Hi Tim, I didn't hear from you today. Hope all is o.k.

Hi Tim,

I didn't get an e-mail from you today, friend.  I was a bit surprised.  I can usually bet on hearing from you at least once a day.  But I trust that all is good in your world, and you're just a bit busy.  I would imagine that you have a lot of responsibility running the American Family Association.

It's all good though.  I did get to spend some time with another friend of mine. He's a gay Christian like me.  We met for lunch, and it was a lot of fun.  The conversation probably would have made you a bit uncomfortable, since we were talking about our husbands.  We also talked about how his husband dressed up like a fairy for Halloween.  I sure that would have really made you uncomfortable, so I'm glad you weren't there.

I was at the office from 9 AM to 8 PM.  It was a LONG day.  But I enjoyed it.  I got to talk to one of my best friends at work.  She is a Christian too.  And we talked about how we need to turn things over to God that we can't handle alone. She is super-conversative in her beliefs.  She doesn't believe that same-sex marriage should be legal, but she loves me and is happy that I have a good husband.  You and she would probably hit it off great!

Anyway, like I said, I was at the office until 8, and it's now 9:30 PM.  I'm kinda tired.  Time to say my prayers and go to sleep.

Hope you have a great day tomorrow!

Yours in Christ,

Jason

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.

"All's Well That..." (well, you know the rest)

Driving to the office this morning, I thought "It's going to be less-than-wonderful day."  I had to fit in my work around four hours of meetings that were scheduled.  My best work-buddy was out on vacation.  I had just been assigned a new project, and the sales manager was, as he expressed, "anxious" to start.  I had a strong feeling that it was going to be a twelve-hour day at the office.

I decided to slow-roll to work; taking the streets, instead of the freeways.  I still arrived just ten minutes past my normal morning ETA.  As I trudged from the parking garage to my building, the weight of my laptop case emphasized that I had also worked from home the night before.

I wasn't bummed at facing the workday; I just wasn't jumping for joy.

But then I stepped out of the elevator and onto my work floor.  And here's what greeted me during the course of the day:

Two sweet-tempered co-workers:

"You made my day yesterday.  Thank you!  You are always so nice.  You know, you were the only one who bothered to talk to me when I was first hired."

"Of course, he's nice.  He's from Louisiana."
 

Reply to "thank-you" e-mails that my lead project manager & I sent to a co-worker, who had went out of her way to rush a request for us:

"It was my pleasure.  You two are a wonderful team to work with."
 

Kind words from a manager when I made a bad assumption, and it blew up in my face.

"Just look at it as a learning experience.  I know it may sound trite.  But don't kick yourself.  Anyone could have made that mistake."
 

During my afternoon break, I was reading from the Shakespeare app on my iPhone.  "All's Well That Ends Well."  Act 4, Scene 3.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
 

It did end to to be an eleven-hour day at the office.  But I had a good time.  Ken had packed pizza for my lunch.  Some good friends made my day.  I had time to help another friend review a complex document to free up some of her time, so she wouldn't have to work a fourteen-hour day.

What made working late today completely worth it?  On my route home, the timing was perfect to see the luminous full moon rising over the city as I drove east on Pierce-Elevated.

 

And then I was able to see a spectacular sunset as I was driving west on the South Loop.

 

And of course, I arrived home to a smile and a hug.

It was a more-than-wonderful day.

Thank You, Puerto Rico

“My name is Alfred.”  Odd.  The Puerto Rican gentleman introducing himself at baggage claim as we wearily stumbled up to the carousel after the four-hour flight.  The driver.  I expected Alberto, Alejandro or Augustus.  I guess I was being a bigot.  Shame on me.  Waiting for our bags, The Redhead was clapping and whooping, happy to be free from the States for a while.  The rest of us (The Brunette, The Dude, The Man and me) were unexcitedly hovering to snag the luggage.  Locals ambled by, making eye contact and smiling.  Weird.  One lady cruised by carrying a lap-dog to the aww’s of The Redhead and The Brunette.  The woman made a beeline to my friends, allowing the two to pet the pup.  Downright strange.  Never in Houston.  I started loving Puerto Rico at that moment, even before I dived in.

Alfred led us to the van.  We five climbed in.  First stop, the local mainland-based grocery store to stock up on provisions.  Along the way, we passed one-story plain square dwellings with peeling paint and cracking stucco walls, saw roadside carts overflowing with fresh local fruit, and became incorporated into snakes of traffic that attempted to, but never quite, held to lanes.  At the shopping center, The Man, The Redhead, The Brunette, The Dude and I all filed into the store, to the apprehensive warning of The Dude.  “At this moment, this man has all our stuff!”

I laughed.  “C’mon, buddy.”  Although Alfred was a bit above it all, I thought him trustworthy.

 

We grabbed the staples:  cookies, cheese, chips, coffee, three bottles of wine, three bottles of rum.  We were good to go.

When we arrived at the condo building, we elevatored to the sixth floor.  Alfred saw us inside, was tipped and, faster than you could say “boo,” disappeared.  Ok…  We immediately made our way to the balcony.  Perfect.  Palms, pool, sand, beach, bay.  We waited there for a few minutes as a storm quickly moved across the aqua vastness, dumped rain (dissipating before running ashore) and produced a welcome in the form of a bright rainbow.  We dispersed to our respective rooms to unpack, change into swimwear and head for the beach.

The Redhead and the Man relaxed on lounges and read.  The Brunette, The Dude and I swam in the warm clear water.  All the while worked by the push and pull of the waves, the world back home kept a firm grip on me.  After a couple of hours of sun, we headed up to the suite to plan next steps over our principal drink for the trip:  piña coladas (That damn song from the 70s followed me the rest of the vacation).

We trekked over to the main building of the resort - a hotel - to grab a taxi, discarding Alfred in the hopes of hiring a more personable, less smug driver.  We did.  A handsome young native named José.

Demerit for José?  Dropping up at a marginal restaurant that he suggested.  We all laughed because Alfred had recommended the same restaurant.  Kickback?  Maybe.

Plusses for José?  He had spent time in the States for service in the armed forces, so he got most of our stupid pop references, and he also laughed with us at our skewed senses of humor, especially when The Dude overshared about an interest back home, a woman possessing some abnormal physical features.  In addition, José played salsa music for us on the stereo as we rode, painting pictures of weekend festivals in the small towns and people dancing in the streets.

   

Before saying good night, we asked José for advice on one thing to check out while we were on the island (two outings seemed an overwhelming proposition for the lazy lot of us).  His suggestion? Old San Juan.  The original historic district of the city.  We made plans for him to pick us up the following afternoon.

Riding through the emerald hills, then the flat stretches clogged with vehicles, and finally along the freeways slipping through the heartbreak of decaying housing projects and the skyscrapers of the tourist district (and still work and worries from Texas keeping me distracted), we arrived at the original sector of the island capital.  The quarter was unsurprisingly charming and loaded with tourists.  We arrived a bit late, around 5 PM, and almost all of the shops were closing.  We did a bit of souvenir shopping, then headed to another restaurant at José’s suggestion.  Racies (translated from Spanish – “Roots”).  Delicious.  Though I experienced a bit of discomfort, due to my overly PC nature, at the displays of the various races of the island and their contributions to its culture:  the Natives with arts and crafts; the Spaniards with religion and the Spanish language; and slightly prejudiced in my view, Africans with their spirit as “indefatigable workers,” At any rate, I ordered mofongo, a local dish served with a choice of various seafood or meat (beef, in my case, I am Texan) over a base of fried and mashed plantains.  My serving was mouth-watering and completely satisfying.

After the unimaginative fare of the grill the night before and the delicious food from the restaurant in Old San Juan, we did gather that cooking most of our meals in the condo would be most time-practical for the remainder of the stay.  On the way back to the resort, we asked José to stop by the grocery.  We shopped a bit more sensibly this time:  bacon, steaks, broccoli, potatoes, sweetrolls.

 

Arriving at the suite, The Brunette and I decided on an expedition up the coast.  We walked past the hotel grounds with the teeming vacationers, continued up the beach passing jetskis and motorboats, and happily happened along a beautiful lagoon with a cloud-topped mountain framing the background.  We crossed the chilly waist-deep water, coming upon a local woman out walking her dog.  We smiled greetings and attempted (unsuccessfully) to pet the skittish pup.  And without my noticing, my outside world fell away.

For the rest of our time there, I focused on Mad-Libs with my friends in the evening, pool and surf during the day, and waking in the morning to stunning views of the clouded peaks of the rainforest.

On our final day, The Man and I body-surfed together, alone.  I said to him the things that I say when we are by ourselves.  Those marshmallow words.

One of the best parts of the trip?  José became a real person while running us around.  He shared about his wife, his daughters, his family in Boston and New Jersey, his compromise to live near his wife’s family in a village near the resort instead of enjoying the more modern-day conveniences of San Juan, where he was raised.  He also shared with us his decision as a young man to stay on the island, giving up the opportunity to study in Tennessee on a baseball scholarship.  His sacrifice made for love.  Less than a year following his choice to stay, the relationship fell apart:  his sweetheart gone and the offer of a free education passed.  Poor guy was still kicking himself.

We had a bit of extra time the morning of the flight back to Houston.  José offered to take us along the coast, where the locals gather to enjoy the beach.  As we weaved through the lush foliage skirting the road, the beach would suddenly appear, revealing the brown islanders adorning the turquoise waters.  We went through small settlements dividing the way, where people gathered around food stands that radiated delectable aromas.  We passed a large civic park where throngs of children romped and ran around colorful structures.  José said that he would stop at any point where we would like to take pictures.  None of us asked.  Maybe we did not want to take this special part of the island away from the citizens.  The trip along the seaside was José’s gift to us.

As we approached the airport, the world back home started encroaching again.  But not in a bad way.  I was looking forward to seeing our pets and home.  I was ready to return to work with my batteries recharged.  I would face Houston with fresh eyes and appreciate my hometown a bit more (at least until she frustrated me again with some minor infraction).

Standing at the curb of the airport sidewalk, our Puerto Rican friend gave each of us a solid handshake and a warm look in the eye.  It had been a wonderful trip to an island where time attempts to stall, but the progress of the States speeds in.  The most important thing I learned?  The beauty of Puerto Rico is in its beaches, its rainforests, its architecture, and its music.  But essentially, the splendor is in its everyday beautiful people.

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

Taking Manhattan

How do you do New York City in two days?  Here's how we did. 

It was The Brunette's birthday.  She wanted to visit the Big Apple and catch a couple of shows to celebrate.  So she, The Redhead, The Man and I booked our flights.  We (she) decided on which shows to see.  We reserved our hotel rooms on the East Side.  And off we went one Friday morning in mid-May.

The Man and I arrived before "The Girls."  In the taxi ride to the Roger Smith hotel, we passed a Sports Authority store.  Both of us agreed that this would be the perfect place to buy a birthday gift for our sporty Brunette.  We decided to check in at the hotel and hoof it back to the store.  After unloading our bags, we walked down 48th Street and then up 2nd Avenue.  When we got to the lower 60's, The Man pointed out that he thought we'd walked too far.  In my resolve to always be right, I said "How could we have missed it?  It was on the northeast corner of one of these intersections."  We stumbled around for another ten or fifteen minutes, and then I let him take the lead. The store was on 51st and 3rd...

That night we were to see "That Championship Season" with Keifer Sutherland, Chris Noth and Jason Patric.  The Brunette checked the street address and then Google-Mapped it at the front desk of the hotel.  Near Broadway and 54th.  We started walking over to the area.  When we reached the street address; no theater.  We realized that we were Hell-and-gone from the Theater District.  The Brunette checked the street address.  45th Street, not 54th street.  Whoops...  We had to taxi it through the madness of Times Square to reach the theater in time.

The play was great, but a little hard to sit through.  It was about the reunion of a group of back-biting friends who had played together on a high school basketball team.  Set in 1972, it authentically portrayed the era.  More than a few mentions of the "N" word.  The audience seemed to collectively cringe at each utterance. 

At any rate, Chris Noth and Jason Patric were very good-looking in person.

After the play, we set out for SoHo for the birthday dinner.  I honestly thought that it was the end for all of us.  In addition to the crazed and nauseatingly high-speed driving of our cabbie, the New York streets were unbelievingly horrible.  We bounced, jerked and pitched all the way to the restaurant.

At the restaurant, I got a wonderful surprise.  We were handed the menus.  I couldn't read mine.  I had to borrow The Brunette's reading glasses.  That sealed it.  I am officially old.

The next day we headed to the West Side to take a boat tour around the island.  Our tour guide was...uhm, flamboyant.  As we floated by the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Brooklyn, Roosevelt Island, Queens and The Bronx, the four of us tried to determine if the guy was gay or not (in the age-old game of trying to make a person fit your tribe).   Finally we passed a hospital on the upper West Side.  The tour guide mentioned that the hospital was known for its exemplary neonatal unit.  He spoke of how his newborn son was treated there.  "There," I said.  "That settles it."

"Jason," The Man said.  "You have a son.  That doesn't make you straight."

"This guy's straight.  And if he is or not, it's not important."  I said, all superior-like.  The Man just smiled at me.

We left the boat and headed to Chelsea for a bite to eat.  We found a small Italian restaurant.  The food was wonderful.  As we were reaching the end of the meal, one of the daughters of the family-owned cafe came over to check on us.  She was very friendly and open, and with our being from the South, we naturally engaged her in conversation.  Then we got to hear how her eldest daughter was a "bitch," but nothing compared to her younger daughter, who was a "true bitch."  The woman was incredibly cute: blonde, petite with bright blue animated eyes and broad hand gestures.  Her references to her daughters were matter-of-fact.  But we were certain that she cared for each girl.  She knew her daughters and appreciated them both.

That night, we walked to the Theater District again (this time with no mishaps - as we knew where we were headed).  We saw "The Motherf***er with the Hat," a dark comedy starring Chris Rock.  As you would imagine, the language was pure filth. The play was hilarious, real, and completely entertaining.

We headed back to the hotel.  The Girls crashed.  The Man and I headed to Chelsea again to hang out at the New York leather bar.  We do that whenever we travel.  We like to be around our fellow homos, and the leather bars are home to the more friendly guys in the gay world.  New York's bar, the Eagle, was kind of run-of-the-mill: brooding, bearded quiet-types, leather-clad queens dancing to the house music, shirtless older muscle-boys.  I believe that we stayed for all of 30 minutes.

We flew out early the next morning:  7:30 on Sunday.  And back to the reality of our Houston life.

Things we did not have the time to do:  take in a Subway ride, hang out in Central Park, visit Greenwich Village, enjoy something artsy: like the MOMA or the Met. That's ok.  We'll return to the city.  

The thing that will stick in my mind more than any other happening in this trip? Walking back to the hotel from the theater Saturday night, we came across a street-person sleeping on a subway grate.  The Brunette stopped and roused the guy.  "You need anything, buddy?"  He smiled at her and shook his head.  Right there, I wanted to grab her and squeeze til it hurt.  Her birthday weekend, a woman who is quiet and witty, who has a good job and a good income ... stopping on the street to check on her fellow man.  

I went to New York to have fun.  I left with faith in humanity and the inspiration to be a little more compassionate.  Happy birthday to me.

Bathroom Instruction

At the office today, this sign was taped to the mirror of the men’s restroom on our floor.

I was pretty sure that the cleaning lady did not post this message for us guys.  Upon returning to my desk, I immediately sent an e-mail to one of my co-workers:

Thanks.  Blunt, but effective.

The reply:

How’d you know it was me?

My explanation:

Well, if anyone knows truck stop bathrooms…

His comeback:

            That’s offensive.  You know I prefer roadside parks.

You have to appreciate this kind of camaraderie.  My friend posts on my “regular” Facebook page occasionally.  At the end of his comments, he’ll call me “bitch” and “faggot,” (yes, he’s gay himself). I wince with the knowledge that my family and hometown friends might see the crude comments.  But I never squelch him.  He has to be himself, and I respect that.

It’s not that I don’t provoke him.  Almost every morning, I sneak up behind him and slide my middle finger in front of his face.  Juvenile.  Well, of course.  Maybe we are trying to get over the gruesome fact that we are both in our forties.  Maybe we never grew up and are Peter Pans navigating the corporate world.  Either way, our antics make the workday go faster.

Furthermore, neither of us is leaving hemorrhoid pad packages in the restroom.

Knowing When You Are Lucky

There is a picture on my desk taken about 13 years ago.  A woman and me.  Our faces are touching, side-by-side.  I have my arm around her, and both of her hands are wrapped around mine.  My hair is a mess, but I apparently couldn't tell the night the picture was taken.  Her beautiful red hair is perfect.  We look like a couple of kids dressed up for dinner with their parents.  It is one of my favorite pictures ever.

I met the woman at work.  When I interviewed at the small organization of about ten people, it was the practice to have the prospective employee meet with each individual staff member.  She was the office manager.  I met with her and another member of the staff at the same time.  It was a brief interview with the two.  The executive director of the company had a simple rule:  “If you feel as if you and the person could have a beer together, we can hire him.”  I learned later that the office manager, when asked what she thought of me, responded with a casual “He’s all right.”  To which, the executive director countered with “I thought you’d be more excited since he’s gay.”  The office manager was the only gay person on staff.  “Well now that I know that, I say hire him immediately!”  And I was in.

She may have regretted it later.  I was in my early 30s at the time, more than a bit immature and quite a bit high-maintenance.  I would check in at her desk a couple of times a day, complaining about my even more high-maintenance boss.  She would listen for a little while and then say with exasperation, “You need to return to your desk.”  Her office was directly next to the executive director’s office, and my friend would warn me.  “She’s going to storm out of her office, see you here and bite your head off.”  And the director did a couple of times.

My friend kept her work and private life somewhat separate in those days.  She talked of introducing me to her partner, and eventually that happened.  Her partner and I hit it off quite well.  I began hanging out with them, at their house, for happy hour almost every night of the week (we were in our early 30s), for weekend bike rides.  With the time that I spent with her, I learned that she is alternately raucous and reserved, candid and considerate, indulgent and impatient.  But she is always radiant, chic and incomparable. (Now, if she’d just quit asking if I color my hair…)

A few years back, I first heard her refer to me as her best friend.  I honestly had to mask my surprise and delight.  I felt warm inside for days after her simple proclamation.  If you don’t understand, think back to the coolest girl in high school:  the one who did her own thing, the one who could care less about anyone’s estimation of her, the one who knew she was special and knew her friends were as well.  And here she is, all grown up: still cool, still individual, still extraordinary.

She told me once that the only reason that I had stuck around so long was that I was the person whose company both she and her partner enjoyed.  I laughed aloud at that, but the truth rang louder.

If I believed in it, I’d say that fate brought her into my life.  But I’ll just say it is luck.  I know how lucky I am to be her best friend.

(Photo by Justin De La Orenellas)

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.

On Not Saying “Good-bye”

I got the word today that one of my co-workers is moving on to greener pastures.  Sad news for me, since over the past four years or so, she and I have become good work buddies.  We’ve been through fires that have galvanized our friendship.  She has a cool clear head, which balances nicely with my reactive quick temper.  We’ve learned to work together quite well.

She was a part of the panel interview that I passed through to secure my current job.  She is an Indian-American, and most everyone mispronounces her name.  I did myself initially.  In my thank-you note following my initial interview, I even misspelled her name.

But once I was on board in my new position, I listened carefully to her introduce herself to others and got the sound down.  One time, she told someone else in my presence, “You know … the Queer is the only one who pronounces my name correctly.”  Well, I just know that names are important.  Especially if you have a unique name.

But as usual, I digress.

In the jobs that I’ve held in my adult life (which I consider my time in Houston ), I have held on to at least one person from each of my five employers.  From my first job that I held about 16 years ago, a friend stopped by my house and had coffee a couple of months ago.  I hadn’t seen him in five or six years, but it was just like we had picked up a conversation from years back.

I even got my best friend from a job.  I was employed with her at the same company for only eight months, but I grabbed her and didn’t let go.

Sometimes the bonds are loose.  Sometimes the bonds are fast.

I’m not sure what will happen with my friend who gave her notice today.  However, I know that she gave her notice to the company, not on our friendship.

When I find someone who is special, I’m good with “hello,” and I’m bad with “good-bye.”

Defending the FB

Much has been said recently about the privacy concerns for Facebook users.  Worries over identity theft, scams, and invasion of privacy.  Horror stories of stalkers, hateful creeps and just people that you really didn't want to talk with again.  I mean, with all the technology today, it's difficult to keep a single move concealed.

Even as recently as last night, in my "Live Feed" where all the updates from my friends are published, I surprisingly saw on one of my friend's updates "John Doe likes The Man with The Biggest Dick in the World."  Well, that's very nice of you to share, John, I thought.  But my curiosity got the best of me, So I "clicked" on it, and was brought to, not a typical Facebook group page like I expected, but to an entirely different separate webpage outside of Facebook.  On this page was a picture of a man sitting on a chair against a bright red background.  He was dressed in tight leather, which was clinging so closely to reveal his claim to fame.  His face was obscured.  You could "click" on the picture, but the first thing I thought was "virus."
A little later in the evening, I saw one of the co-workers of The Man come up with the same "like" in her live feed.  Might be a bit more embarrassing for a young lady than an old Queer like me.  Had this happened to me instead of my friend or The Man's co-worker, I would have probably laughed myself stupid.  (It still was kinda funny when it happened to my friend).

Now, this is a very bad beginning for my essay.  Because I'm going to tell you how Facebook has enriched my life.  Simple things.  I can see that my sister had a great day out at the lake with her family, when she posts new pictures on Facebook.  And she's 250 miles away.  I can "Like" an everyday observation from a friend who is on assignment at a university in north Africa.  And he can, in turn, comment on my relishing watermelon on these days when the temperature is rising.  I can be knocked for a loop at the discovery of an old friend that I haven't seen in person or even talked with in 20 years, who may have been removed from my life by distance, conflicting priorities, divorce ... well, just life.  And wonderful memories come back.

Sometimes, it's fun when you have a twisted sense of humor.  And especially with a confidant that shares this. The brunette and I are constantly "de-friending" one another.  That's simply done by either of us removing the other from their friends list.  When the other discovers it, we send a new friend request.  So it shows up in any of our friends' "Live Feed"s as "The Queer and The Brunette are now friends."  I'm sure some of the friends we have in common think "what the hell?" seeing this message pop up every couple of weeks.

I've even used Facebook to settle an old hurt.   One of my high school classmates called me "Queer" at a party back when we were teens.  She was right.  But nobody was supposed to know!  She saw me for what I was.  It got pretty ugly with my friends defending me.  We left.
I kept that inside for years.  Anytime this woman's name was mentioned, I would snarl.  And then one day last year, my sister said, "You know that picture of you and me that I posted yesterday on Facebook?  Jane Doe
said he thought that you look great."
"Jane Doe!"  I was shocked.  "Are you friends with her?  Don't you remember that party..."
"T.Q." she sighed.  "That was thirty years ago.  Don't you think she's forgotten that...?  Maybe you should, too."
I didn't say anything.  But I was thinking alot.
I kept my eyes open.  And then one day, Jane Doe commented on a post from one of our childhood friends.  I commented something along the lines of "I agree with Jane!"
Jane responded something like "Thanks, T.Q., I'm right about 50% of the time."
I sent her a friend request.  She accepted.
We now comment regularly on each other's lives, trivialities, and achievements.  I provide words of support when her husband is about to head out on the road for work.  She comments on the nice flowers I get from the perfect man I have.

Privacy?  I've got nothing to hide.  Facebook?  This stuff is worth it's weight in gold.

(Lock photo by Walknboston;  Pot of Gold photo by Jonas B)

On Being Blue

I’m blue.  One of my good friends says, at least once a week, “Queer, you are SO blue!”  I reckon she’s right.

She and I work together.  We were brought into the company almost three years ago now, along with about 30 other men and women.  The department was in a sort of totally screwed-up shape, had become known as a people-mill (sucking in and spitting out employees at rapid speeds), and had finally got the approval for a mass-hire to help stop the bleeding.  

So my friend and I were part of a large grueling training regimen.  This started with a full week of nothing but specifications training that made me want to cut myself by class end on Wednesday.  The next two weeks were mainly training on our sister departments in the company and customer-service skills.  

But the three-week training nightmare was brought to a close with a little team building activity.  The final class was a type of personality study that divided people into three different color categories:   Red, Green, and Blue.  The Red folks were the leaders, who took charge, didn’t mind hurting feelings and, above all, got things done.  The Green segment was the worker bees, those dedicated to the details, wanting to find solutions and solve problems.  The Blue group were composed of those who were all about feelings, making sure people around them were “all right,” and maintaining a social workplace.

Yes, my friend was exactly right.  The Queer is Blue.  Archetypically Blue.  No surprise to me.  I had taken similar personality tests.  One at a former employer was all about colors as well.  I was Yellow for that test, not Blue.  But for that test, the “yellows” were the “people-people.”  (and man … do I hate to hear someone refer to himself as a “people-person.” Ugh.)

I had taken the Myers-Briggs test.  ENFP.  Yep, classic.  From the Wikipedia description of ENFPs:

ENFPs are initiators of change, keenly perceptive of possibilities. They energize and stimulate others through their contagious enthusiasm. They prefer the start-up phase of a project or relationship, and are tireless in the pursuit of new-found interests. ENFPs are able to anticipate the needs of others and to offer them needed help and appreciation. They bring zest, joy, liveliness, and fun to all aspects of their lives. They are at their best in situations that are fluid and changing, and that allow them to express their creativity and use their charisma. They tend to idealize people, and can be disappointed when reality fails to fulfill their expectations. They are easily frustrated if a project requires a great deal of follow-up or attention to detail.

And that is why I surprise many people.  In my writing, I may come across more laid back that I actually appear in person.  I’ve stunned a couple of guys, who I communicated with on-line over a long period of time before meeting.  When the face-to-face happened, I often got quite puzzled looks.  I’m a bit more energetic and animated in the flesh.

But I always express.  Expressions of amusement at some mishap that I may have been in the middle of, usually manifested in laughter and kidding those who are in the boat with me.  Expressions of outrage when the odds are insurmountable, marked by my outbursts on the department floor and my stating to my co-workers that my resignation letter is already typed on my hard-drive.  Expressions of concern when one of my team is in over her head.

This concern showed itself tonight.  There are five women who I check on each night before I leave the floor.  Tonight one of the women was in the cubicle of one of the others.  When I stuck my head in and asked like always “Let’s go.” (I guess that’s not a question), she sighed and said that she had too much work.  

The three of us (along with another of my daily “check-ees”) tackled the outstanding issues in minutes, dissecting the problems, tearing them apart and solving them deftly.  We "greened" it up.

As we four exited the building on the way to the parking garage, one of the women (our de-facto "red" leader) suggested that I send a text message to my final “check-ee” (who is visiting family in the Middle East) and let her know not to bring her lunch tomorrow.  We were planning to eat at the nearby Asian restaurant.  So I did, and we laughed.

Although it is eight hours later where she is, my friend texted back:

Enjoy :-)  I’ll won’t bring my lunch tomorrow :-)

We’ll see her in two weeks.

Hell, I’ll be as Blue as you want me to be.

I Got The Papers On You

Going to a party!

The birthday of my sister happened earlier in the week, so we’re getting together today for fried chicken and ice-cream cake with some pool time to boot.

  

Now to be totally honest, she’s not my sister.   But she is.  We’ve both got the family insanity (but good).  She’s threatened to kill me (on more than one occasion – and truly meant it).   We tease each other relentlessly and laugh our butts off about it (my partner laughs along – her partner thinks we are both insane).

When we first met – about a million years ago – I liked her instantly.  She has a sharp tongue, bottomless eyes and (holy moley!) freckles (yes, I’m a fool for freckles – The Man has ‘em).  She and I hit it off pretty well and hung out together quite a lot.

 

She’s a master of subtlety (she kinda has to be – her partner is the mistress of directness).  I dated a guy for almost a year.  Toward the end, I absolutely knew that the partner completely hated the guy.  “I’m so glad that is over.”  She sighed when the relationship screeched to a halt. 

I turned to my Sis, “Did you like him?”

She smiled sheepishly “Not really…”  Wow, she was good.  She never let on.

Now I don’t want to paint the picture that she is covert and sly, she is old-school South.  Her mother is from an old New Orleans family, so my sis was “raised right.”  I was amazed the first time that I gave her a present … and I received a “thank you” note.  Seriously?  A “thank you” note?  Wow, I must be an ungrateful SOB, because I don’t believe that I’ve ever sent a “thank you” note for a birthday present in all my life.  (I think she is the extraordinary one here, not me).

She’s a collection of contradictions:

• she gets up early for exercise; she loves to sleep in.
• she says that she doesn’t like people; she has more friends than anyone that I know.
• she’ll come across harder than nails, then gets all teary-eyed when I tell her how much she means to me.

So, Happy Birthday, Sis … I adopted you.  I think I’ve got the papers in the glove-box of my truck.  You know … that truck that we two knuckle-heads used to pull up a palm tree in your back yard.  They should really keep us separated …

The Queer Behaving Badly

I guess it officially happened. I transformed into a fussy queen. Not a crazy, driving-on-two-wheels-on-the-Drag-Race-of-life fussy queen, but a fussy queen nonetheless. It happened one Saturday morning…

Each Saturday, The Man and I get together with a group of friends for breakfast. It’s very nice. We get to discuss what’s happened in the preceding week, talk about cultural events, and debate opinions on current news topics. Most often, our Saturday breakfasts are the only way I find out what is going on in the world outside of my family, work, and friends.

We typically move around the city to different restaurants each weekend. We do have our favorite picks that are in the mix regularly. But sometimes a new eating place is introduced, usually by one of the gang who has discovered it on his own. One Saturday morning, we decided to meet in a café that was housed in a shopping district near the nearby private university. Disaster.

Driving into the parking lot, I noticed a large number of what seems to be high-school-aged young ladies all dressed in matching t-shirts, shorts and sneakers. I guessed that they were members of a soccer or lacrosse team. They were accompanied by a man (who was about my age) who I assumed to be their coach. No worries yet.

I parked the truck, and The Man and I entered the restaurant. What?! Counter-service?!! And the 30 or so young ladies were already lined up to order. Holy crap!

We had arrived a little late and all of our friends were already seated, drinking coffee. I flopped down against the wall in the seat and grumbled a “good-morning” to everyone. And then dropped out of the conversation by playing on my phone. Being as accommodating as he always is, The Man asked what I would like to eat. “Whatever. Omelet. Egg, cheese, bacon. Toast.” The rest of the breakfast group just looked at the two of us as if we’d just walked off an alien aircraft.  But The Man ordered my food, delivered it to me, and brought me coffee plus refills.

This was the first time that the Saturday Breakfast Group had visited a restaurant without table service. As I explained to them, I am not a morning person. I want someone to bring me coffee in the mornings. I do not want to have to go get it myself. Thank The Man. In the mornings when he knows I’m rousing, he prepares my coffee and puts it on my desk, every morning. Every morning. Yes, ya’ll … I’m spoiled. I know that.

The gang was just amused and a little shocked at my over-reaction. But from that point on, we had an unwritten rule about no establishments without table service because of the Queer/Queen.

Until a couple of weeks ago…

The unofficial “official” leader of the group found a beignet place. He wanted to try it out. Seeing that I am from Louisiana, he asked if I could forego my “no-counter-service” rule. Grudgingly, I agreed. Mistake.

We arrived rather early. 8:30 AM. The restaurant was not very crowded. The breakfast menu was unbelievingly undersized. So I just went and order some beignets and an egg casserole. With the Café-Au-Lait, it was around 12 bucks! Fried dough, baked eggs and coffee with milk! AND I had to serve myself.

I started firing off angry messages on Twitter. And then snidely sharing what I was writing with all of my breakfast mates. Ooo...what a jerk...

After breakfast, The Man went around and hugged everyone. I just waved at the gang and stomped out to the truck.

Of course, I felt bad about it later. So I sent an e-mail to all of my friends who were at breakfast that morning. This is basically what I said.

I would like to apologize to everyone who was at breakfast this morning.  Just because I'm a Prima-Donna does not mean that I need to turn into a grump and try to spoil everyone's good time.

I did make the executive decision to not attend breakfast when I know the scheduled establishment does not serve me like the Prince that I apparently believe myself to be.

Each one of them responded with something along the lines of “no big deal … don’t worry about it!” And each one was sincere. I even got “I love you and would miss you if you weren’t at breakfast.” And to push it further, I got “Your little rants amuse me. Don’t change.”

I guess if I needed a definition of friendship, I got it.

I still demand table service for breakfast, DAMMIT.

Wisteria and Poo

Friends. I have my share of great ones. But sometimes, I wish they would be a little more genteel and withholding. Oftentimes the truth comes flowing out of their mouths regardless of whether it smells like flowers or sewage.

I mentioned to one of my friends that I started writing a blog. He seemed pleasantly surprised and genuinely interested.
“Send me the address.”
So I did.
The next time I saw him, I asked him what he thought about the site.
He just raised his eyebrows. “It’s long.”
Really? That’s the best feedback that I can expect …?
Instead I just laughed.
What I wanted to say was “It’s not a homework assignment, buddy. You don’t have to read it. But you could have at least come up with something positive to say.”
I guess I should simply be glad that he feels comfortable enough with me to share so freely.

Unsolicited, I sent the page link to my two best friends.
I received a reply, but only from one.
Here is the answer that came back:
“I hardly have time to check Facebook, much less read a blog … but you have fun, Dude.”
Honestly…that is all you have to say?
What I wanted to say was “At least you could take a cursory look and at least comment that you like the colors that I chose for the layout.”
What I did say was:
“whatever…”
She just laughed it off … she wasn’t taking any of my sewage.

I told one of my ex’s about the blog. He asked me for the address of the site. He’s a writer himself and a rather good one to boot. He’s been published a few times. When we dated, he and I would exchange short stories and critique one others work. After I sent the link, I received a quick e-mail stating that he enjoyed reading the posts, but he thought my prose was better. This was about three weeks ago.
Out of the blue, last night I received another e-mail from him. This one stating that he was still following my blog, but he was certain the writing would get tedious after a while (wait …for me or the reader, or both?). Then he stated that he was glad that everything was working out so well for me and “The Man.” After that, completely apropos of nothing, he said something I don’t even care to repeat here.
He added that male/male friendships are fallow (yes...he used the word “fallow”).

So today, I am

• Trying to keep it brief (I don't believe that I succeeded...sorry)
• Not really caring whether or not this is read by anyone (except “The Man"...he is contractually obligated).
• And giving a high five to all my buds out there who know that male/male bonds are amazingly rich (it isn't all about punching and grunting).

And the next time a friend asks for an opinion or some feedback, maybe I’ll just pony up the wisteria and keep the crap to myself.