Reboot

My husband and I have been together for almost eight years now, married for more than two years.  I never dreamt that a relationship could be so easy and idyllic.  Even after eight years of spending almost every day together (I think that we’ve been apart for a total of 10 nights in the eight-year span), we still do not take each other for granted.  We say “Thank you” almost daily for small things that we do for one another.  We text little red hearts and smiley-faces to each other throughout the work days, when we’re apart.  We go to bed each night with an “I love you.”  It’s steady.  It’s nice.  It’s sweet.  It’s damn-near perfect.

There is an old saying: “Familiarity breeds contempt.”  I don’t buy it.  I think that a person would have to be a sociopath to follow that logic.  However, I will admit, while my man and I do not take one another for granted, we sure are “used-to” being around one another.  We have a wide circle of friends, and spend a lot of time with different groups, but the majority of our time is spent at home.  And while we may not be in the same room, for example, he may be in his office, catching up on internet news (he’s a bit of a junkie), he might be writing reproachful letters to our elected representatives (I swear he is going to get us on a list, and the FBI or CIA are going to drone us) or he, most probably, will be playing video games like “The Sims” or “Skyrim” (yes, he is a big kid), whereas, I may be in the living room, writing, playing piano, reading, listening to music, or watching old “30 Rock” reruns on Netflix.  While not in the same room, we can hear each other faintly, or at least, have the knowledge that the other is close by.

So there is more of a chance of our not jumping up and down when we see one another (the way our dogs do every time we enter the house).  BUT…the other day, I was surfing the web, and stumbled across this video “End of the World” by Matt Alber:

Now, apparently this video was played often on the LOGO (read, “gay”) cable channel a few years ago between programs and became rather popular.  But I never watch “regular” TV (shoot, we even canceled our cable last year), so this video was completely new to me.  After I watched it all the way through, I called my husband into my office, and showed him.  He got a little choked up (he’s like that - it’s inherited from his sweet father).  I restarted the video, and danced him around the room a bit.  He loves that.

Over the next few days, I was walking around with stars in my eyes and butterflies in my stomach, so I found Matt Alber’s e-mail on his website and shot him a quick e-mail:

Hey Matt,
Sometimes I am a bit late, but the other day I first saw the video for your song "End of the World."  It was so romantic, I showed it to my husband. 
We've been together for 7 years, and since we watched that video, it's as if we just started dating. 
So I just want to say "Thank you.”
The best to you.

And Matt Alber surprised me by responding in just a few moments:

Wow, thank you for your sweet note. Made me smile! 

So thank you again, Matt.  Keep spreading the romance, guy.

Castles with Axles

It didn't occur to me that the mode of abode for most of my young life might have been atypical, déclassé, or second-rate.   I never gave it much thought.  Call it what you will: mobile home, manufactured home, prefabricated house…it was always simply a “trailer” to me.  When I was in third grade, my family moved from a rent house into a brand-spanking new trailer.  And it was so cool. 

It was the early 70s, and bold earth-tones dominated middle-class style.  The aluminum siding on the trailer was white, with brown and orange shutters and trim.  Inside, shag carpeting moved like fire, all over the floors in vibrant orange, gold, and brown, save for the slightly-elevated floor of the kitchen, which denied the flame with its mushroom-brown surface.

Plus, the house came with its own groovy-cool furniture: two swivel-rockers covered in saffron crushed-velvet accented with white buttons, a matching headboard for my parent’s king-sized bed, and harvest-gold kitchen appliances in stark relief against pearly-white cabinets.  I immediately fell in love with the place. 

During my time in our trailer, I experienced some of the most lasting memories of my childhood:

·        Producing, directing, and starring in plays and musicals in our backyard (yes, I was, and am, just that gay)

·        Watching my mom’s fish give birth to speck-sized guppies in our large tank on the kitchen bar

·        Helping my dad build a plywood shed for our riding mowers

·        “Playing sick” on winter mornings by placing a thermometer on the floor heater vents, so I could cut class and watch TV gameshows all day

·        Spinning for endless hours on the candy-apple red merry-go-round that my dad built for us

·        Playing baseball with my buddies so late in evening that pitches became bruise-inflicting grenades in the disappearing sunlight  

·        Calming my sister, who would wake me in the middle of stormy nights, asking, “Hey…do you hear a train?”  She thought that sound was a tornado’s voice, and firmly believed that mobile homes were twister-magnets.

·        Proving my theory that Santa was a big hoax by silently observing my dad putting presents under the tree in the wee hours of Christmas morning

We moved from the trailer when I was in eighth grade, and as happy as I was to move into the trailer, I was just as happy to move out of it, and into our new ranch-style house in the adjoining lot.  My honeymoon with the trailer was over, I had the five-year itch, and the grass, which was only 300 feet away, looked so much greener.

My grandparents moved into the trailer, so I visited often.  But it was no longer my trailer.  I’d moved up in the world, and my love affair with the trailer was over.  My grandmother passed away while she still lived there.  And my grandfather lived there as long as he could, before his move to assisted-living, due to the debilitating dementia of Alzheimer’s. 

I would live in a trailer once more in my life.  Shortly after I was married, my wife and I bought a mobile home from my aunt.  The home was across the way from my parents’ house and, as a result, my old trailer, as well.  It was comforting to see my two former cribs from my new bedroom window.

When my marriage ended, I got custody of my new trailer.  When I decided to move to Houston, I toyed with the idea of transporting the mobile home to a trailer park in the city.  But then, my city friends told me that trailer parks in the city were not lower-middle class; most parks were upper-lower class at best.  So I sold my trailer to my sister, and she became a Louisiana landlord.  Parting with the new trailer was not difficult.  It hadn't been my first love.

All these memory bubbles came up when my husband mentioned an interview that he heard on NPR with a county music singer-songwriter, Kacey Musgraves.  Musgraves is a young, but wise, artist.  Her major-label debut was released earlier this month.  And it’s full of musings on everyday life in the lower middle-class of rural-suburbia.  The name of the disc?  “Same Trailer, Different Park” 

Before hearing the music, I thought that I’d never miss my old trailer.  A sincere thank-you, Kacey, for proving me wrong.

As Innocent As I Can Get

Since Labor Day was last week, today was a double-dip Monday.  It was like the extra scoop of Rocky Road that you really didn’t want and certainly didn’t need.  Ok, ice cream is probably a bad analogy.  But Rocky Road…nail on the head, folks.  Nail. On. The. Head.

After I arrived home and wolfed down the tasty pizza that my husband made for me (complete with the black olives and the mushrooms, which he both loathes), I went immediately to the piano.

I noodled around in Burgmuller’s Opus 100 (which is basically a beginner’s book for classical music aficionados), and finally set myself to work on “Innocence,” the number five piece.  I kept having a tough time getting it right.  My electronic keyboard has various voice settings, so after starting in “Grand Piano,”

 

I always laugh at myself, when I make mistakes

My piano teacher is very familiar with the sound of my laughter

 

I worked my way through:

·         Electric Piano (better suited for A Flock of Seagulls than Burgmuller)

·         Strings (too saccharine, even for a interpretation of innocence)

·        Church Organ (raised as a good Southern Baptist boy, I almost pulled this off, but the resonance in our music room,...ok...our dining room..., was a bit overwhelming)

·        Harpsichord (brutal in showing all the flaws of my technique – or altogether lack thereof)

I finally landed on “Vibraphone,” the last setting on my piano.   The sound was warm, soothing, and very forgiving of my uneven tempo, my occasional botched notes, my disregard for dynamics, and my clunky runs.

After a Rocky-Road Monday, I needed a bit of mercy and a lot of goofing around on the ivories.

 

 

A bit better.

You'll notice how I immediately pull my hands from the keyboard.

This way, I can guarantee there will be no additional mistakes.

 

(Special thanks to my cinematographing better-half - somehow he always hears beautiful music coming from my keyboard.  And that's only one reason that he's my husband).

 

Man...I hope my piano teacher doesn't see this post.

Wonderfully Away

This weekend was one of my great lost ones.  I didn't do much. 

• Saturday morning with our Breakfast Bunch 
• Saturday afternoon with our best friends, helping them move furniture
• Lots of piano practice

That was about it.

Sunday afternoon, I left the house for my piano lesson a bit early.  I thought that I'd just take my time on the freeways and not have to be in much of a rush.  But that was not meant to be.

When I turned from West Bellfort and onto South Post Oak to get on the West Loop, I saw back-to-back traffic waiting for me.  After living in Houston for almost 20 years, sometimes I'm still stunned at the number of people on the freeways.  Now, if I were more of a sports fan, I would have been better prepared.  The Texans had played at home today.  The game must have just let out (I did check the score later to see that the Texas beat the Dolphins).

For the drive, I had Circuital by My Morning Jacket in my stereo "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)" came on.  I put the song on repeat and slowly worked my way in the bumper-to-bumper.  The song can always take me away.  So I did a bit of day-dreaming as I inched north. 

As the song played, I found myself

• Sailing on a catamaran, off the coast of Cozumel
• Looking at clouds at Galveston Island
• Swimming in the waters of Puerto Rico
• Walking around my sister's yard and enjoying her flowers, planted among the Louisiana pines. 

I was only five minutes late for my piano lesson.  Amazing, since I'd been thousands of miles away during the drive.

Back on the freeway after my lesson, I listened to the same song over and again, all the way home.

I hope you also had the chance to get away from it all this weekend.

Schubert's Kicking My Ass

Schubert’s Waltz in B Minor.  Man, how I hate that piece.

Not really.  I love it.  It sounds like this:

Simple, really.  But challenging to me.

I took lessons as a child (getting good enough to play “Für Elise” by Beethoven at the request of my dad). But I abruptly quit. 

One of my teachers turned out to be quite the taskmaster and pissed me off.  She wanted me to play the first movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”  Frankly, I was tired of Beethoven and wanted to change my repertoire to Billy Joel and Elton John songs.  So I convinced my mom to let me stop with the lessons (one of the many examples from my youth of cutting off my nose to spite my face).

My 40s snuck up on me.  And I realized that I missed the piano. 

We all have dreams.  Mine?  To make my living as a pianist.  Now, I’m not expecting to become the next Billy Joel, Elton John or Ben Folds, but it would be great to be able to play at different venues (weddings, parties, etc.) and make enough money to support myself.

One of my friends is an accomplished classical concert pianist and teacher.  I mentioned to him one day that I would like to take lessons again and if he could suggest someone who could teach pop/rock style.  He mentioned a couple of sources, and then said offhandedly “Well, I could teach you.” 

At the first lesson, my friend and I discussed where to start and where I wanted to go with the lessons.  While I want to focus on pop/rock style, I understand that a good foundation lies in classical music.  So I decided to work on one classical piece and one popular piece per lesson. Before I sat down at the piano, I laughed and said, “I hope that I don’t bore and frustrate you with how slowly I learn.” 

He smiled.  “Don’t worry.  I only ‘fire’ students when they show no interest and refuse to learn.”

 After a particularly tough lesson (compliments of the Schubert waltz), I drove home thinking “I’m going to get fired from piano lessons.”  When I returned for my next lesson, I pulled out the sheet music for the waltz and said, “I hate this piece.” 

My friend recoiled and said, “Oh, my…well, let’s give it a go anyway.”  I played it badly, blundering at the same measures over and over until he finally said, “Stop.  I tell you what.  Just put this waltz away.  Forget about it for now.  At this point, you’re beating your head against the wall with it.  After a couple of weeks, take another look.  You will find that you can play it much better.”

I guess life is like this.  Sometimes we need to step back, take a breath, and tackle the challenge a bit later at a different angle and with a fresh point of view.

I told my friend about my concerns following the previous lesson that he was going to “fire” me.  He laughed.  “Don’t worry. You are my project.  I won’t be happy until you are playing Carnegie Hall.”

Although he may have been joking, it completely encouraged me.

I’ll let you know when I’ve booked the date.

RETREAT! Surrender. charge?

Rough weekend.  Crashed after an especially stressful work week.  

Saturday mid-morning, read up on tragedy in Norway.  Horrific news.  Soon after, take a nap (bad idea), just to have an exhausting daymare that The Man had to talk me out of.

 

Spent 14 hours in bed, Sunday night/morning/afternoon.  Finally dragged myself from the bedroom and into the house.  Flipped on some 70s tunes for background sounds while cleaning the kitchen.  “Dream Weaver” “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero” “Angel in Your Arms” “If You Leave Me Now.” Feeling stronger.

Headed to dinner with friends.  Listening to Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection.  Ate Mexican food with the pals with whom I will share a Puerto Rico jaunt in a couple of days.  Feeling even stronger.

Home.  Ironed shirt for work.  More 70s music.

 

Typing this.  New Order “Leave Me Alone”  Ready for tomorrow?  Ok. 

Goodnight.

"Leave Me Alone"  New Order

Squeezing the Tedium - Lemonheads-Style

Incredibly bored.  That’s how I woke this morning.  At five a.m. on a Sunday morning, insomnia jerking my chance to sleep-in from under my feet.  I played a computer game for a while; that didn’t relieve the monotony.  I thought about going to smoke a cigarette.  Problem.  I quit a couple of months back.  So I surfed the net awhile, came across an article by Jocelyn Anne on ProBlogger entitled “What to Do When You’re so Boring You’re Boring Yourself,” and laughed.  My mind jumped to Evan Dando.

Evan Dando, the leader of The Lemonheads, released a solo album back in 2003 called Baby I’m Bored.  I don’t own this … yet.  But I immediately wanted to listen to some Lemonheads.

I got turned on to the Lemonheads by a co-worker, when I worked at a record store back in my early 30s.  This co-worker was a long-haired intense rocker named Darren, who volunteered to make me a mix tape by a group that he thought I would like.  I cringed inwardly but said “Sure!” politely.  I imagined death metal with screaming satanic vocals and wailing guitars.  To squash my prejudice, Darren was incredibly insightful and sensitive.  The Lemonheads, with their mix of alternative rock and pop punk sounds turned out to be one of my favorite bands. 

The mix tape included the bouncy “Down about It,” the edgy “Alison’s Starting to Happen,” and a punky cover of Suzanne Vega’s “Luka.” Plus a totally different kind of song.  Although Evan Dando is straight, he wrote a song named “Big Gay Heart,” included on the CD Come on Feel the Lemonheads.  The song is a country-styled song, tenderly crooned from the point of view of a resigned gay guy directed at a hostile homophobe.

  

The steel guitar, weary singing and overly earnest lyrics make the song seem sincere to the point of being almost tongue in check, until the end of the first verse eases in and drops:

I don't need you to suck my (whoa!)
Or to help me feel good about myself

Well, all right…


"Big Gay Heart"  The Lemonheads



The bridge of the song goes like this:

Why can't you look after yourself
And not down on me

Just a few simple words, in the vein of "take care of your own business," that many can recognize.

I ended up listening to The Lemonheads for the remainder of the morning, enjoying the wry lyrics, the poppy rhythms and the odd surprises (what other group would cover “Frank Mills,” sung by the Chrissy character in the musical Hair?). I didn't need a cigarette, a game or the internet. The boredom had been squeezed out of me.

Watch Your Mouth...

Suddenly I’m swearing like there’s no tomorrow.
 

The Beastie Boys just released a new CD, The Hot Sauce Committee, Part Two.  

Mainly, I've been listening to nothing but that.  If you know the Beastie Boys’ style, you’ll know that they might inspire me to sling the F-word all over the place.  And I’ve been cutting it loose.  In public, during work, at home … you name it, I’ll MF it.

Believe that this is not standard-operating-procedure for me.  I was raised a good Southern Baptist boy.  I remember as a child one night my dad came home from work and pronounced that my mom’s cooking that evening tasted “like sh*t.”  I was mortified.

Swearing is one of the first rites of passage for many of us.  I could remember how odd the cuss words felt in my mouth as I first learned to say them.  But I got most of them out and into the air.  Even then, I didn't much enjoy the process.

My best friend loves the F-bomb.  But I think she is trying to wean herself from using it too much. I do have a tendency to agree with her that sometimes the word is necessary for accentuating a sentence properly.

Then I look at some of the great songs that have great swear lines:  “Long Shot” by Aimee Mann, “Let’s Pretend We’re Married” by Prince, “Play Guitar” by John Mellencamp, just to name a few.  (You’ll notice that each of these songs is quite a few years old.  Songs with swears were staggering back in the day.  Now they’re so commonplace, the swears are hardly noticed).

One of the funniest things that ever happened to me?  I worked in a record store back when I was in my late 20s / early 30s.  One day, I loaded the CD changer with five discs, selecting as one of them Whatever and Ever Amen by Ben Folds Five.  I play piano and enjoyed the arpeggios in the song, "Brick".  Randomly, "Song for the Dumped"  came up and into the second line of the lyric, Ben Folds yells “F*** YOU TOO!”  and then suddenly follows that up with “Give me my money back, you b*tch!”  Imagine store clerks and managers running in dead heats toward the sound system, stunned parents covering the ears of young children, teens snickering with hand-covered mouths.

I know that I’ll need to rein in my rogue mouth a bit.  I expect that I’ll be blessed with grandkids one day (only if my son is totally on board for that).  I don’t want to set a bad example.  As expressed many times before, my son is awesome.  I almost never swore in his presence when he was a child, and consequently I rarely hear him swear.

I’m especially frustrated at work right now.  I am not getting enough sleep.  So many things in life seem up in the air.  So I'm swearing casually and frequently right now.

I’ll not blame it on music.  I’ll not blame it on the media.  I’ll not blame it on my friends.

I’ll just try harder to control my mouth.

Life will get MFing better.

Washing the Fairlane

I washed The Man’s car this afternoon.  This was not a last-ditch effort to make it rain this bone-dry late spring , but a directive from one of my co-workers:  a quiet but bold woman, who is both no-nonsense and humorous.  She said, that for all he does for me, I should wash The Man’s car on a regular basis.  I just sighed at her Friday afternoon and announced to The Man said-same Friday night that I would wash his car during the weekend.

Sunday, I pulled both his car and my truck from the garage to the drive.  I started on his car, of course.  I set Abbey Road by The Beatles on my iPod and began to spray his car with water.  When “Come Together” ended and “Something” began, the past sweetly bubbled up.  Suddenly I was a kid (mid-teens), washing my maternal grandmother’s early 1970s Ford Fairlane. 

I didn’t have a job back in the late 70s, not because I was focusing on school instead of work.  The reason was more that I was shy and a bit unsure of myself, a little too insecure to look for a job.  I had friends and cousins who worked, so I wanted money too.  And I had a girlfriend.  She never demanded anything.  But I wanted to be able to take her out and buy her gifts.

“Ma’am-Maw” was a quick and observant woman.  “My car always needs washing.” she’d tell me. “You know how much of a roadrunner I am.”  She and my “Pap-Paw” lived next to us.  So almost every week, I would show up at her house and spend an hour or so washing her car.

 

I would bring my boom box so I could listen to music while I worked.  The radio would be tuned to an AM station out of Shreveport.  AM radio in the 70s played it all.  And I guess that’s where "Something" by The Beatles got lodged in my head as car-washing music.

My grandma and I had a good routine.  She knew that I was not one for detail.  After I was done washing, I would let her know.  She would come out for an inspection.  Good naturedly, she would chuckle and show me all the places that I had missed.  I would smile and go at it again.   She’d give me a hug  and hand over 10 bucks.  10 bucks went really far back in the day.  Far enough to get me to the next Saturday.

When I married my girlfriend in my late teens, we moved into a mobile home on my parents' land.  My wife and I would visit their house for game nights with my extended family.  My mom and grandmother shared the same infectious laughter, and both of them would keep the rest of us entertained.

A rapid-fire succession of life changes occurred:  my mom passed away, my marriage ended, I moved to another state.  When I returned from my self-imposed exile, I may have seen my Ma'am-Maw once.  Then she was gone. Forever.

Being a good Southern Baptist man, I carried the guilt for a long time.  As I got older, I realized how lucky I was to have such a wonderful grandma.  I knew that she wouldn’t beat me up for what I had been holding myself accountable.  So I let it go.  Today...I would have given anything to have been washing her old Fairlane.
 

I was enjoying the nostalgia, then “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” ended abruptly (as it always does) and the opening strains of “Here Comes the Sun” entered.  I looked up.  The sky was dark with clouds.  And I was back to the present. 

The Man walked up. “Do I hear thunder?”  I smiled.  I thought he was coming out to inspect my work and slide me 10 bucks.

I'm Crazy, Aren't You?

It has happened so infrequently in the past four and ½ years, but The Man and I will not spend this weekend together.  I am headed to Louisiana for a party for my son’s fiancée (she is graduating college).  The Man has work to do here in Houston.

Now you may have gathered if you have read any of my posts where he is featured, he and I really enjoy spending time together.  Time with him is “Sunday Easy.”  So I’ll miss him this weekend.  But a little time apart will be good for us.  It’ll give us back a bit of our individuality.

I noticed how much we identify ourselves by each other at dinner the other night.  Although he was sitting a bit down the table from me, I kept hearing him inject my name into the conversion:  “Jason does this…” “Jason and I…” “Jason likes…”  I chuckled a bit at the mentions.  (I was more tickled when The Man referred to what kind of truck I drive.  The woman across the table looked to one of our older friends and asked how he liked the truck. Boy, did I feel like a kid.)

I use him for juxtaposing.  He is sweet and kind.  I’m a bit more gruff and grumpy.  All I say is if one of us has to be the “nice one,” someone has to pick up the reins and be the “mean one.”  I take that role.  One of our friends constantly comments on how I act cruelly to The Man.  The Man and I secretly laugh.  He knows how wrapped up in him I am.

Once I left a sticky note above the washing machine where I knew he would see it.  It said “I’m crazy about you.”  My ten year-old nephew saw and misread it.  He asked me, “Who put up that note that says ‘I’m crazy, aren’t you’?”  That phrase is now part of our frequent exchanges, along with “How ‘bout those Astros.” (meaning “I love you;” I’m just too macho to say so.)

It’ll be odd not spending the weekend together.  So I’ll keep him with me on the drive to Louisiana.  We’ve been listening to a lot of Plastic Beach by Gorillaz.  I’ll play "Rhinestone Eyes" over & over and imagine him rapping his hand on his leg along with the beat.

A Morning at the Empire

This morning our breakfast group went to a new restaurant, the Empire Café.  As I mentioned before, I’m not a fan of eating establishments that do not offer table service.  But I promised the gang that I would go along and not pout.  I’d eaten at the Empire Café about 10 years back.  The food was quite good then, so I expected that the food would be appetizing this morning.

As The Man and I were standing at the counter line with our seven friends, he turned to me and said “This place reminds me of Onion Creek.”

“You know what this place reminds me of?”  I asked.

His eyebrows went up, his mouth to the side.

"" 
Then I said quickly.  “Sorry…I had to get just one in.”

During the course of breakfast, no less than four of my friends offered to get coffee for me.  I thanked them but got it myself.

While we were there:

Music :

·         “(Don’t’ Go Back to) Rockville” R.E.M.

·         “Serpentine Fire” Earth, Wire & Fire

·         “Tumbling Dice” The Rolling Stones

·         “Veronica” Elvis Costello

·         “Rhiannon” Fleetwood Mac

·         “Don’t Get Me Wrong” The Pretenders

·         “Life in a Northern Town” The Dream Academy

o   A young man in his mid 20s was seated next to us with what were obviously his parents, perhaps visiting from out of town.  The mom held up a cookie that was served with her coffee “Well, at least I like this…” (maybe she'd have preferred an Egg McMuffin?)

Ø  The Man and one of our friends, seated on opposite ends of the table, texted each other bad jokes.  Example:

v  Q – What do you get when you cross a Rottweiler with a Collie?

v  A – A dog that bites off your arm and then goes for help.

§  One of my single friends was thrilled with all the eye candy, indiscreetly pointing out all the cute guys in the room.

So ... Empire Cafe?  Great food (the Bella Frittata with its portabella mushrooms and gorgonzola cheese was superb); Good coffee (rich full Peruvian blend).  Good ambiance (saffron-colored walls with cheesetastic paintings of burlesque ladies in various national themes - Dutch, Spanish, Indian).  Nice Crowd (good mix of hipsters, glamorpusses and regular joes).  

All in all, it was a fun time that I would have not experienced had I exercised a prima-donna boycott.  OK…maybe for once a week I’ll act like I’m not a brat.

Play "Life in a Northern Town" The Dream Academy

"I Really Don't Wanna Go" AKA Magic Happens

Mid-March 2010.  And I had dreaded it all week.  I did not want to visit my family.  I wanted to stay home.

It had been since Christmas that The Man and I had been for a visit.  Typically we visited the family back in Louisiana once each month.  This was the longest stretch that I can remember with my going without a visit since I lived in Los Angeles almost seven years ago.  But still ... I didn't want to go.  I wanted to hang out at the house, listening to music and working in my yard. 

But I knew we had to go.  My son had increased the frequency of his "when-am-I-going-to-see-you" calls.  My step-mom had posted "Hey ... when are ya'll coming in" on her own Facebook page (she’ll get the hang of it one day).

Saturday morning, we were packing the truck.  I turned to The Man and sighed, "I really don't wanna go..."

"We don't have to, baby." He smiled.  (He is so perfect).  "We can unload the truck and call your family.  We'll just tell them that we need to stay home this weekend."

"No."  I said.  "We have to go."

So we headed out.  Our normal trip routine.  Gas up.  Breakfast at Whataburger.  Rock tunes on the radio.  And we're off.

Now here's where you can add a tally mark in the "Dork" column on the Queer's sheet.  We were listening to a mixtape that I had made from downloads of last season’s American Idol performances ... yes, yes ... I know...  But anyway, Lee Dewyze's version of Shania Twain's "You're Still the One" came on.  And I started singing to The Man.  Total cheeseball... yes, I know.  But he got all teary-eyed (he's apt to do that often).  But it was beautiful.  After the song, he grabbed my hand and said, "I'm so lucky!"

I just agreed.

We arrived in my hometown and checked in at my sister's house (always the first stop), and then we headed out for something to eat.  We called my son to see if he and his fiancée wanted to join us.  He had just eaten and his fiancée was at a family party, so he asked us to just stop by after our meal.

We got to my son's place and hung out, just watching movies, laughing and shooting the breeze.  It was a blast.  One of our cousins showed up, so we made a beer run.  As the evening moved along, my son suggested that we crash at his place.  We were going to get a motel room.  But this would be the first time that The Man and I would stay with my son.  So we took him up on the offer.  It was an ideal evening.

Later that evening, The Man and I headed to the local pizza joint to pick up some grub.  As he was waiting at the counter, I ambled over to the juke box.  I checked out the tunes, not at all surprised that Shania Twain’s greatest hits CD was in the machine.  I paid my money.  I made my selection. And then I stepped slowly and silently to the far side of the room.

 

As the music came in, I watched as The Man began to reflexively tap his toe to the rhythm.  Then as he started to recognize the tune, his head turned back and forth a bit like a puzzled pup.  When he fully realized what song was playing, he began to look for me.  When we finally met eyes across the room, he smiled broadly. I waved.

I’m glad we visited the family that month.  I got a magic moment out of it.

Blue, Pink, Orange, Purple, Green

Last weekend I landed in a funk.  I attributed it to too much naptime.  But I checked with The Man, and he said that he felt it himself.  And the blue feeling hung around for a while.  I didn’t help it much.  I read some gloomy posts on various blogs on the web.  I listened to lots of “Blue” songs:  “Little Girl Blue” by Nancy Wilson, “Almost Blue” by Elvis Costello, “Red-Eyed and Blue” by Wilco, “Blue” by the Jayhawks, “When the Stars Go Blue” by Ryan Adams (you get the picture).

I’d not noticed before.  Well, maybe I did and didn’t remember.  All the pretty pink flowers on the roadside.  They are everywhere this year.  And beautiful.  I just found out this year that they are called primroses.  I had always called them “buttercups,” knowing somehow that was wrong.  I had to look them up on Google images to get the correct name.  And I became a bit bummed, knowing as spring heated up here in Houston they would disappear (at least until next spring).

As I was driving to the gym one evening after work this week, I caught a glimpse of the setting sun hanging on the horizon in a spectacular glow of orange.  And I caught a special pang of melancholy, where the past that I loved seemed so devastatingly far away.  I found myself missing all the people that I knew I would never see again, separated from me by death, by ruined relations or by miles.  It only lasted for a minute or two, but it was sufficient.  The orange of the sun punctuated the blue of my past week.

We have a Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow shrub by our front door.  If you are not familiar with the plant, it blooms purple flowers that over days turn to violet and then to white.  I noticed earlier this week that the shrub was covered with buds about to bloom.  I pointed it out to The Man, and he became excited (he’s so cute – he gets thrilled by the simplest things).  He doesn’t need much to get him over the blues.

Today, I was in the garage.  Knowing that The Man was in the office, I used the remote on my iPhone to cue up and play “(They Long to Be) Close to You” by the Carpenters on my computer’s speakers.  Minutes later, he peeked out the door and said “Come with me.”  I followed him into the office.  “Start it from the beginning.”  I set the song to the beginning, and he held up his hands.  I laughed and pulled him close to me.  We danced around the office.  I pulled back just enough to look into his beautiful green eyes.

And suddenly my blues were gone.

Photos - Cane Rosso (blue), The Marmot (pink), Ollie Crafoord (orange), Carl E. Lewis (purple), Nathan F (green)

What to Do? AKA "Mystery Dance"

I miss him.  For about 20 years, he was a constant in my life.  And then we weren’t there for each other.  I wish I could understand, but I can’t figure it out.

When I first came out in my 20s, I began to go to Shreveport, Louisiana to experience the nightlife.  As luck would have it, my first trip to the gay bar in the city was a bit of a jolt.  As I approached the door, I saw the younger guys (like me) pulling out their IDs to show the man just inside.  I pulled out my driver’s license and walked into the bar.  Who was working the door?  A guy from my hometown.  Not only a guy from my hometown, but one of my old school mates.  He had boxed with my cousin in middle school.  He and I were in high school band together.  When I saw him, I almost turned around and made the hour drive back home.  But I took a deep breath.  I approached his podium and handed over my ID.  He raised his eyebrows as he looked at me.  “I thought that was you!” he smiled.  “I didn’t know you were gay!”  The truth be known, I had always had my suspicions about him. 

Although we had not been close in school, he and I became good friends:  he introduced me around the gay scene, telling me who to avoid, helping me when I didn’t take his advice, being a mentor in my early queer years.

One night, he had a party at his house.  He had invited a photographer from the city paper.  Let’s call her “Sherry.”  Sherry brought a guest.  A tall thin guy with fair skin, high cheekbones, green eyes and glasses.  He was a bit quiet.  He and I played darts in the gameroom.  He was horrible at it.  He had a bit too much to drink and seemed to only hit the drywall around the dartboard.  I liked him.  Let’s call him “Greg.”

Another night, another party at my classmate’s home.  When the party got a bit rowdy, Greg suggested that we hang out at his place and have a couple of beers.  Before I got into his car, he had to move a pile of cassette tapes from the front to the back seat.  When I got in, I looked at the back seat.  It was stacked with tapes.  I laughed.  He smiled sheepishly.  I was a big music fan.  When we got to his place, I was really impressed.  He had about a hundred albums and a turntable.  “Play anything you want.” We drank beer and listened to music until late in the night.

Another night, my classmate and I were at the bar.  Sherry was there and more than a little drunk.  “Greg loves you, you know.” She slurred at me.

What?

“He told me so”

The next time I came to Shreveport, I dropped by Greg’s house.  We were just hanging out in his kitchen as he prepared coffee.  I decided to drop the bomb.  “So…Sherry told me that you are interested in me.”

He blushed and turned to face me.  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

It didn't work.  It’s as simple as that.

We maintained the friendship, and it became stronger than ever. 

He began looking for work in Houston.  I visited Houston myself and ran into a man who fell for me.  So I began looking for work in Houston myself.  I got a job and relocated.  About a year later, Greg found a job in Houston.  We never missed a beat in our friendship.  We hung out together a couple of times a week, went to the clubs together, listened to a lot of music.

He saw me through a lot of men.  I would go through a new one about once a year.  He would roll his eyes a lot.  He would say that people didn’t need to be coupled.

I met “The Man” about five years ago now.  Around three years ago, Greg, The Man and I had breakfast together.  I was in an especially cantankerous mood, complaining about the long lines and generally making a scene over nothing.  Greg was distant as we said our good-byes. 

I called him about a week after that breakfast.  I had to leave a message.  I called again the next week.  I had to leave another message.  I called a couple of weeks later.  Another message.  He never called me back.  After a year and a half (about six months ago), I called again.  Another message.

A couple of weeks after that call, I grabbed a six pack of his favorite beer and headed to his house.  I knew he’d be there, since he works from home.  I knocked on his door.  He answered the door with a look of bewilderment.  “Hello?”

“You want a beer?”

“I’m working right now.”

“Can’t you take a break?”

“I really can’t.  Can you give me your number?  And I’ll call you.”  (He deleted my number?)

I was shocked as I drove away. 

Greg did call that evening.  “You want to come over?”

“Sure!”

When I got to his house, Greg was quiet.  We made small talk until I couldn’t take it anymore.  “Greg, did I do something wrong?  You just disappeared on me.”

“I just thought that we needed a break from each other.”

We made plans to meet for lunch.  And then we did a couple of times.  We made plans to meet one day for lunch, and work got busy for me.  I called him and asked if we could reschedule.  “Sure,” he said.  “Just call me next week.”

Work didn’t slow down until a month later.  I called him and got his voicemail.  I left a message.  A couple of weeks ago when I didn’t get a call back, I sent an e-mail.  No reply.

It’s a mystery to me.  And it hurts.  Does there come a time when you just let go of a friendship?  This guy introduced me to Elvis Costello, to the Clash, to the Pretenders, to Rancid, to Joni Mitchell.  I may call him again.

Ramblings

Not really having much to say, I thought I’d sit down and write anyway.

When I first started this blog, The Man said “This is good.  You’ll write everyday and get better!”  Everyday?  Has he been awake for the past four years?  I don’t do anything every day, but eat, smoke and sleep (well, sometimes not even sleep).

Oh, and I’m certain that I listen to music each day.  I am right now.  While I type this, I have my music library playing through the computer’s music system.  I have my entire library of CDs on my hard drive.  Right now, a song that I’m not even sure that I have ever heard is playing.  I am fairly certain that it is Matthew Sweet.  I own most of his work, and I’m almost sure that this is his voice.  Probably from Altered Beast.  I never listen to it.  Yep, I’m good.  “Knowing People” from Altered Beast.  I like it.  This is followed-up by Kelly Willis’ “Teddy Boys” from Translated From Love.  Good stuff!

I’m drinking TheraFlu right now.  Yuck.  I took a vacation day today to get a full four-day weekend (because of the Memorial holiday).  And then spent the day in bed.  And I got to thinking about Karma.  And why so many people believe in this.  We’ll get back to that.

My female cat is driving me crazy.  Whenever I sit at my desk (and that’s quite a lot), she sits at my feet and meows loudly.  I’ll pet her and pet her, but it’s never enough.  I never could satisfy a woman.  I’m still petting and she’s still meowing, but now Massenet’s La Vierge (Act 4) is playing.  Four and ½ minutes of sheer beauty, sweet and lyrical.

Karma.  When I originally planned to take the day off, I intended to completely conceal it from The Man.  I wanted a day completely to myself.  So I planned to tell him on Thursday evening.  I was afraid that he would take the day too if he knew of my plan early enough.  I did end up telling him on Tuesday night, I believe.  He didn’t mention taking a vacation day himself.  I was relieved.  But when Thursday came, I was starting to feel under the weather.  And come today, I was in the bed with body aches, fever and chills.  And I immediately thought sarcastically at myself, “Serves you right, Queer.  You were so concerned in getting your day off to yourself.  Enjoy!”  And then I thought about Karma, and why so many people believe in it?  I’m convinced the reason that I believe in “what comes around, goes around” or “good things happen to good people” or “everything happens for a reason,” is based on my Christian upbringing. 

“The Art Teacher” by Rufus Wainwright is on now.  I love Rufus.  The Man is not a big fan.  But the player is on suffle, and here comes Squeeze with “Another Nail in My Heart” from Argy Bargy.  And who doesn’t like Squeeze?

And back to Karma.  Almost everyone believes in some sort of Karma.  Regardless of race, creed, sex or religious background.  As I’ve said on more than one occasion that he is a “Chaotist.”  He believes in Chaos Theory.  That nothing happens for a reason.  He recently ordered a book on-line called “The Symmetry of Chaos.”  He was excited when he received it in the mail.  Then he came to show me with all the shine gone from his face.  The text of the book looked like stereo instructions.  It was a textbook!  He was so disappointed.  “I’m not reading this!”

All good.  “Me and My Girl” by David Baerwald just came on the player.  And the thunder starts like crazy outside.  The Man comes in to tell me that a bad storm is coming, hail and damaging winds expected.  And David Baerwald from Here Comes the New Folk Underground sings.

Me and my girl

Are going to do

Just fine in this world

I guess that’s what I’m writing about tonight.