Cowabunga ?

 

I met Mark in April of 1997, I didn't get to know him as well as maybe I should have before he moved in with me. It was June and the stormiest month in South Florida. Mark's apartment building got hit by lightning and his apartment became unlivable. It blew out all the electricity leaving no lights, no air conditioning, and no way to cook the great meals he had been luring me with. So I suggested he move in with me. It took me about six months to figure out a lot of things that I should have known before hand. Like the fact that Mark liked to shop. He had taken over the redecorating of my house and we spent about two months shopping for a dining room table. It had to be perfect for him, and cheap for me. This sort of thing went on again and again for twenty three plus years. Mark also loved holidays. Christmas became a nightmare for me. Mark would make it a very beautiful holiday that Dickens or Clement Moore would love, but a nightmare for me. Mostly because I did all the grunt work while Mark was the overseer. But this story is actually about our first Halloween together. I did not know how seriously Mark took Halloween. It meant nothing to me, but Mark insisted we have costumes and go out on Halloween. During one of Mark's shopping safaris he had found giant rubber Simpson's heads. One of Homer and one of Bart Simpson. These were to be the basis of our Halloween costumes. So on that evening we dressed as the cartoon characters, and slipped the giant rubber heads on. I don't know why, but we drove through Wilton Manors, Florida in Mark's little red Miata, with the top down, wearing those giant rubber heads. This was seriously dangerous. I couldn't see anything but straight ahead. Not only that, it was probably eighty degrees with ninety percent humidity and my head was inside a giant rubber Homer Simpson head. I was sweating profusely, I couldn't see where the hell I was going, but Mark was having a great time. I definitely was not. Not until I took off the giant rubber head, cooled down, and had my first vodka cocktail.

Over the many years, Mark continued to dress in some really great costumes every Halloween. I never dressed up in costume again...  Oh sure, Alexis and Alicia. But those girls stayed home and hated Halloween too.

When Worlds Collide (Repost)

 

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 25, 2011

When Worlds Collide

For a little over three years I have volunteered at a no kill pet shelter. It is run by a very dedicated staff, and they are supplemented by an enthusiastic group of volunteers. One of the activities we volunteer for are the 'Meet and Greet' events. These consist of taking some of the dogs and cats to fairs, stores, and other places where people gather so that they might find adoptive families. Usually the meet and greet crew consists of various old ladies, nice man/woman couples, and the ever present gay man or two. So when the call went out for help at a meet and greet at a local gay bar, of course I immediately signed up. The bar is called The Ramrod.

The Ramrod is a leather bar. That means that the guys get dressed up in varying degrees of leather costumes, and play different roles in their little alternate reality. Some are into S&M, some bondage, and some... well who knows. Many years ago I used to go to this bar on occasion. I am not into that leather scene, nor do I own any of the accessories used in that scene. Mostly I went for the cheap drinks, and the fact that once in a while those guys do go vanilla. What I remembered about that bar was that it was very dark inside, had different forms of restraining devices placed around the bar for customer use, and that they showed hard core pornography on the video screens.

Never the less, what could go wrong with us bringing some of our dogs over there? I figured we would set up a table with our flyers and promotional stuff right outside the front door, greeting the leather boys as they arrived. It was when Barb, the organizer of this event, informed me that no, it wouldn't be out front but on the 'patio' that I started to worry. Maybe I waited too long, but on Saturday afternoon I emailed Barb asking her if she was aware of what that place was. She replied back that she did, and besides it would be in the early evening, before the leatherwear crowd showed up.

So early Sunday evening, we arrived with our dogs. Our crew consisted of me and Mark, two other gay men, Barb, and another middle aged lady. After making our way past the dildo gift shop, we stumbled through the nearly pitch black inner bar area, and out back to the patio. The patio was just a narrow area between the back of the building, and the property line. It was damp, and smelly, but there was a bar and bartender out there. So we set up our little table next to the pillory (a medieval restraining device). The dogs immediately began sniffing things of uncertain origin that were jammed into the corners, and trying to taste the moist spots on the floor. Besides the pillory, there were chains, ropes, and video screens. On those video screens they were showing porn movies. Hard core gay porn movies. Big, beefy, hairy men doing what your mother always told you not to do. If you tried to avoid looking at the porn by casting your eyes downward, you were greeted by men in assless chaps. I looked over at Barb, and then over to the other lady. They seemed unperturbed. Instead of their heads spinning, and them gouging their eyes out, they were both busy talking to guys, trying to find those who might possibly adopt a dog. All I can figure is that either they are blind, kinky themselves, or just troopers doing whatever it takes to find a home for the dogs.

That Nagging Feeling That You Forgot Something

 

It seems that I cannot multi-task. If I get distracted, whatever it was that I thought I was doing is completely wiped away. Like Saturday when I took my sister and my brother in law out for a ride in my old car. I pulled out of the garage just as my neighbor was coming down the alley. So I, like the good neighbor I am, pulled ahead into the little parking lot behind the stores on Peterson Avenue. Then, after the neighbor pulled past me, I had my passengers climb on into the old Model A Ford. You can't get into the car in the garage because there just isn't enough room to open both doors, so I make all passengers wait in the alley. After they got in it was off to dinner and later a stop for ice cream. It was a wonderful evening, even the weather cooperated. Balmy and clear. Which also describes my brain. Balmy and clear. Cleared of all thought when I pulled out of the garage other than I had to let the neighbor past my car. I totally forgot to hit the button to close the garage door. When we returned, I was horrified to see my garage wide open with the lights on. We had been gone for at least an hour and a half, and I left the garage open for all the thieves of Chicago to help themselves. I learned as a child, that in Chicago you cannot leave anything unattended. That was driven home when my brother left our cousin's bicycle in front of our grandparent's house for "Just a minute" and it got swiped. Anyway, I did a quick inventory of my garage. Nothing was taken. Not the lawn mower, not any of my tools, nothing. My faith in humanity was restored. People aren't all thieves. That, or it just meant that no thieves had wandered down our alley for a couple of hours. One thing that is good to know, I did lock the side door of the garage. Nice and tight, double bolted.

I Walked Like a Duck, sooo...

 

1952, That's me in the duck costume

I bought some Halloween candy last week. Two bags of Reese's mini peanut butter cups. I swear, I won't eat them. I got away without having to deal with kids trick or treating for the last three years. In 2019 it snowed and no kids came around, and the last two years the covid scared them away. I don't think I can get away with ignoring it again this year.

I can do without Halloween. Mark loved it and always tried to get me involved, but I mostly resisted. Mark did not hate it, he looked forward to Halloween and always had very clever costumes. I did not. I wore regular clothes and simply accompanied Mark as his bad date. In fact after a few years of going out with Mark, I stopped. Instead I just sat in my big recliner and told him to have a great time as he walked out the door.

Maybe the last three years broke the cycle of Halloween trick or treating. Possibly not one child dressed in some costume I can't figure out, will show up. Not one troublesome teen who should have stopped doing the trick or treating thing by seventh grade will come ringing my doorbell. And hopefully, idiot adults dressed as sexy nuns, sexy nurses, and sexy whores will stay away. Not that I want all those Reese's mini peanut butter cups for myself. Seriously, I do not. I worked hard losing more than thirty pounds. No, instead I'll bring the leftover candy to bowling and let those folks get fat.

Mark as Tonto

Orange Juice

 

Yesterday morning, Sunday, I fired up the oven for my two mini-croissants from Trader Joe's. I then fried two eggs, sunny side up, and poured myself a glass of orange juice. I was going to have myself a pleasant Sunday morning breakfast. I used to do this for Mark, fix a fancy ass breakfast on Sundays, so I like to keep up that little bit of my life. The mini-croissants came out perfect. Golden brown and airy, fluffy. I placed my plate of eggs and croissants on the table along with the orange juice. Scout lay next to my chair in anticipation because when I eat, she eats. Scout is a bit plump. Alexa was pumping jazz music throughout the house and all was right with the world... and then I reached for a napkin. Well, goddamnedsonofabitch, I brushed against the glass of orange juice and in slow motion I watched as it spilled across the table drowning everything in its path.

I have this habit when I walk in the house, of dropping whatever I have in my hands on the dining room table. Favorite CDs that I have been listening to in my car, magazines, my wallet, my keys, and the mail. It was all engulfed in orange juice. I also had my new city sticker for the car on the table. That also got orange juice on it. I may have set a new record for the number of times I said the 'F' word repetitively without stopping. Sure, after awhile I punched it up with some other foul curse words, but only saying fuck over and over again helped. I kept repeating it as I ran around with a roll of paper towels trying to sop up the spill. It was a mess.

Mark used to accuse me of purposely spilling glasses and breaking them. I do not do that. I have crappy vision and I don't wear glasses when I eat. I blame the design of beverage glasses for causing me such distress. Wide at the top, and rounded and narrow at the bottom. What the hell, why? It's just an accident waiting to happen. Anyway, I have a new juice glass that I will use from now on. I found it over on the bar next to the whiskey bottle. It's wide and heavy at the bottom, like all glasses should be.

My new juice glass

The Blind Leading the Blinds

 

I was going to bed last night, and when I looked down at my leg, there on my inner thigh was a giant bruise. A big splotch of various purple hues up and down my inner thigh. I have no idea how I got that other than as a gift from the DNA I inherited from my mom. She also used to bruise at just the thought of brushing past a hard object. My only clue to the big bruise were the new blinds I put up on the front windows of our home. I could have injured myself there. 

For six years I have left the raggedy shades on those windows that the previous owners had put up. Probably thirty years ago. Every time I priced new shades a shiver went down my spine. That's an awful lot of money to spend on window shades, I would tell myself. So I never pulled the trigger on ordering them. Not until most of them had tangled cords, bent folds, and were pretty much just twisted junk. For two days I labored, taking down the old and putting up the new blinds that replaced them. Once again, the product came from China. I don't purposely order products from China, it's just the way it is. As a way to screw with us imperialistic Americans, the Chinese like to include cryptic instructions printed in the tiniest font available. Thank goodness for YouTube, the how to do it for old folks. Almost everything I do these days includes a review of how to do it on YouTube. Seriously, I don't know how we lived before the age of videos. Oh, wait. Now I remember. Clear instructions in a large enough font, written by somebody with a firm grip on the English language, and usually the product was made within five hundred miles of my house.