Keep Hope Alive

I Give Us Two Years

The Pants and I had a typical exchange while I was in the shower and he was, er, "in the library" with his laptop:

Me: What does Facebook say?
The Pants: That you're stupid.
Me: That's just mean.
The Pants: Facebook is a bitch, sometimes.

One of the world's hidden truths, my friends.

I'm In a Relationship

No one's ever going to accuse me of being a touchy-feely kinda guy.

I know this comes as a great shock to you.

The truth is that, even though my heart aches at the plight of the homeless, I'm sickened by the slaughter that passes for daily life in so many parts of the world and I tear up as soon as a Hallmark commercial appears on the tube, I'm not necessarily an effulgent guy, when it comes to my own emotions. I'm not – emotionally – the most available of people.

So it's a rare treat when, as happened a few days ago, I was lying in bed with The Pants while we were both doing our own thing (I don't mean to suggest that we're creatures of habit, but I can almost guarantee that we had our laptops deployed -- him hip-deep in a game of online Monopoly and me playing World of Warcraft) when we eschewed our online pursuits for a little snuggle time.

Don't gag, this is going somewhere.

So, there we were, holding each other, doing a little gazing into each other's eyes, and The Pants blurted out, "I'm in a relationship!" As if it were somehow a surprise.

And, in a way, I suppose it was. The Pants isn't a guy, I suspect (or at least, I've gleaned from conversations we've had over the last couple of years) who ever thought he'd find himself in a relationship. It's actually kind of fun to watch him have the realization every once in a while. He gets a wee bit gobsmacked by the thought, which is (and perhaps I ought to examine the motivation behind this) delightful and – to me – charming.

The thing, though, is that as much as I like to laugh at/with The Pants when he has these moments, I'm no different. There are times when I stop in my tracks and think, "Holy shit. After Fozzie, I thought I was never, ever, going to let this happen again." And here I find myself with someone who, genuinely, loves and accepts (there's the key point) me for exactly who I am. I don't think most people get just how rare a phenomenon this is; how unusual it is to find someone who projects nothing onto the person they love. I can speak from experience in suggesting exactly how rare it is, and even offer an indictment of myself in saying that though I've found it in The Pants, I'm not entirely sure how lucky he's been in this regard, as much as I struggle against it.

So – despite my conviction I would never find someone who saw me as me, as opposed to their idea of me – I guess therein lies the lesson. The Universe rarely takes your plans into account when tossing stuff into your path.

Difficult to remember, but inevitably a good thing to keep in mind.

I guess I'm just lucky the unexpected crap it threw in front is so adorable.

sans·cu·lott·ism

Those of you who know me know that I have a fairly complicated relationship with my phone. As often as not, I'll forget to bring it with me when I'm leaving the house (or work) or I'll forget to charge it when the battery's running low and I'll find myself in a situation where I'd like to use it but can't because it's dead. I think of my phone as a bother, not as a convenience, and thus can't be trusted, when you're desperately trying to reach me, to answer it... or even have it on my person.

This relationship goes beyond just leaving it lying around.

Like any relationship into which one hasn't put the required work, my relationship with my phone has, over the years, soured from one of early besottedness to eventual disdain, frustration and — the reason for this entry — occasional surprise at facets and features of the person (or, in this case, the thing) to which one relates.

Not long ago, I was taking a late-night, inebriated subway ride and, in an effort not to stare at some unnaturally beautiful person sitting opposite me, I started fiddling with my phone. To my great surprise, this electronic brick had a host of features that I don't often (or, frankly, ever) use, and I was delighted to discover among them a "Notepad" feature.

I thought to myself, "Why the hell don't I ever use that?"

Apparently, I did. I found a single entry, dated January 8, 2008 at 8:40 a.m., which read, simply, "sansculottism."

Now, friends, I regard myself a fairly well-read fellow, and often have the — what, hubris? — to assume that my vocabulary is expansive enough to dwarf the average American's. But not only did I not know the definition of "sansculottism," I didn't ever recall having come across the word before, and had no recollection of making a note about it.

This morning, I decided to look up this delightfully weird word and here's what I found, courtesy of Merriam-Webster online:

Main Entry: sans·cu·lotte
Pronunciation: \ˌsanz-ku̇-ˈlät, -kyu̇-\
Function: noun
Etymology: French sans-culotte, literally, without breeches
Date: 1790
1 : an extreme radical republican in France at the time of the French Revolution
2 : a radical or violent extremist in politics
— sans·cu·lott·ic \-ˈlä-tik\ adjective
— sans·cu·lott·ish \-tish\ adjective
— sans·cu·lott·ism \-ˌti-zəm\ noun

I kinda love its etymology: How wonderfully French to name someone you disdain not for the the fact that they're going around chopping people's head off (sans-compassion), but because you consider them distasteful ("It's like they don't wear pants!").

Why, you ask yourself, was I so fascinated by this word at 8:40 a.m. on a random Tuesday morning over twenty-one months ago, that I just had to write it down?

No idea. But it strikes me as oddly relevant, given the level of discourse in the U.S. right now.

Just sayin'.

Remembering

I'm Baaaaaack...

Okay, so it's true I don't have a lot to say right now, but you should know that I've grown tired of recording my thoughts 140 characters at a time and the blog will be back up and running (with a new look. you like?) soon, along with all sorts of new content for the website. Stay tuned.

Double Yew Tee Eff?

Have I mentioned that I need to kick the butt of A.Pants?

It's true, he needs an ass-kicking.

The man just refuses to get out-of-town work in places where he has access to the internet. Which means I get to spend a lot of time on the phone. And those of you who know me know how much I love love love talking on the phone.

In the interest of fairness, I should point out that it's not like I especially loathe talking on the phone, I'm just really, really bad at it. I have the attention span of a gnat, frankly, and I'm very easily distracted, visually, so if the least little thing happens in front of me, I'm gone.

All of which, in the twisted logic of the mind that is mine, means A.Pants needs to get smacked around.

Fly Away (Not) Home

Well, I'm at it again. Just a couple weeks after returning from Puerto Vallarta, I'm sitting around waiting to get back on an airplane and take to the air.

This time I'm not, however, going to a warm, sunny place. Or, at least, not one as warm and sunny as Puerto Vallarta.

I'm off to see A.Pants in Indianapolis, to see his show and, more importantly, to meet his mother.

That's right, friends, I'm meeting his mother. I think it's getting serious.

Actually, it's been brewing for quite a while. We've been discussing cohabitating for quite a while and actually have plans to do so in the new year; we're just not sure when it'll happen. The timing will depend a lot – a lot – on whether or not I get a bonus this year, since the bulk of the moving money's going to have to come from that. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Puerto Vallarta!

Forthwith, and after much delay, here at last are the collected published photos from my late trip to the sun-kissed Utopia we mere humans/visitors like to call "Puerto Vallarta:"

Returning Home

A week ago, flying home was the furthest thing from my mind, and now here we are sitting in the airport, waiting to board our flight to Ciudad de Mexico, thence to Nueva York.

Where did the time go?!?

I discovered (or rather, confirmed) a couple of things about myself during this trip:

1. The mere presence of a gaggle of (for want of a better term) "Chelsea boys" is enough to make me break out in hives. Apparently that's literally true, since I actually did break out in hives on the first day of "Latin Fever."
   
   
2. I am terrible at haggling with vendors in the Mercado de Artisans, and had to be rescued by ChickenKurry, who saved me tons of pesos. Apparently he has experience in haggling with the vendors of India, where a negotiation isn't considered complete until someone's either popped a vocal cord from screaming at another party or suffered myocardial infarction from the stress of having been out-negotiated.
   
   By comparison, he notes, "This is easy."
   
   
3. Sun screen with an SPF rating of 55 is a bit of an overkill, and my tan suffers accordingly. Interestingly, however, I think it was the spray-on SPF 30 that I bought as a substitute that actually caused the aforementioned hive outbreak. Who knew those things were delivered with an alcohol base?!? Stingy! And refreshing at the same time. Until, of course, you break out in hives.
   
   
4. I wouldn't have a great deal of trouble giving up the fast-paced good life in New York city for the slower-paced life in Puerto Vallarta. I spent pretty much the entire trip scheming to find a way to stay here permanently. I've met managers of canopy-tour companies, photographers who make their living snapping photos of tourists flying through the trees, people who've opened their own restaurants. All sorts of people just give up the life north of the border and just decide to stay.
   
   Aside from the fact that I enjoy making a crazy city-dweller's wage, I think the only thing keeping me from just doing it would be the fact that The Pants couldn't do anything even remotely related to acting there.

Circuit Party Central

So little did I know, when booking my vacation in Puerto Vallarta, that this week was "Latin Fever" week. This annual circuit party over Thanksgiving weekend attracts thousands of gays and lesbians from all over the world for five days of parties and debauchery the likes of which I generally go to great lengths to avoid.

You see, much to the dismay of my beloved friends, Little B & E, the idea of vacationing in the midst of a gathering of gym-obsessed, sex-hungry, tweaked-out muscle queens and the various pilot fish who swim in their wake is, to me, pretty much the equivalent of a stay on the 457th circle of Hell.

I didn't realize that the beach adjoining my hotel's beach would be the site, this afternoon, of one of the parties for said Event. I was a little taken aback when, as I was out for my customary morning sun, crowds of chiseled bodies started arriving and taking over my beach. Generally, I wouldn't have so much of a problem with this, but when I'm laying naked and exposed in my non-toned pasty whiteness, well, let's just say it brings my insecurities to a boil.

Needless to say, I needed to escape that shite as quickly as possible, so I decided to take one more tour around the town to snap a few more pictures.

It hasn't quite become passe to me, yet, to see so much new construction butt-up-against buildings that can be two hundred or more years old. It really is a wonder.

I have to say that I kinda love the juxtaposition, and I've been thinking a lot about the constant struggle against rot that a town like Vallarta faces. It's surrounded by the jungle, after all, and it's never not humid and hot (which, depending on the level of the humidity, I think is a pretty good thing). But because of the constant decay, the place is undergoing an endless battle against the forces of nature and, for the most part, winning.

It's pretty amazing, though, to watch the struggle. The amount of construction going on here now is amazing. It seems to be everywhere you turn.

The Animals

I'm totally missing this creature:

And this one:

It's Been a While

ChickenKurry and I are enjoying our vacation immensely.

And by "immensely," I mean we're engaging in acts of alcoholic debauchery I've note witnessed or been a part of since, oh, 1985. Last night we decided, having settled in to Puerto Vallarta, that we'd let our hair down a little and, after dinner, visit some "barras homosexuales."

We had an incredible dinner at a Puerto Vallarta staple called Cafe de Olla, at which we each drank a magarita the size of my head. Personally, I'm not the biggest fan of margaritas, as I like my alcohol to sneak up on me, and the tequila in the aforementioned concoction is generally too much for me. These, however, were like drinking a frothy yummy, and the sneaking tequila was nowhere to be tasted. Felt later, yes. Tasted, no.

After polishing off our big-headed margaritas, we decided to stroll the "Zona Romantica," as Old Town is euphemistically called, and check out the 'mo establishments.

The first one we happened upon was a dark little outlet called "Los Amigos." The publican there made us -- you guessed it -- giant margaritas the size of my head. I think we only had one, but at this point, we'd had, like, five of the margaritas we might get in the States. Lovely as "Lost Amigos" was, we were driven out into the night once again by the smoking patrons.

They smoke in bars here, you know. When you live in paradise and most of the inhabitants are tanned tougher than old shoe leather, you don't really give a second thought to lung cancer. I'm just sayin'.

Anywho, our next stop was Plazma, an interesting little establishment that, frankly, could have been plucked out of the seediest corner of New York's gay hoods. To reach the "restrooms," one has to brave the darkened labyrinth known as "the jail," wherein all sorts of behaviors of a wild and wooly nature could be witnessed. I had joked when we arrived that when Plazma billed itself as a "video bar," I wasn't expecting VH1 to be playing on the monitors. Literally, we were watching vintage George Michael videos while we played pool.

Little did I know that a whole other world awaited when ChickenKurry and I went to the men's. Suffice it to say that the owners of Plazma are fans of Colt and Kristian Bjorn.

Again, just saying.

Now thoroughly trashed, we refused to give up for the night until we'd sampled a neat-looking little piano bar near our hotel named "Garbo." It was, frankly, kinda dead by the time we rolled in (nightlife in PV is done fairly early, in my experience).

Still, that didn't stop us from slapping down another drink. I had yet another head-sized margarita, and CK had switched to Corona at this point.

Having finished that last drink and resolved to go home, we staggered out and decided to detour onto the beach to look at the stars. That's pretty much all I remember until waking this morning with a hangover. I do remember insisting that I swallow a fistful of aspirin, so it wasn't as bad as it had the potential to be.

And yet I still managed to drag-ass out of bed today, and go for a nice walk around town with the camera. Glory be.

Vacaciones

It keeps popping into my head that I'm on my first vacation in something like fifteen years, but that's just patently wrong. I went on a brief vacation over Memorial Day weekend with The Pants, to California. For some reason, though, since I spent most of that time rushing to catch up with beloved old friends, that seemed a wee bit less relaxing than had I spent a week on a beach somewhere, doing pretty much nothing

That's pretty much what I'm doing now.

While The Pants is off in the Heartland engaging in "gainful" holiday employment, I'm (guiltily) enjoying a holiday in Puerto Vallarta. (It might interest you to know that the abbreviation for "puerto" is "PTO.")

I'm doing my best to keep a photographic record of what the hell I'm seeing, so that you can enjoy it vicariously.

More pictures, hopefully, to follow*.






*I can't guarantee anything. My enthusiasm for documenting my vacation is at war with my innate need to disconnect and document nothing at all.

Avenues Like Arteries

This past summer, when A.Pants was off in Indiana doing his summer gig, I flew out to see him and had the rare opportunity to fly out of Laguardia Airport heading west across the city, flying high above Manhattan and looking south.

Not since 2001, actually, have I been on a flight that flew over Manhattan island, and I was once again struck by just how beautiful the city is when viewed from above, but especially when seen from above at dusk.

The sky above is still a wee bit light, but the avenues, lit by the headlights and brake lights of the cars, look like veins of quicksilver striped lengthwise along the island. And Central Park is this great negative space right in the middle of the island, it's dark heart. The belly of the beast.

It's those moments when I wish I could fly more. I absolutely love the Earth from above.

Of course, that might actually be some sort of editorial comment on my fellow beings, that I like to view them best from a distance.

The Satin Prison

Lately, the Velvet Prison has lost some it's luster for me, so I'm thinking about a name change. Maybe, henceforth it'll be the Egyptian Broadcloth Prison. Or maybe the Satin Prison.

Anywho, here's a new photo. I've recently grown kinda bored with always taking the same shot of the building, but today the sun rising in the sky and the clouds were just right:

Lewis Black: Appropriate Level of Rage

Today was the second day of the Time Warner-hosted "Politics 2008: The Media Conference on the Election of the President." Of all the panels, this one's, by far, my favorite. It's Anderson Cooper talking to comedian Lewis Black.

It's really long – probably around 30 to 45 mintues – but if you've got the time to kill, it's worth the investment, if for nothing else, for the moment when Black goes off on the guy who suggests the problem with Amtrak is that it's government-run:

And There We Have It.

Life's been pretty busy lately; work hasn't exactly been the happy experience that it's been in the past. That would account, I think, for a lot of the time I've spent doing other than blogging, but today I managed to haul my ass out of bed and take Atticus for a walk in Prospect Park during the off-leash hours. He was, of course, beside himself with joy. He got to run free and frolic with a lot of other dogs, making new friends, renewing old acquaintances.

As the off-leash hour was winding down and I herded Atticus to the park entrance, I was momentarily stopped in my tracks by the way the morning light was striking a couple of trees whose leaves had only just begun to change color.

And suddenly, all the cares – true and manufactured – of the last couple of weeks just melted away and all I could think was, "Jesus Fucking Christ, but life is really good." The realization was awesome in the way that it could just bring everything to a screeching halt. Even Atticus turned around and made eye contact, as though he could sense the sudden change that came over me.

The feeling didn't last very long; those feelings never do, no matter how happy you are. Still, it was a nice moment, and it's a pretty good life when, even through your troubles, you can occasionally be stopped dead in your tracks by it's beauty.

Dude, Stop Interfering With My Navigation

Not long ago, when I was taking a flight somewhere and, upon landing and taxiing to the terminal, suddenly had to listen to a spate of cellphones being turned on and used, I got to thinking about why cell phone use is banned in-flight, and whether – as I've often suspected – the whole thing was some scheme by the airlines to force you to use their in-plane systems, thus raking you for more dough.

A (very) little bit of investigation led me to this interesting post on Wikipedia about the whole thing. The gist of it, basically, is that there's really no proven correlation between cell phone use and interference with avionics, but the social aspects of the ban are more compelling. And frankly, when I think about it, I tend to agree.

If someone's being a loud asshole on a cellphone in a restaurant or a train, you can always ask them to move, or move yourself. But there's nowhere to go on an airplane, so I don't think it's so unreasonable to force people to be a little considerate of the rest of us. It's not freakin' likely they're going to do it on their own.

Why Homosexuality Should Be Banned