chocolates, someone upstairs would yell, "I think I hear Santa!" We'd stampede up the stairs and sure enough, he'd be at the door, laughing merrily.

Santa was real. Santa called out my name and handed me my gifts. Santa had something for everyone. I believed. I never bothered to question why. Who would, regardless of age?

The first Christmas I experienced this routine after being told the truth about Santa, everything was so obvious. Where was Uncle Steve? He'd been there at dinner. I watched the spectacle from the back of the tiny living room, near the hallway where there was more room to move around. Rather than being disappointed that Santa was far less than I had believed, I was filled with a wonderful feeling of knowing something that every other kid there didn't know. I had a secret. It was precious. There would be consequences should I pass it on. I felt important and trusted and I really, really liked it.

My father's family still practices this Christmas ritual. Over the years the duty of being Santa has been passed down through my cousins. I even have a photo of my brother being made up with the Santa suit on and a beer in his hand. Somehow I managed to dodge the draft...I suppose I'm too scrawny to pull off jolly, which is fine by me. As long as there are young ones in my family, and given the apparently fertility of the ladies that looks to be forever, we'll enjoy perpetuating the secret.

My friends confide in me often. I love it, because it gives me a little bit more of that special feeling. My own secrets are not really much fun. I have relatively few, I think. The times when I slip and inadvertently let out something which has been confided in me are some of my biggest failures in life.

As an adult living in Topeka, my holiday celebrations were much less exciting, even when I was with my family. I suppose we all mellow with age and beer. My favorite thing about Chrismas Eve in Topeka during my 20s was Collins Park, a neighborhood which lined every street with brown paper bags every few feet along the curbs, each filled with sand and a candle. They lit all the candles after dark and the simple lanterns suddenly were an impressive sight. For a few hours that night the neighborhood seemed even darker for all its undulating snakes of lights. It was a quiet celebration, without red or green or glitter or snowmen or many-colored trees. The streets had a secret.

Unspeakable.

I'm a fairly verbose guy. While my life is often guided by intense shame and guilt, I rarely have any problem telling the world about it. My friends get used to hearing me go on, and on, and on, and on, and on about whatever is on my mind.

There are some milestones in life, however, about which even I won't shout when I pass them. Sometimes the road of life takes a very, very sharp bend. You don't see it coming and at first the G forces make you feel a little sick, but with any luck you begin to enjoy the exhiliration and adrenaline. And when you're standing on the other side, huffing and puffing and generally amazed to be alive, you smile a little smile and think to yourself, "That right there is nobody's business but mine."

So this is a post about what I ain't bloggin'. I am enough of a New Yorker to consider bribes, however.

Ruined.

So Rare ruined me. I used to walk around the world in blissful ignorance that insults were being hurled at me right and left. And then I learned what "maricon" means. (Evidently it's "fag" in Spanish.) On a recent Friday night in our deli across the street, as I'm getting ready to pay, some guy standing there talking to the worker guys says "maricon" as I'm walking to the counter. And I said "Hey! Yes, yes, I am." He was all trying to pretend like he was calling his friend behind the counter that name, but I was like "whatever dude." I was in super-tight, super-cute clothes, and hanging with a punkish tranny boy, a tragically goth boy with hair extensions and contacts that made his entire eyes black (and who tried to make out with me by the drink cooler in back), and of course Spiky. And it was 4am. Hello! He was soooo not talking about his friend. I think he was pretty shocked to be caught, and I was shocked at myself for saying something, but I was rolling enough not to let it go by. Thank goodness he didn't look like the type to kick my ass.

Okay so then this morning I'm buying my breakfast downstairs on the concourse, and one of the cashier girls is chatting with the other, and here comes the big "maricon" again! I said, "That's not a very nice thing to say!" But I don't even think they realized I could understand them at all, as there was a lot going on around me. As a matter of fact I doubt they were even talking about me, because I look pretty nondescript (though lovely in my Hickey Freeman thanks to Jink) in my work clothes, and it didn't seem directed at me. But that's really not a word one should go blithely tossing around!

Then again, Rare likes to yell it at the top of his lungs while walking down the street in Manhattan, plus pretty much any time he needs an exclamation or an expletive, which seems to be quite often. Say it out loud a few times to yourself and you might see why he likes it. It sounds like "marry cone" only with a little tongue stop on the R. It's the Spanish/French R that is not quite rolled, but not quite English either. Now give it a couple of shouts. There! I knew you'd like it.

Now I've ruined you. It's good to pass these things on.

Rescued from the abyss!!!

I hated Blogger for a little while. They forced me to switch to Blogger Beta. My old blog came along fine, but this blog did not. I haven't had access for a couple of weeks now. I've still been writing posts, so I'll have a few to go up in the next week or so. Sorry to be gone for so long.

Anyhow, it's fixed now, so my babbling will resume shortly.

I'm in Kansas for the week visiting my family and taking a short vacation. It was much needed. I haven't had any time off since I started my new job in May. I'll report on the whole trip soon. And hopefully I can figure out how to post photos!

Cheers.

Holy days.

I guess the holidays make me nostalgic. I've been writing an awful lot about my past lately. I'm not generally quite so sentimental, but December gets me going every time.

I'm going home to Kansas for Christmas and I'm staying for almost a week. It's going to be hella fun. There are a ton of people and places I want to see. It's been a while...I guess I was there last Christmas, and that was a whirlwind two day trip.

This year I'm spending nearly a week, but it's still going to be difficult to see absolutely everyone I want to see.

JuCoMo just bought some commercial space where he's going to open a coffee shop in downtown KCMO, so I'll get to see that. He may even have his big espresso machines in by the time I'm there...in which case we're going to lounge around caffeinating ourselves and making critical decor decisions, or at least deciding what music should be played for the grand opening. I have a lot of new electronic stuff I want to share with him...I'd better take some blank CDs.

DaBull is just retiring this month after a long career as a jurist full of stirring crap up...including one little drama recently where he temporarily shut down the entire public education system in the state of Kansas. I'm glad I'll get to see him before he jets off to Palm Springs to lounge by the pool for the remainder of the Winter.

My ex...let's call him Wapio...has agreed to meet me for lunch. This would not be so extraordinary except that I didn't get to see him before I moved to NYC, so it's been at least three years and possibly longer. I have a peculiar desire to touch base with him. I'm so incredibly different than I was in my early 20s, when he and I were together, and I guess I'm curious to see how he's changed. There was a time when I honestly believed I could not live without him, and that we would spend our lives together. I suppose that but for a handful of factors things might have turned out that way. It's interesting, though we may have little in common now, he was once a very important part of my life, and I want to keep in touch with him.

Another highlight will be going to midnight mass at Grace Cathedral in Topeka. I used to sing in the choir at Grace and I have many acquaintances there who it will be lovely to see. Not to mention that the service is usually beautiful, with a ton of music and a bit of sparkly wonderment at the end, when they turn off all the lights and the congregation is hushed as they watch the glowing nativity stained glass window, which is lit from the outside for the evening.

And then there's my family...but I think I will save those traditions for another post.

I love cats.

It's a bit strange, because in the leather world I'm a puppy, and I've spent more than a few hours running around on all fours (usually in hotel lobbies crowded with leathermen), sniffing crotches (hello...leathermen!), and generally being man's best friend.

But when it comes to home, give me a cat over a dog any day.

First of all, a cat can take care of herself. If I decide I want a drink after work, I don't have to worry about running home to walk my cat. She'll be fine, and running a little late will just mean she's that much happier to see me.

Which brings us to secondly: cats are totally loveable. No, they may not come running at you, leaping up on your legs as soon as you walk in the front door. Hello! I don't want to be assaulted when I enter my home! I want to set down my bag, take off my jacket, and settle in to some good play time once I'm comfortable. Every cat I've had who has lived with me has been very affectionate. So what if it's on her terms rather than mine? Do I really want a relationship with someone who will love me when I say so and go away when I'm not in the mood, without regard to my friend's feelings? How boring.

I could go on at length. I suspect it's a genetic thing, as during Christmas dinner with my mother's side of the family I expect to get a full report on the recent activities of the feline companion living with each of my relatives. Yes, even my uber-butch brother loves him some kitten.

Of course I left my Niechi back in Topeka, living with a friend from school. It is a very good home and I'm sure she's doing well, but I miss her desperately.

Last night I experienced one of those rare full body memories. As I settled down under the covers, shivering a little and waiting for the bed to warm up, I could feel Niechi walking across the bed. My body recalled exactly what it felt like to have her little paws pushing the blankets down as she crossed the bed to sniff my chin and say goodnight. Her weight would come down tentatively with each step as she tested to make sure she wasn't settling on an unsupported section of blanket, but overall her gait was confident, because she knew and loved me, and had done this every night for years. I missed her so much it really hurt inside my chest for a moment.

I hope you're sleeping well, Niechi-baby.