The Next Conversation

Grizz suggested the tone of the next conversation that I should have with My First Man Date in the last comments section. So I started this new post to say that I did actually have that conversation with him and found that he didn't want to rush me and understood perfectly that I needed time. At least, he said that. It didn't change the fact that he has had sex with a lot of men, and I'm not sure even he knows why. He says it hasn't all been satisfying. Well, he actually said most of it has not been satisfying and this was why he wasn't in a relationship currently. Yet, he still has sex.

So on the one hand, he wants me because I represent a chance at something he's never had -- which is not just virginity (I hope) -- but someone honest and open. And too, he said that I really turn him on.

Which has always sent me running from all my relationships. But I don't want to get into that.

As Grizz has also said, Look. At. Me. Doing this! Really dating again! Two dates now and the dude wants more. MUCH more!

However, the REAL next conversation happened last night, on the phone, with my Hero Friend. My Hero Friend should be a therapist. My Hero Friend said some things last night to me that really drove some points home.

1) One act does not have to define me. *I* get to define me.
2) I erroneously think that having one experience in this new dating world indicates that I'm ALWAYS going to have this same experience; ie, if I'm not turned on by him, I'll never be turned on by anyone.

Long time readers, doesn't that sound familiar? Have I not made those points in the past? Oh how soon I forget.

But today, after a little while, I remembered this guy;


Now you talk about being attracted to a man. Talk about no hesitation on my part. If THIS dude wanted me to kiss him ... omg OMG. I would snog his ever lovin' brains out.

There was something about this guy, besides that brawny powerful body of his. One, he was shy. He made eye contact with me, arched an eyebrow, grinned, but could never say 'Hey.' (Of course, neither could I). So there was a gentle masculinity about him. But that body. Oh that body. I am so gay for this guy.

And many, many others like this guy.

I'm saying all this, not to skeeve out you straight guys, but to re-affirm one fact that I overlooked.

I AM ATTRACTED TO A CERTAIN TYPE.

Duh?!

I can't change that. I could knock boots with anyone if I want to (and if THEY want to), but I'm just autistic, closeted, shame-based, repressed, stubborn, or fill-in-the-appropriate-adjective enough to never have done it with someone I wasn't attracted to.

So why am I going to start now? My First Man Date isn't my type. That will hurt him. But it will hurt him more if I go into a relationship that he really wants and I don't (Another kudoes to My Hero Friend). Especially when I'm so good at leaving relationships that I don't want to be in.

Take another look;

That's who I want. Or his twin bro.

Lets have it folks. What do you think? Am I copping out and running away behind a screen of words or does this make some small amount of sense?

Obsessively Analytical. Still

The Date occurs in 2.5 hours. I'm inclined to buy something new, then head out. I should buy him a little gift too, huh? I'm nervous. I've pictured this going some-odd thousand different ways. I woke up early thinking about it. Songs come on the radio and I think about it.

While I'm not inclined to go all the way tonight, I do think that this is the beginning of the end of my hidden position. Dating a fella. I might as well kiss him. I might as well sleep with him. I might as well tell the world I'm gay.

I'm finding my boundaries. I don't HAVE to tell everything to everyone, do I. It's not a question. It remains a fact. A lot of people don't want to know about my life outside of the words that I pepper Twitter with. A lot of them have their own notions. A lot of them will think what they want. And a lot of them is not my concern.

My concern is me. I don't have to kiss him. I don't have to sleep with him. I have to be true to me and take my time with this. I'm not in a race. Another year of deliberation won't kill me after 45-minus-innocence years.

I just want this guy to be well. I wish him no harm at all. I am already as grateful to him as I am to all of you for coming into my bubble of shame and fear and helping me out of it.

Okay. I'll be back to fill out the rest. For those of you reading this late in the game, no suspense for you!

Oh, and if I never blog again, I ran afoul of life. Avenge me, Eliel. But it really couldn't have gone down any other way. And trust me, I was so unsure about this whole life of mine--on some level I'd be glad the struggle is over. So if this is my last night on Earth, I'm going gently into it. If I'm going to my murder, I'm not going to resist, beg, cry, or carry on at all. I'm resigned to it. Let's roll.

_______


Not dead.

Well, he's a HANDSOME little thing! He's like a miniature Tom Selleck, blond version! He's athletic, but not cut like deisel. And let me say this, he's softer than me. More gay, if that holds any meaning. Now, I know I've come to this life lusting after the straight dudes. I love guys who are guys. But my date looks like a guy-guy, even though he sounds a little gay.

God, this is so effed-up.

This date of mine was so sweet, and understanding, and patient (in otherwords, we were close enough to kiss several times, for several lengths of times, but I just couldn't yet. And I told him that. And he understood. Tonight anyway.) He's been gay for just shy of 40 years (oh, and by the way--dude is NOTHING like a 50-year old. NOTHING. He easily looks to be in his thirties.) and he's conmfortable with it. So enviably comfortable -- although he's tried women. Done women. But he knows what he likes.

He likes me.

Hugging him told my body that I'm gay. I'm waiting for the rest to follow. I'm waiting to kiss him and see what THAT does. I wanted to hug him for longer, but he most definitely wanted to kiss. I just didn't.

It's like the kiss would be the thrust of the ski poles that will tilt me over the precipice and plunge me into the ride down Mt Everest, and I've never been good with heights.

We'll go out again next week. I asked him if he would, please, even though I'm not kissing him yet, and he said yes. He really seemed to like me. He said a lot of nice things. He said I was genuine.

I'm going to hold his hand next time.

I think we'll kiss next time.

And Yeah, So. That Happened.

First phone conversation happened.
And now I have a date.
A real date.
A DATE date.
Wow.
Here we go ...

Long Stretch

4 weeks later I got one nibble at FindFred. From a guy with no picture. Frustrating. He did say I was handsome, but he wants to know where in Manhattan I live. As IF, buddy. Can you take me out to dinner, verbally, first? I've had some others look at my profile, but I don't feel the impulse to leap.

It's all so strange. And defining. And humbling. Because I find that I'm a shallow prick. Yes, now's the time to realize that my snooty perceptions of love have been a lie I told myself. Because clearly to me, looks matter. When it came to women, I guess I was more open because it wasn't the promise or lure of sex drawing me in. I wanted to be friends, always. I wanted to laugh and talk and share. I wanted what most other girls want from their girlfriends. But I didn't want what a "man" wants.

Now, I do. This "man" wants to close the circuit between what he sees and what he feels. As most men do. What I don't know is how that works across the spectrum with straight men. Obviously there are the superstar gorgeous creatures in the media. Straight guys get to look but not touch. So when they go into the obtainable, are they "settling"? Or are they more mature than I've gotten the chance to be, and they realize beauty is where you find it? They love the skinny, the full-figured, the short, the tall, the slightly-off proportioned. They love without the trappings of Hollywood and the lie of beauty.

So why can't I? Why does it have to be muscles? Why do I have to learn these things so late in my life? I'm almost freakin' 50 years old.

And the inverse of that question is, why can't I have muscles? It's what 'trips my trigger' as a happy man once said to me. Why am I going to take on the stigma of being gay if I don't get to enjoy it on some level? Instead of an unfulfilling sexual relationship, I'd rather do nothing -- like I've been doing for 46 years, minus pre-sexual awakening.

Damn. What a sad freakin' life I've had. In this area--and that other area about having parents. But hey. I'm not the only one. And I do good things elsewhere. I'm not a TOTAL waste of protoplasm.

Maybe the FindFred guy will put up pics and be Jason Statham. And maybe I'll wake up tomorrow morning and be straight. Haha.

Weekend Process

So I went to a small comic convention, prompted by one of the New York City comic geeks who didn't even show up in the longrun. I went all alone and counted myself as brave, until I got in there and found a perch from where I didn't move the whole time I was there. Hey, I was alone and everybody there were strangers. I GOT there, what else d'you WANT.

Eheheh. Defensive much?

But here's why I'm blogging.

The last time I went to one of these small conventions was down on Lexington Ave in Manhattan, in the Armory. In June. I went to meet specific comicbook internetters who run a podcast that I heart muchly. It was a nice meetup and it went well. I didn't make an utter, UTTER ass of myself nor did I chase off these highly admired and mancrushed-upon men of fandom and action! But an odd thing happened when we were in the pizza shop.

A dude who I didn't know caught my eye. A Dude. So you know the drill. Muscley, balding, alone, the whole nine. And the odd thing is, I caught his eye too. I mean CAUGHT! Like soon as eyes locked, it looked as though he was about to say "Hi!" Such was the smile and nod he gave me. Well, of course I smiled back. Oh, in smiling, I've learned that I am King. I give good smile! But I was in the company of the internet podcast mancrushes so I had my perfect excuse to do nothing. And I watched this hunky comic guy go sit by himself and eat a few slices o' pizza. Which, as I did so, we did that eye-thing again. I swear it was like he knew me from somewhere and was on the cusp of saying so, except he never did. Just like I never did ask him if he did.

Yeah, well, guess who I saw from my perch this weekend. Hunky Comic Geek. And guess what happened. That eye-thing. Every time he walked past. Along with the smiling, mine and his. Right up to the verge of speech and then not. And guess what DIDN'T happen? Not a single word.

And yes, I kept hoping he'd maybe sit down near me because this time I was alone too! Or that he'd come close enough for me to ask him, "Do I know you?" because I felt like I could pull it off this time. Because I really felt like this was the strength with which this eye-thing was happening. I mean, picture it, he's walking past, I recognize it's him from the Lexington Avenue convention, and just as I'm doing so, thinking "Wow is he good looking," he looks up and looks me dead in my eyes and smiles as if to say, "Oh hey! I recognize you from that other convention, right?" But he then averts his eyes and keeps moving and it's done. Then picture this happening four more times. And increasingly my smile is saying, "Dude. Let's talk--you want to talk to me right? Dude, you're like this amazing looking guy and I want to talk!"

I had even come to a point where I thought, "Look, who cares if he's ... if he wants me. At the very least he wants to talk to me. Maybe he does know me from somewhere and I can at least find out from where, and if he's straight as an arrow or married with three kids, at least I can make a new gorgeous friend who is easy on the eyes!"

And so as this thought sounds better and better to me, moving me from will to power, a NYC geek enters the convention who I DO know, recognizes me, and comes sits next to me. Yeah. You know what that meant. No more of this dalliance. Flirtation. Pursuit. Because what? I'm going to out myself now?

But I do have some consolation for you, the poor unfulfilled reader. Another fellow geek went to the last day of the convention yesterday and took pictures of the con floor. And of course I scanned his online pics to see if I could find Hunky Comic Geek.

And I did! WOOT!

So I played with my Paint program enough to now show him to you.


Doesn't he make your knees weak? Come on, hetero men, admit it. He's so damn handsome.

So all I've got to go on is that he likes small press indie comics. At one point I thought he might be a comic creator because he hovered over in the same area, but he didn't have a badge. In fact, the wristband identifies him as a paying customer. And ...

pluh. Why am I going on and on? Just to process this I guess. Because AGAIN, the moment is passed now. Add it to the mountainous pile of "I Wish I Had..."

But I swear. If I ever run into him again--which is possible honestly, then I will slay this dragon. And ESPECIALLY if I see him ever outside of a comicbook convention setting in this city of millions and millions, well...then it's God. And if he's available and interested in me?? Well then it's God saying that Gay is Okay! It'd be God saying, "Look, I sent him to you. Now stop doubting my love and concern for you and stop being afraid that I won't accept you as you are. Have more faith in Me than that. I will never leave you and I will never forsake you. I love you. Unconditionally. Now go get this gorgeous bastard--I made him just for you!"

Because if God would make me a homosexual partner (for life, may I add because... well just LOOK at him!) then He'd call him a 'gorgeous bastard.'

And that's what's going on.

So. There's This Guy.

He's about a head taller than me and he has a runner's frame. His head is completely shaved and he sports a sandy brown goatee. My new glasses very much resemble the ones he usually wears. He surely must be in his thirties. And I see no wedding or commitment rings.

He works in a designing firm on the same floor as our counseling offices, and I catch him at times near the 5:00 whistle if I come in early enough for my night gig. We meet at the bathroom--I'm arriving, he's leaving.

Now, you know chemistry when you see it. You make eye contact. You smile, they smile. You get a little flutter. You feel a little nervous. You want, more than air at that moment, to say something--ANYTHING--smart and funny and winning and deep and binding and everlastingly impressive.

Lemme back up some. A few weeks ago, while on the street approach to the building, I saw him heading my way, walking with someone in big conversation. That made the twice or third time, but that time, he was broadly striding in a kilt. Complete with black Doc Martin boots and that dangly, beaded, leathery adornment that goes in the front of kilts. (Kind of like a pipeless bagpipe? I dunno.)

So that was my in. I knew that the next time I'd see him, I would bring up that kilt. (No pun intended). I always need a good reason to launch into conversation. (Remember me, the guy who took meds for nearly a year because of social anxiety? I only quit because my doctor was holding them hostage. Finally the withdrawal symptoms have faded away. Now I feel unmedicated and still have managed to keep my dayjob and call new people back who want sessions in the evening. Yes, I was openly weeping on a weekly basis, but I was sad.)

But I digress! That kilt was IT! So, yesterday was the 'next time' I was waiting for. In fact, yesterday was layered in all sortsa circumstance.

I just got in and hadda go, ifyaknowwhatImean. But the bathroom key was not in our office. So I figured one of our therapists was inside using the facilities. So I stood outside of the bathroom, which is out in the hall, closer to the designer firm than to our counseling center--and I waited. It's taking a little longer than I wish, but so far I'm good.

And who should step out of the designing firm? Kilt-Guy! (Not wearing a kilt, by the way). HE has his own key. So I smile, say hello, and look beyond him into the bathroom so I can confirm that I'm waiting for someone from OUR office to let me in. Except 1) Kilt-Guy engages me, almost as if, while wearing a big smile, he's not going to let me in and 2) I see no one beyond him in the bathroom. I stumble over my words--"someone from my offices ... is it okay if I just ... the key ... I think someone's in there and I need to ..." AWKWARRRRRRRRD!

Kilt Guy lets me in though, he recognizes that I'm here a lot and has used a key to these facilities before, and maybe, just maybe, he's been feeling the same thing I've been feeling anyway. So I'm in the bathroom as he "heads" for the urinal, and now I see ... there's NO ONE IN THE BATHROOM. So possibly I've just bum-rushed my way into the bathroom with a false, and quite horribly cheap excuse to get in with him. After I've been stalking outside both the bathroom AND his office.

NOT a good look, people.

But to my GREAT relief, I found the key inside a commode stall, which I waved around like a battlefield flag as if to say "See? NOT a perve! NOT a perve!" because dang it, it WAS missing and I DID have to go! Well, icebreaker ACHIEVED. Here we were.

So I bring up the kilt. Again, no pun intended. And he shares freely. He likes it. He lives in Jersey City, in an ethnic community. He likes shocking the neighbors with his fashion choices. A chick on Fifth Avenue impulsively lifted up the back. And a few sundry other pleasantries.

But what I'm checking for is "Does this guy dig me? Is this more of the same, like what I got from the Haagen-Daas Dude? Are we flirting here? Does he know that I damn sure am?"

What a perfect tapered jaw I was looking at. What sky blue eyes, wide smile, anatomy-model bald head he has. My heart is just all a-pitter pitter pitter with the odd patter thrown in. Broad shoulders--not as chunky and bold as I usually like but there's some upper chest development and evidence that he's tight under those clothes. Flat stomach. Just ... he's just so ...

And out to the elevators he goes. One more smile, nod, and farewell as he stands and I go into the counseling offices with freshly washed hands.

And regardless of whether he's gay or not, this is how I know that I am.

This doesn't HAPPEN between two straight guys. I mean, I still believe there are constant degrees of ambivalence and fluidity. I believe straight guys are fascinated and still attracted to other mens' physiques. I believe that straight men still crush on the Hugh Jackmans and Jason Stathams of the world.

But do they go as far as I do?

I want this guy to want me. I want to practice a kiss where my heart actually bangs. I want to give in to the gravity of his masculinity, his looks, his charm, his style, his presence, his person. I wanna touch!

Look, I told my Former Father Figure a few weeks ago about why I thought I was gay and why I realized that my past relationships with women never worked. I used to think I was unable to "love." I used to think I never really could, because of my history with Mom, with no parental example, with the lack of practice by the time I was in my late twenties/mid-thirties--whateverhaveyou. Never mind that I thought muscular guys were hot. Nevermind that I bought Muscle & Fitness mags the way middle-aged men bought Playboy. Those facts were all compartmentalized away. I was a Christian and I was supposed to marry a girl. End of story.

So I believed that my affection for women, my admiration and appreciation for them--all that would surely turn into sexual energy given enough time. But it didn't. Even when I left the strictness of church and allowed myself to kiss my girlfriend--even when I was alone with her in her apartment, or in my own, and we were laying spooned together on the couch ...

... I never felt anything close to what I felt in the workplace bathroom yesterday.

I'm sure if he would have moved in on me and crushed me up against the commode stall I'd have fainted from the stark thrill of the moment.

I'm gay.

I'm gay.

And if Kilt-Guy asks me out on a date ...

I'm gunna go.

And that's what's going on.

Revisited, Rekindled, and Refailure

Soooooo yeah. I was going to ask The Past Girl if she sent that Mother's Day thing just to my phone or was it a general send. I've had three opportunities. Timing was never right. Though I was face to face with her, she'd have a meeting soon afterwards or I did.

Today there were just too many co-workers and clients hanging around the house.

Fast forward 7 hours to now.

To mess with someone in Twitter, I went searching for vids and stumbled upon Jennifer Hudson again.

The official vid if you prefer.
And back goes my head to The Past Girl.

Please let me describe this dichotomy that I live with okay?

The same-sex thing? It's like this--you guys seen 300, right? Or Wolverine: Origins. So you know when Leonides/Logan is/are all full of power and anger and strength and passion? Eyebrows knitted, muscles writhing, jaws agape, teeth bared, faces grimacing? Yeah. And you know when you're leaning a little forward in your seat and you want to punch the air when you watch? And when you leave the theater your fists are clenched and you wish somebody WOULD say something foul right in that moment. You know that feeling of empowerment and brotherhood? That feeling of masculine identity?

Yeah. Well, I get all that. And then I think of sex. Maybe that doesn't happen to every guy. Or any guy, despite all my decades of convincing myself that it does happen to some. But it happens to me. (And I DO think it happens to others. I think society reflects the fact that other men--photographers, porn producers, casting agents, and every man who watches adventure movies that star another man--knows what a sexually attractive man looks like.) So the thought starts--"he's sexy." And then if I dwell long enough, it could go into an actual same-sex experience. (Interpret this how you may.) But in person, it never has. Because I won't think on it long enough when I'm actually WITH a dude. That's when all the circuit breakers start to flip. That's when all the conditioning takes hold. That's when the fear comes in. "if you do this ... IF YOU DO THIS ... IF YOU DOOOOO THIIIIIIS ..."

So I don't.

But now let me tell you what it's like with a woman. And let me tell you what it's like with The Past Girl.

She's curvy. She has a tickling husky laugh. She has big brown eyes, and she bats her lashes, not to be coy, but to cover up an insecurity or two. She's observing her world but she doesn't seem to want everyone around her to know precisely when she's doing it.

Her phone rings and Earth, Wind and Fire plays. Literally. "September." I react to it, dancing, and she laughs as she answers it.

And her laugh makes me want to take her by the hand and have her dance with me. I want her to press her body up against mine. I want to smell her neck and the hair around her earlobe. I want to feel her hand on my shoulder. I want to fit into her arms.

I want to become her Leonides/Logan. I want to be that same strength that if I were alone, I would fixate on differently. I want to be to her what those heroic men can be to me. I want to own the image, instead of watch others be the image. And I want to feel her react to me--a man.

When Jennifer Hudson sings her song, and she's asking "If this isn't love, tell me what it is" I get tears in my eyes. Because I don't love a man the way I love a woman. I don't want with a man what I want with a woman. I don't care where my mind goes or what my body does in the case of a man. I want that masculine/feminine contrast. I want the light/dark, that yin/yang, that man's/woman's voice interplay before, during and after.

And when I'm around The Past Girl, she's the one I want all this with. I'm drawn to her in ways I haven't been drawn since my last girlfriend. I feel new chances with her in ways that I haven't felt in years. And when she's around me, I don't want anything else. I don't want men. I don't want other women. I want her.

And that's when I'm around her.

So why not make it so that I'm around her more often?

Why not ask her out?

Yeah. Why not?

I thought to text her simply "Do you dance? I want to dance with you."

But did I?

Recognize!

moar funny pictures

Awright Now...!

Check it out. WOO HOO!!

Isn't this, like, an open invitation to go stare? These blokes aren't going to be wearing stained white underwear, man. Either they;ll have on conservative boxers, showing unimpressive, ordinary legs, or there's going to be an AussieBum fashion show!!*whistles innocently*

C'mon, Studslies of New York. Show 'em whatcha made of!

Oddity In The Oddest Places

So you know how I tell you guys about my 'friend' Grim Jester? Who, as I realize, could find these posts about him at any time? Well, I'm discovering my own complicity in our relationship. ie., I'm not that good of a friend. But I'm working on it.

Thing is, when I'm feeling more samesexual, I want to be around him more. I want to get that rough, grizzly, masculine vibe off him. But when I'm feeling more independently hetero, then he and other mancrushworthy dudes become a little grating and jealousy-provoking. The testosterone that I at other times admire, provokes me to manly aggression. I'm ready to bare my canines in response and engage in a snarling woof battle. And the thought of feminine conquests under their manly hands makes me want to pounce on them with a mammoth's jawbone and drag their women off to my cave in conquest.

Once, a long while ago, Grim Jester was getting up out of a chair and he winced and groaned. I asked him what was wrong. With a sly expression of pain mingled with cocky assurance he said, "You know." Which in nanoseconds, I did. He was indicating that he threw his back out during some adventurous sex. Sex that I wasn't having. A pang of jealousy and longing shot through me like electricity and left my heart pounding. To this day I still can't identify it any better than that. Jealousy or longing? Did I want to be him, or did I want to be her? Either way, I wasn't happy. Similarly, way before this, I had the same experience with George (see Labels; George). In brief, I'd made friends with a lovely exotic woman in our workgroup while I was friends with George. George was paying her a lot of attention too, and everyone else in my workgroup told me that George was banging her on the sly. George was married, and I was friends with his wife as well (through him though--not independently). One fine sloppy morning, George decided to expose himself by banging our ladyfriend workmate in the car in the parking lot of the workplace under the surveillance cameras. Among other places that he'd banged her on the sly. It was the talk of the workplace for two shifts before I hit the doorstep the following night. I was devastated. I went out to the loading dock and bawled my fool head off for nearly an hour. I was miserably jealous, as well as betrayed. Did I wish I were her or did I wish I were him? I dunno. I think I just wished someone, anyone, wanted to bang me under a security camera. I don't guess I cared which one. It was never the same with George after that. Even after I actually did live with him for nearly two years (some 15-20 years later) I just fundamentally disliked the man. But that was George.

My relationship with Grim is different. He's younger than me, for one. And two, I met him well after the scorch marks from the George incident had scabbed over. So I tried to be a little more cautious with my attraction to Grim's world. It still hadn't quite worked--I still felt slightly hurt, slightly betrayed, slightly left out when my buddy would hint at hooking up with his cavewoman. I haven't broken down crying again when these pangs of exclusion rip through me, and the more it happens the less powerful the pangs are. My hope is that they will disappear altogether one day. Probably when I'm gettin' mines on the regular.

Well, breaking news now is that Grim's cavewoman is seriously ill. And Grim doesn't seem to know how to handle it. After a prefunctory announcement, he informed us that he was going to cut off communication with us until he got his head together. Now, he KNOWS I'm a therapist. He's teased me about it plenty of times. Scorned me for it, in fact, in true knuckledragging fashion. "Just tell them to get over it," he would scoff. Now he needs some compassion. Some listening-to. And he won't let me do it. He tried to call me one night, but I was in the middle of a session. Soon as I could, I called him back, but he didn't answer. All he said by way of voice message was that he needed a favor from me. SO TELL ME WHAT IT IS, GRIM, YOU JACKASS!

Damn him. I'm terrified for him. He's had this girl since I met him, and way before that. Going on ten years if not more. If he loses her, what's going to happen to him? How will I be able to help? What if he goes psychotic? Could I handle it? I've often thought he has a touch of schizophrenia. He has some really strange ideas about life. Strange ideas that he actually believes. Like living out in the woods like a post-apocalyptic survivor is the answer to life's problems. Like he hates the island of Manhattan because everyone there is rich and beautiful and bastards. Like he'll never vote because it's all corrupt. Like he doesn't eat cute animals. Yes, Grim, I'm talking about you. You're my odd duck, friend. Now get off your high horse and talk to me.

Ah life. What a mess.

So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave him a message, telling him I'm coming over. It's going to be this Saturday. It's going to be early. He can see me or not. But I'm coming. And I'm taking him out to breakfast if he'll come.

What else can I do?

Vacation, June '08

For an idea as to what I'm doing to improve my mood/situation, this podcast has 4 of the 5 main guys I'm going to be hanging out with down at the comics convention next weekend. I'll be staying in a hotel room with the first two guys that you hear when you follow the link, plus one other guy (the sleepwalker that they joke about). Also, one of these guys is the one I told you about who did the "Hey Ya, Charlie Brown" video. Within the first 10 minutes you get the idea of who they are, and you get to hear them mention me.

So you see, sometimes I'm bummed, but more often these days, I'm taking the bull by its horns and kicking it in the nuts. That's right, I said NUTS!! (Lookit me, all masculine an' vulgar! I might even drink some alcohol next week. WOO!)

And to warm it up, look what I found over at Tera's blog!!
The text from "bizarremedia" explains this stuff comes from VHS tapes made in 1995. There's a whole series of his outtakes called "Roving Reporter Etiquette." I LOVE how he switches from "sterile news reporter" to "skeeved out brotha" in 0.5! LOL! And yes, we can all do it. LOL!!!!!

And now one of a much more popular TV personality...

And our own darling Sue Simmons here in the biggest, most sophisticated city in the world;

"Party on, Garth!
Party on, Wayne!"

In Case You Were Wondering ...

...here is an example of what I think is a good-looking man.

Anyway, this payday I'm going to have to be late on my car payment. I have rent to pay, and with the money I have left, I'll need to hit some bills before next payday. If I pay my car note this Friday, I'll have nothing to cover at least two payments that come automatically out of my account, which, as I've discussed ad nauseum, the bank happily still pays for even though I clearly haven't enough money to cover it, then slams me with a 35.00 surcharge. "We choose to pay your bills for you as a courtesy to you," if I recall correctly. That's the kind of response that makes guys go into the belltowers with the high-powered arsenal. For the past three paydays they did and still I've survived. I've taken responsibility and did not grow homicidal. No, I haven't learned how to avoid it yet, but this is just me. I have no credit cards to cover what I can't afford, so I get overdraft charges. And life rolls merrily along. But I'd rather not have to just 'survive' in the next two weeks, so car payment people, save your autodial system please? You're not getting any scratch for at least two more weeks.

My solution for beating the draconian car payment is to just pay it off early. I doubt I'll get a refinance on the loan, credit rating not improving as quickly as I need it to be, so one or two late payments is not going to devastate me.

How am I going to get that extra scratch up to early-pay, you ask? Well, my resume is ready and printed up. I found my two-year-old contact list from when I was searching for part-time NYC therapy work. I'm ready to re-apply. I know I'm ready because all week I've been turning on my television and vegetating all evening into the midnight hours, and going to bed late. I've hated that. I've liked the stuff I've watched, evidently, but I hate having had given so much of my time and potential over to the TV. I could have done a dozen things that were productive, like working a second job hello, but instead I've only woken up dizzy and regretful.

TV is the mindkiller. But like all good drugs, we love it!

Meanwhile, as I speak of financial responsibility, I am still planning to buy a digital camera and a few sets of good, going-out-on-the-town clothes this payday.

I need the camera to begin to sell my comicbooks and Doctor Who books on the internet. Hello 3rd source of income. :-)

And too, I'm going to post another picture of another handsome man.

Self-confidence; All-Time High.

Stay tuned ...

A Very Honorable Mention

Escape Pod!!

I left a heartfelt comment here, and in the latest episode here, after the new story is read, at the 36:20 mark, Stephen Eley made my response the Comment Of The Week! He read a little bit of it, and now it'll be a part of Escape Pod history forever!

How cool is that? Especially when, at first shopping around with what to do with My Hero's fictional adventures, I asked Stephen if he'd consider fan-fiction for his show. He was very encouraging in his e-mail response, but told me 'no'. Then he invited me to write something that was sellable. Since then the fan-fiction has gone on into audio adventures, and I went on to write a novel in November (still out at Tor Books, sitting in the lap, I hope, of my favorite editor couple, one-half of which I discovered is up for a Hugo award as "Best Professional Editor - Long Form").

And while we're at it, here's a reference to the story that My Other Hero read for Escape Pod, which also made me cry. The fact that Alex lent his voice and his talent to it didn't hurt any. (Alex is another of those Real Men I spoke of earlier).

Real Men

I'm just feeling really inspired by them at the moment. Scott's post has left me abuzz with male bonding, 35 years ago and two states away from the fact.

He tells of a childhood experience that I've imagined about, not overly so, but enough to know those opportunities are precious and the lessons learned are eternal.

The crux (worth reading for yourself, and remember, I knew him before he was published! Sort of!); a team of young boys are told by an adult male that he is proud of each and every one of them. In my mind and heart, I believe this male imprint on a boys' life is what makes a man.

My cynical eye seems to only notice the opposite. The blustering stud at the gym whose every other word starts with 'f' and rhymes with duckin'. The pencil-thin emo kid in the city wearing black eyeliner. The Jersey City gangbanger marking his territory with bullets and babies' mamas. And yes, we roleplaying savants, rolling our polyhedral dice and pretending for months' worth of hours that we are brave and strong and true. WHERE WERE THE MEN IN THESE BOYS' LIVES?

Scott is bringing me into a new world. His, and those who read him regularly. Fathers and husbands who are articulate and sensitive and attentive. I may never have seen the following, but it needs to be seen. What would a poker table filled with those kind of men be like? What kind of jokes would those kind of men tell? How much better would communities and nations be if those kind of men formed the power communities? Men not ashamed to say they cried. Men who like love songs. Men who love their children and are proud of them, and show affection to them. Men who value their wives. Men who pass on tales to empower, encourage, uplift, express.

Real men.

Maudlin, Part Three

(Originally June 17 2006)

Tomorrow is Father's Day. I'm not about to try to dredge up something nostalgic about my own Dad. That wouldn't make sense. I don't have enough good memories to fill a paragraph.

But today I realized something, as I was considering the impending holiday.

Men suck.

Bah, that's not fair, I know. It isn't just that men suck as a gender, although many women would argue the point. It's people, on the whole, who suck. Self included. In my cipher, I can recognize only two fathers who might be noteworthy, deserving of a "Happy Father's Day". The other fathers are either absent or dead.

In the present context, since the beginning of June two of my friends have lost their fathers to death and two other of my friends have become expectant fathers with their wives.

I have other friends who's fathers died way before mine did.

I have two friends who never talk about their fathers--one being alive and not with my friends' mother, and one having died before I ever met my friend.

I have another friend who's father I greatly admired--he was a strapping masculine Italian, a well-liked goombah who seemed to like me well enough too. He'd ask about me through his son, my friend. It got so that I was ashamed to give any reports of myself because I hadn't been doing so well in the past few years (see Blog; Last Three Years). I looked forward to having better things to say one day when the man up and died. This was about two years ago. When I learned of his illness and of his terminal condition, I cried myself home from the lunch where I got the news. Between then and the actual death, I learned a little something. My friend seemed not to be all that bothered by it. I know he was affected in ways I'll never be able to describe, but what he mostly communicated to me in the following brief conversations was that his father was a bully who made my friend's childhood difficult, and my friend blames a lot of his own dicey behavior toward women on his father. He also gave me the impression that it didn't take long for his mother to move on either.

And through all these permutations I wonder and I wonder and I wonder what it's all supposed to be about. What is "Fatherhood"? What is it supposed to mean to have a father? What does my one expectant friend really expect to BE, when he becomes a father? What does my other friend, who is already a father but is going to add another child to his family in half a year feel about fathering?

And what the hell happened to OUR fathers? What the hell were they doing when we were growing up? Why were they letting themselves just freaking DIE, leaving our mothers and ourselves just all the hell alone in this nasty-ass, cruel effing world? Or why were they such @$$holes that they didn't instill better memories or values in us? (By the way, isn't the President a father? And the Vice-President? Aren't most of these so-called men in politics 'fathers'? And in the countries around the world? So much for 'fatherhood' making a "man" out of you.)

Why can only 2 out of 11 of my friends (I can bump that up to 4 out of 11 when I think about it) give me the impression that they even like their fathers, or the memory of their fathers?

You see, I know emphatically that I am what I am today because of my father--sprinkled with a heathy dose of lunacy from the remains of the mothering I received in my father's absence.

I chose to chase down a religion because I wanted a Father. I followed a narcissist in a cult-like religion for 11 years because I wanted a father. I went to a part of the country and joined a culture that never wanted me to be a part of them for 8 years because I wanted a father. I tried very hard to emulate the values of another very narrow-minded man because I wanted a father. I still adore the thought of that narow-minded man to this day because I want a father.

I ran in terror from every commitment I've ever had with a woman because of the father I had. I was molested before I turned 10 because of the father I had. As a result, I can't stand to be touched--because I had the father I had. I can't balance a checkbook or make sound financial decisions because of the father I had. I get lost within a fog of endless introspection every June because of the father I had. I fight for hope but now in my forties have to face yet another failed chance to fit into this world as a man, a husband, a father--because of the father I had.

No, not a pretty picture, I admit. Nothing really upbeat for me to end on either. I can offer this advice though--all you "men" out there who made a baby? You want a Fther's Day card? A necktie? Some kind of regard, even though you pretend you don't?

Then BE a father, for God's sake. Okay? I mean, at least TRY. Damn!