It's A Great Big World!

Coincidence?

I think not!

I've been watching a bit of the news coverage, and wondered what that odd resonance I was feeling was all about. It took a bit of observation to note just how high the hair is; just how tailored those "plain" dresses are. Were those shoulder pads I spied under those leg-of-mutton sleeves? Were there rats in those hairstyles? I seem to remember my Mom in a similar style back in 1947, when she was a swingin' high school bobby soxer.

I guess I'm just wondering which old perv has a thing for post-World War II babes.

The many wives of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young certainly didn't look like this.

It warms the cockles of this old-school fag's heart to see that the MGM glory days of Virginia O'Brien, Cyd Charisse and of course, Judy Garland, have not been for naught.

This Flight Tonight

I've had enough of winter.

I've had enough of New York.

I've had enough construction sites.

I've had enough of high-end office furnishings.

I've had enough of mid-century modern.

I've had enough of the Dugout.

I've had enough of the L train.

So it's time.

Time for Tim and I to head west to the one of the few places we know that are guaranteed to have us feeling much, much better in no time at all.

Liz Hickok's San Francisco in Jell-O: Alamo Square

We have loads of plans, and a bunch of people to catch up with.

I hope to come home revitalized and happier than I've been in months.

If you're out there, I hope to see you tomorrow or the next day. Or the next. Or the one following that!

If you're here, I'll see you soon.

Hopefully, with my smile restored.

Winter's End

It seems the storm clouds are lifting.

Man, it's been a long, bleak winter for me. Perhaps I should have hibernated.

I've never been a fan of winter, but this year was ridiculous. Normally my seasonal malaise lasts the month of January. I'm old enough to realize that it's mostly caused by the emotional letdown of that follows the long season that begins with my birthday at the end of October and runs through New Years.

I've also learned how sensitive I am to the lack of light at this time of year. I live in a rather bright apartment, but I seem to be leaving and entering it in twilight at this time of year, and it makes me feel rather grim.

There's also the possibility that I'm actually dealing with something deeper and darker; depression, if you will. When I find that I'm thinking of consulting psychopharmacologists, and my partner is suggesting therapy and/or a 25 year old boyfriend, it's basically time to check the lock on the henhouse. Again.

So, it was with great pleasure that I felt the storm slowly abating over the last couple of weeks. Small epiphanies and episodes have gotten me through some of the events that darkened me these past few months, and I intend to hold these hard-won lessons close. I've even learned a bit about myself, and I've decided to leave myself alone for a while.

The above drawing was done by my great friend Rob, who I've known for years and is one of the very few redheads who actually like me. I met Rob well over a decade ago at the Spike. If I remember correctly, I was rocking out to Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" when he approached me. This drawing is the cover art he created for a cd compilation he sent me at the height of my dark season. It starts with a cover of that same song by The Bad Plus. The cover art seems to be a Rob's-eye-view of me. It made me very happy when it arrived.

I was at my desk, working until 11:30 PM last night. Today it feels like small sandy creatures are paddling through my eyes. I'm looking forward to the weekend.

To that end, I'm about to hop on the E train down to WTC, board the PATH train, and head for Tim's. I'll have a couple of his superlative martinis and he'll decorously sip a Manhattan or two. I'll get a good night's rest and tomorrow night we'll dine with M. at one of the Village's old school Spanish restaurants. I'm not saying which one, because it's mostly a low key scene, and I'd like to keep it that way. Later, we'll have some drinks at Ty's and head home, to set our clocks ahead.

I'm going to do the same thing to myself.

Swords, Sorcery & Savagery

It's been one of those weeks, uh, months...I mean years.

Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel

We were going to head up to Syracuse this weekend.

Tim's cousin had passed away, and we were to meet up with the rest of his family to attend the memorial taking place on Saturday. We had planned on flying up Friday, spending the long holiday weekend visiting Tim's old haunts, hanging out with his siblings and casting an eye on the local real estate market.

It would have been nice to get out of the city, and the rut I've been in since the holidays. Work and a lingering illness have both conspired to leave me grim and cantankerous. Some of you may have seen me once or twice in a cantankerous mood. It's not pretty, is it?

Like any other project management type, I rearranged my week in preparation for our departure tomorrow morning. I got the laundry done early and rescheduled my bi-weekly haircut appointment for Wednesday.

Now, John has cut my hair since 1974, and trimmed my beard since shortly after it appeared in September of the following year. We were introduced to each other by my late, lamented friend Arthur, way back in those plummy days when he and I were involved in an oddly successful cultural exchange program. Through the years my grooming habits have evolved from a once a month mowing to the every-other-Friday-morning-at-8:30 that it's been for the past ten years or so. I like the ritual of getting up early, hauling out the laundry and heading for a cafe on University Place, where I can sit in the window and drink my coffee, watch the world go by and listen to the extremely well progammed music, always thoughtfully selected. Sometimes it's jazz vocalists, sometime a British Invasion band. Sometimes it's a new jangly tune, or some long lost treasure I haven't heard in decades. Sometimes, in my vulnerable early morning state, I'm moved to tears.

As I sat there on this grey and rainy February day, I was intrigued by a turn the music was taking. The mix seemed to heavily favor dance music of the mid 70's, an atypical choice. There was a fair amount from the Philadelphia International stable, then the music veered from Lou Rawls, to be followed by Tavares. I had been lost in my reading, but the combination of "You'll Never Find (Another Love Like Mine)" and the LP version of "Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel" made me raise my head and smile. These songs are so time-and-place specific for me, never failing to momentarily transport me back decades. As the songs faded, I grabbed my umbrella and headed for my barber.

John and I exchanged our usual pleasantries as I grabbed a magazine and he prepped me for my haircut. Robed and toweled, I sat back and concentrated on the sounds of combing and clipping while John commented on how quickly my beard grows. "It's more white than black now, too", he helpfully pointed out. Noting my scowl in the mirror, he added "At least your beard is white; we have a lot of friends whose beards never had the opportunity". It's true; I had to agree. Once there was a rowdy gang of us that frequented John's chair; now the shop is quiet and mostly patronized by neighborly older gentlemen.

As I regarded my face in the mirror, "Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel" began to play again, this time on the radio. I smiled, recalling the summer of 1976.

It was the last week of June, and hot as blazes. It was the weekend of Robert's 36th birthday. In years past, he traditionally spent this weekend as a guest of one of his many friends with houses that abutted both bay and beach in the Pines. Not so, this year. There were no such invitations forthcoming. We'd met some eight months earlier; been a couple for the past 2-1/2 months. It seemed to me that the notion of Robert dating a 21 year old rubbed people the wrong way. It wasn't until some time later that I became aware of the two other men he'd been seeing concurrently. Both were socially prominent in this small community. They'd deigned to tolerate each other. I was just too much. I hadn't realized my function as his escape valve from that high pressure situation.

Stranded in the city, Robert was mad and growling. Brightly, I promised him a wonderful weekend, wondering how I could compete with the carnival that was taking place out on the South Shore. It wasn't necessary. Robert showed up at the door of my Sixth Street railroad flat on Friday night with a grin and a small suitcase, fanning seven one hundred dollar bills at me, telling me to pack my bag. I was young enough not to question him.

I'd been to Fire Island several times before, mostly day trips, with the occasional overnight stay, when I was lucky enough to charm my way into an invitation to do so. Robert and I, along with his friend Jeffrey, had even taken an early ferry out to escape that year's overheated spring, spending the day huddled in the wind against a storm fence on the beach, dreaming of the season to come.

It seems to me I can't remember the chronological occurences of that long ago weekend. Instead, vivid memories fly out at me like pages from some precocious child's picture book. I do remember checking into the Boatel, a three story cinder block horror overlooking the deck of the Blue Whale. The room itself was grim: a bed and some ancient rattan furniture. A shared bath. But our balcony overlooked the harbor, and the room overlooked the daily tea dance ritual.

I remember:

Walking the beach arm in arm, graciously greeting the amazed and more than slightly put-out faces of the gentlemen who had neglected to invited us.

The sandy sheets and oil slicked skin when we returned to our room.

The bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor at the side of the bed.

Waking up to the pulsing music from the deck below as it filled the room, and sent us, sunburned and satiated, to shower and shave and join the throng.

The amusing melange of chemicals we managed to ingest during the course of that evening.

The phosphorescent water breaking over me as I stared, slack jawed, from my seat on the water taxi, as we headed towards dinner in Cherry Grove.

Robert handing me my very first hundred dollar bill to pay for dinner, which mostly went uneaten, due to that same amusing melange of chemicals.

Dancing barefoot and shirtless at the Pavilion, my white painter's pants rolled up around my calves, as the two gentlemen looked on.

Collapsing in a heap on the bed in the early morning hours, the music still insistently playing.

Robert whispering in my ear that heaven indeed must be missing an angel.

The next morning we agreed to share a grudging birthday Bloody Mary with Bill, one of the two gentlemen in question. As we sat on his deck overlooking the Atlantic, I saw that Bill was wearing a small amulet, a medal I recognized as Robert's. Noticing my eyes fall on it, he fingered it, lifting it from the chain around his neck and winking at Robert. Foolishly, I took his action as a formal and open declaration of war; a battle I would ultimately win.

We spent the rest of the day jumping like dolphins through the rough surf, our swimsuits worn around our necks for safe keeping. We returned to our room just in time for the final tea dance of the weekend. Full ferries were pulling out of the harbor as men got once last dance in, heard one more song, snagged another kiss that would carry them through to the following Friday afternoon.

Showered, Robert and I stood on our deck, watching a late ferry head out into the setting sun. The evening was warm and I had wandered out, a thin towel knotted at my waist. I gazed out as Robert wrapped his arm around me and waved to Bill on the top deck of the boat. I could well gauge his expression from my perch. As the ferry left the harbor, I raised my arm in farewell as the sky filled with lead and gold.


"You haven't even looked at your magazine", John said, gesturing to my lap. I looked up, surprised to be sitting on 12th Street.

I shrugged. "I guess I'm just not awake yet".

John turned off his trimmer, and lifted the hexagonal gold framed mirror off the counter. With a sweeping motion he showed me my cleanly shaved neck, the back of my head, and lingered on my bald spot, waiting for me to frown or comment.

"Excellent", I said, and stood up.

I paid him, confirmed my next appointment, and headed out into the cold February morning.

I'm Still Here

You might have noticed that I've been around even less that usual.

In fact, I took a month off to see if I actually wanted to continue blogging and suss out what my possible reasons for continuing might be. I wasn't sure I wanted to share every hue and cry, every sigh and whimper that my aching psyche endured last year.

Having successfully ridden my wave to shore these past several years, I made landfall most ungracefully, skidding and bumping my way across a rocky coast. It has not been pleasant. I've had to learn to undo many of the social and behavioral traits I developed over the past forty years and suck up a few hard lessons along the way. Old dogs can learn new tricks; they mostly don't want to. However, sometimes they're forced to, and so, here we are.

I've been spending time trying to figure out just who I am at this point in my life and thinking ahead as to where and how I might want to live out the next 20 or so years if the fates are kind enough to allow me that much time.

Armistead Maupin has said: "Age is the last closet you come out of in the gay world. There are such gloomy visions of gay men aging. But if you worship beauty above all else, if you worship sex above all else, you're in trouble. If you're not working on your heart every second, you are going to have a very sad old age."

Now Armistead has a year or two on me, but I've never been anything if not precocious. And he's right. It is a painful process, akin to coming out all over again, but with considerably less stellar results. While I've not been one to worship sex and beauty, I have been known to use both to my advantage, at times. I'm well aware that those days are numbered, if not over. It wasn't easy leaving the dance floor, but I've done it, thinking I'd just try to find a good perch on the sidelines where I could still listen to the music and watch the other dancers cavort.

Tim watches, aware of what I'm going through. He's been a comfort to me when that was necessary; laughing with me when that was necessary, and cheering me on pretty much full time. We've been discussing plans for the next year and several years to come.

So here's one of them plans:

I'm going to give myself one last spin around the floor. I'll spend the spring pulling my act together, dropping some poundage, getting back to my work out. I'll do my level best to avoid the unopened and unused box of Just For Men (Real Black) that's been taunting me from my medicine cabinet for the past year. I've adjusted my level of expectation to almost nil. We'll have a bit more fun, then cede the floor to anyone who wants it. I can retire as an elder statesman and write my memoirs.

Aren't you glad you didn't have to go through the past couple of months with me?

Having said my piece, I am planning to continue with this blog. Perhaps more anecdotally, if that's even possible. Short pieces. Observations. Hopefully not about this old canard, either.

We shall see.

We Gather Together....