I've been dating recently. No one else but me is surprised by this, because I just don't think I'm very datable. Maybe only slightly better than average physically, I'm reaching the point where I can say I've 'passed my prime,' and I certainly have enough baggage for a round-the-world cruise. Twice round-the-world. And I don't think that's a stretch. (I'm not fishing for compliments.)
I went on a date with this really amazing guy. He's sweet and considerate, he's smart and funny, really really handsome, incredible body, good job....
I don't think it's going to work out. I want to be wrong, because there's nothing wrong with him - he would make someone very very happy. I don't think that I'm that person. WHAT DID MY PARENTS DO TO ME????!????? Is there any reason why I can't do this? Can I date a nice guy for once? GAWD!
When I was in seventh grade, our black Labrador, Lady, was hit by a car. She was a beautiful, smart, fast gentle dog whose only setback was her predisposition to roll in shit and dead birds.
Immediately after that, my dad rescued a male Dalmatian from an old man who was, I think, going to put him down. The old man named the dalmatian LBJ, but we changed his name to Pongo, from '101 Dalmatians.' We never knew his age, but he was young when we acquired him. No older than two.
He was a jerk.
He constantly killed the neighbor's cats. Constantly. And for no other reason other than that he could. I saw him do it once. This unsuspecting and naive cat was strolling by, on the border of where our yard met our neighbor's yard. And this cat had obviously no ill will to Pongo, and I think was approaching Pongo just to say hi and throw out a peace pipe, so to speak. Pongo's ears perked up and his tail wagged, a crafty ploy to lure the cat closer. As the cat got close enough, Pongo lowered his head, grabbed the cat by the neck and shook with all his might. The cat's neck broke and was immediately killed. To which Pongo dropped the body and continued on as if nothing happened, as I imagine Jeffery Dahmer did. And no lie, this happened constantly. (I blame the neighbors: Really?? You HAD to have cat after cat?)
He would also puke. Gallon upon gallon. On my bed. Pongo would plead to go out at 2 or 3 in the morning by scratching at the door and barking and crying - he had one of those obnoxiously loud barks and yelps that shot through your ears and right into your fillings. He was the Fran Drescher of dogs. So after a half hour of constant argument with him, he would win and I would open the door to let him out (we lived in an unincorporated area, where there were no leash laws and barely any traffic, so dogs off their lead was common.) So on his nightly hunts, he would turn over the (same) neighbor's garbage cans and eat everything in it - corn cobs, paper, bones. I mean literally everything in that garbage can ended up being eaten by him. And I know this because he would come back home, jump up on my bed, whimper with discomfort from being so bloated with garbage, and vomit as if he were auditioning for 'Doggie Exorcist.' So I saw what he ate.And it was A LOT! Never could you imagine that much fitting in the stomach of any animal, let alone a 50 pound dog.
And he was very territorial. That's the nice way to say 'malicious.' If you didn't know Pongo and you came over, God help you, because you were on your own. There was no one in that house that could hold him back if he decided that he was going to send a message through his teeth. Band-Aids and alcohol had a special shelf near the front door at our house for those occasions when we couldn't get Pongo in the rear bedroom fast enough. And all my friends and my sibling's friends knew that our house was always the last resort for any get-togethers, and I think our sympathy as a family waned after the 7th or 8th nip. I can still hear my mother's exasperated sighs and tone when she tried to be sympathetic to Pongo's victims, because, like anyone who has been in a long-running stage show knows, it takes a lot of good acting to make the same lines appear genuine and heart-felt, when its really just a script that you've had to repeat for 8 shows a week for two years and counting. Mother was never that good of an actor.
(At this point I do have to offer Dolly a genuine apology for Pongo jumping up to bite her nose. DON'T BLOW KISSES AT PONGO! He hated that. Apparently.)
And don't even get me started on the fleas he brought into the house, the footprints, the white hair that covered everything, the fights with the neighbor dogs, the pot roast... OH! the pot roast!
Mother took a pot roast out of the freezer and put it on top of the refrigerator to thaw out overnight. Mind you, this was a roast for a family of six. Well, in the middle of the night, the house is awoken to Pongo's crying and yelping. So we all get up to find that he has somehow climbed his up to the top of the 6 feet tall refrigerator, has eaten the ENTIRE pot roast, and couldn't make his way back off the refrigerator. So he had to be lifted off from on top of the refrigerator and brought to the ground, where he subsequently vomited the entire pot roast onto the kitchen floor. He went and hid, then fell asleep, while we all cleaned up dog vomit at 3 in the morning.
He was a horrible animal - totally untrained and untrainable, a huge bully, an obnoxious bulimic, and a street thug, to say the least. I loved him. Like he was the flesh of my flesh: I loved that dog so much, and I'll still shed a tear for him and the tribulations he had to go through (he was only a dog and really can't be held responsible, so I think he was way over-punished!). I will never ever meet a dog again without thinking, 'Sure - it's a nice dog. It's no Pongo, but it seems nice enough.'
That's how I date. Ugh.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Open Wounds
I've had something on my mind a lot recently. Not that it isn't always on my mind. Every waking moment the thought is there. But in the last couple of weeks, it's been prevalent.
Ricardo Antonio Varela Peralta ("Riky") is hard for me to talk about. And not because he died while he was with me. Not ONLY because he died while he was with me, I should say.
That's him in the corner.
It's coming up on the 9 year anniversary of his death. He was a beautiful dancer, a beautiful human being, a beautiful man. Dancer first; it was his art and his passion. And he made a good go of it - he received several awards and amazing reviews for not only his dance, but also his one man show that he toured the world with, called "My Blue Angel."
That's when I met him. He was travelling to Kenya with his show and had to stop over in Hawaii and had to lay over due to some Visa issues (he was a Mexican resident leaving from LAX travelling east to Kenya: of course he had Visa issues!). He came into my shop where I was working and we immediately clicked. Or, he clicked on me, and I followed suit. (Riky was 5'5" tall and about 185 pounds of solid muscle, bald with sideburns and tattoos peeking through his black tank top and the cuff of his tight black jeans. He did not - NOT - fit the image of someone who was exactly approachable.)
It's really cute how shy he was, but he did finally ask me to see a movie that night, and I said yes, and I said I would call his hotel later. And I did, but apparently the hotel staff had unplugged the phone, so I thought he wasn't in, or that he decided to ignore the call, and he thought I stood him up.
I love that he got anxious about the whole thing, and in his mission to will me to call, he discovered that his phone was unplugged. I fortunately left my number with the hotel operator, so he was able to call back.
We had missed the movie at this point, so I said, "Listen, just come over, I'll cook dinner, and we'll eat on the lanai."
He moved in that night for the rest of the week until he went off to Kenya.
And we were together for three years. "Together" in the loosest form of the word.
Riky was Mexican, and, being such, lived in Mexico. So it wasn't like he could just move to the US and we could live together (which is why I have rallied and protested immigration bans on same-sex partners. Riky didn't want to be American, and I couldn't have moved anyway at that time, but that doesn't mean we didn't want the ability to do so.). So he would work and travel with his show for 3 or 4 months, come stay with me for 6 weeks, and go back and start over again.
On his third visit, I picked him up at the airport and he seemed very troubled. There was something bothering him on the trip home - home - that he couldn't tell me and I didn't want to hear.
We had always talked quite a bit on the phone, and I had told him about my partner Eric that died in '91 from AIDS, and how it would be impossible for me to ever be with anyone that had the disease again. The process of his dying was so awful and soul-retching that I couldn't do it twice. So of course he didn't want to tell me that he was HIV positive. (And yes, he should have told me. From the start I should have known, but I always am safe, and the would'ves/should'ves are in the past. I forgave him for that.) But it was too late, emotionally. I was vested, and he was healthy with no signs of the virus as of his last checkups. He was that anomaly that remained HIV+ without dipping into AIDS and the need for medications. He was a case study.
We continued this way for a couple of years. Long times apart, not long enough times together, phone calls twice a week when he crossed the border, and contentment. He even found a dance company in Hawaii that took him in and he performed with them frequently. And energetically. (Age-wise, at 37, he was an old dancer. Never knew it from his moves. For as short and stocky as he was, he could still take that leg that was built like a tree trunk, and kick it straight up and kiss his shin. He was a dancer, to understate it.) No sign of virus or sickness.
Cut to Sunday, September 30, 2001. He was with me in Hawaii and rehearsing for a October 5 performance. I met him after rehearsal - probably around 7:30p or so - and he said he was feeling short of breath.
"Well, you did just finish a 5 hour dance rehearsal, and it's not like you're 23 anymore." And we left it.
The next day was more serious. He said he felt like he couldn't get enough air and it was like he was holding his breath. We decided to go to the clinic just to see what was happening.
They did a blood test and found that indeed their wasn't enough hemoglobin to carry the oxygen through his body. The doctor said it was also safe to assume that he had probably dipped into full blown AIDS at this point, but they still needed to get the test results. Stay home, no activity, and the results should come in by Friday.
The drive home was relatively silent, neither of us knowing what to say. Except for when he turned to me and said, "I'm scared."
That's the last thing I can remember him saying. Wednesday evening I had to call the ambulance as he wasn't coherent, he had vomited a bit, and obviously his brain wasn't functioning.
He was dead Thursday morning.
I'm not even going to go into how dispassionate and horrible people in the death business can be. That I had to pry off a Hawaiian wedding ring from his finger because it would not be released to me after the coroner took his body, as I wasn't a blood relative, is something I will never forget or forgive. There was so much more involved, but I can't and won't ever talk about it, other than to say that people can be intentionally and unintentionally vicious. I don't think I ever saw horror before this event.
As I said, it's hard for me to talk about. Mostly because people don't get it. He was what made me whole, and I understand it seemed not that way because we spent more time apart than together, but we were.... Just that. We were.
I remember I got an email a month or so after from a friend asking where I'd been.
I sent the stock answer, "Hi! Sorry I've been out of touch. Ricardo died October 5, and I've been a bit removed. Bear with me while I recoup."
He sent back, "Oh. I didn't realize you were that close."
So I didn't talk about it because I couldn't talk about it to make it plausible. I know I like being coupled up and I know I can read things larger than what they are. I'm not an idiot - I just finished a relationship with someone whose got the emotional maturity of a 14 yr old school girl, and yet I STILL wax nostalgia for him! But Riky was different; he longed for me the way I longed for him.
I don't believe time heals all wounds. I think we just get used to it. My brother has an enlarged pore on his neck that will occasionally weep pus for no apparent reason, but otherwise it just looks like a tiny pock mark. Riky is my open pore. Just a permanent pock mark that will occasionally weep, but then stops weeping after a bit.
It's weeping now, but it'll stop.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Lowest of the Low
I remember one day when I was still living at home - I must have been 18 or so - and my mother stopped me at the door.
"You're not going out of the house like that!"
I was wearing one of my favorite blue plaid shirts, button-down short sleeved and very traditional casual - sort of a Hollister style, if Hollister actually existed back then in 1936.
Except it was torn in the back. Not a huge tear; it was just enough a vertical slice going from the tail to just above where the pants waist was, so a scintilla of flesh was exposed just above the belt.
"What's the big deal?!"
"No son of mine is going out like that! You are going to take that shirt off THIS INSTANT!!!"
She was mortified. I couldn't believe her reaction was so great as to this infinitesimal jot of skin on my back.
I met overreaction with overreaction., naturally.
"FINE! YOU CAN HAVE THE FUCKING SHIRT!!"
And I grabbed the shirt over each pectoral, and I ripped it, scattering the buttons and completing the tear up the back, so that I ended up with the shirt in half in both hands. It was very David Banner, except for the fact that I was probably 100 pounds. I threw the shirt on the ground and ran to my bedroom and slammed the door -- I was very much the teenager. (The pisser is that I cut off my nose to spite my face - I loved that shirt!)
I said right then and there that I would never do that - everyone has his or her own style, and he or she has every right to express their taste and individuality, as long as it isn't obscene or illegal. I knew at this point I would never be a father, but I would be the favorite uncle or bestest godfather, and my wards would surround me and say I was the coolest adult ever! because I allow free thinking and would never cater to societal norms like every other grownup.
Cut to now: what in God's name is up with these guys wearing their pants below their asses?! Has everyone seen this? What the hell is that?! I hope it's regional, but upon doing some research, it seems not the case.
A slight 'pant sag' in the kids these days isn't that bad - in fact, I think it sort of has a aura of masculinity about it. But NOW! the pants are worn below the cheeks nd its just plain stupid and detrimental to one's day-to-day life. Why would you want to walk like that? And here in NY, we're all taking stairs up and down to the subways - can you imagine going up the stairs with your pants around your thighs? What is wrong with you people?!
It seems this whole thing started in prison, of all things, because belts aren't allowed, so it was commonplace to have your pants hang low. Then, when they came out of prison, they continued the 'style' to show their street cred.
And now, I see nice guys - good, hard-working, non-street cred 20-somethings wearing their pants like the village idiot.
And how are their kids going to learn to walk? Are all the infants now going to start emulating these guys when they learn to walk, so that even after this fad goes away, the teenagers in 15 years will still be walking like a penguin carrying his egg? Good Lord I hope I'm dead if that's the case.
Hold on- I just found a website saying the same thing I am: http://www.angrywhitedude.com/. This extremist right wing zealot is ranting about a guy that shot himself dead due to a loaded gun being carried in his sagging pants. One response to his beef is "I hope you're not encouraging people to carry unloaded weapons! You need two hands to load a gun, particularly a glock, and women would be particularly vulnerable."
I changed my mind.
"You're not going out of the house like that!"
I was wearing one of my favorite blue plaid shirts, button-down short sleeved and very traditional casual - sort of a Hollister style, if Hollister actually existed back then in 1936.
Except it was torn in the back. Not a huge tear; it was just enough a vertical slice going from the tail to just above where the pants waist was, so a scintilla of flesh was exposed just above the belt.
"What's the big deal?!"
"No son of mine is going out like that! You are going to take that shirt off THIS INSTANT!!!"
She was mortified. I couldn't believe her reaction was so great as to this infinitesimal jot of skin on my back.
I met overreaction with overreaction., naturally.
"FINE! YOU CAN HAVE THE FUCKING SHIRT!!"
And I grabbed the shirt over each pectoral, and I ripped it, scattering the buttons and completing the tear up the back, so that I ended up with the shirt in half in both hands. It was very David Banner, except for the fact that I was probably 100 pounds. I threw the shirt on the ground and ran to my bedroom and slammed the door -- I was very much the teenager. (The pisser is that I cut off my nose to spite my face - I loved that shirt!)
I said right then and there that I would never do that - everyone has his or her own style, and he or she has every right to express their taste and individuality, as long as it isn't obscene or illegal. I knew at this point I would never be a father, but I would be the favorite uncle or bestest godfather, and my wards would surround me and say I was the coolest adult ever! because I allow free thinking and would never cater to societal norms like every other grownup.
Cut to now: what in God's name is up with these guys wearing their pants below their asses?! Has everyone seen this? What the hell is that?! I hope it's regional, but upon doing some research, it seems not the case.
A slight 'pant sag' in the kids these days isn't that bad - in fact, I think it sort of has a aura of masculinity about it. But NOW! the pants are worn below the cheeks nd its just plain stupid and detrimental to one's day-to-day life. Why would you want to walk like that? And here in NY, we're all taking stairs up and down to the subways - can you imagine going up the stairs with your pants around your thighs? What is wrong with you people?!
It seems this whole thing started in prison, of all things, because belts aren't allowed, so it was commonplace to have your pants hang low. Then, when they came out of prison, they continued the 'style' to show their street cred.
And now, I see nice guys - good, hard-working, non-street cred 20-somethings wearing their pants like the village idiot.
And how are their kids going to learn to walk? Are all the infants now going to start emulating these guys when they learn to walk, so that even after this fad goes away, the teenagers in 15 years will still be walking like a penguin carrying his egg? Good Lord I hope I'm dead if that's the case.
Hold on- I just found a website saying the same thing I am: http://www.angrywhitedude.com/. This extremist right wing zealot is ranting about a guy that shot himself dead due to a loaded gun being carried in his sagging pants. One response to his beef is "I hope you're not encouraging people to carry unloaded weapons! You need two hands to load a gun, particularly a glock, and women would be particularly vulnerable."
I changed my mind.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Best Wishes
I just hit a milestone. Or, more apropos, a big huge milestone hit me right in the face. Or, more apropos yet, a mileboulder. Big goddammed fucking mileboulder. After this summer, life will never be the same (although if you think about it, after every little twitch of the muscle, life is never really the same. The course of the rest of your life is altered by every single seemingly random minutiae of movement. You choose to step on a bug, you leave a smear of goo, someone slips on the goo, breaks their hip, BAM! paraplegic for the rest of their life. So quit squishing bugs!). And I thought I would let it go by as if nothing happened. Can't be done.
I had a birthday. I turned.... I can't say it. It's a big number. It's a number that turns out to be one less than the average age one becomes a grandparent.
HOW DID THIS HAPPEN???!!!!! I'M NOT THAT PERSON!!!! I AM NOT ONE YEAR OFF THE AVERAGE AGE ONE BECOMES A GRANDPARENT!!!!!
Look at my writing!! I have the emotional maturity of an 18 year old! I hold torches (while simultaneously wanting to torch) ex boyfriends. I have BOYfriends, for godsakes!
I know I'm supposed to cherish the passing years, take joy in fantastic health, feel blessed for where I've come from, blah blah. To which I respond, fuck you, you piece of candy assed shithead and I hope you choke on your own sugar-filled bile while having a diabetes induced coma. And that's my birthday wish.
Do you think this is where I envisioned myself at this age? Managing an industrial tool rental department in a large city? Living with a roommate in lower-middle class neighborhood (but it's a fantastic apartment and a great roommie)? Buying moisturizers? Economizing?!
I do not celebrate this birthday; I tolerate this birthday. This is the birthday where I say, 'Finish my Master's? Ehh, why bother....' This is the birthday where I can no longer shop in Abercrombie and Fitch. This is the birthday where I contemplate the advantages of joining AARP (in a few years). This is the birthday where I don't pluck the greys.
Don't misinterpret me- I'm not sad or regretful. I'm shocked that this came so fast. Wasn't I sneaking cigarettes in the back yard just a few years ago? Doing 11pm rehearsals for Naturalism class just a few months ago? Smoking doobies yesterday? What the Hell have I been doing?
So resolved: I'm not where I want to end up, so I'll take steps to where I want to be. Maybe I won't get to where I planned, but I can try.
I'll figure out where I want to be. Soon.
I just saw the 'We Are the World' video remake for Haiti for the first time. I didn't know anyone in the video except Barbra Streisand and Tony Bennett. God - I'm 46.
I had a birthday. I turned.... I can't say it. It's a big number. It's a number that turns out to be one less than the average age one becomes a grandparent.
HOW DID THIS HAPPEN???!!!!! I'M NOT THAT PERSON!!!! I AM NOT ONE YEAR OFF THE AVERAGE AGE ONE BECOMES A GRANDPARENT!!!!!
Look at my writing!! I have the emotional maturity of an 18 year old! I hold torches (while simultaneously wanting to torch) ex boyfriends. I have BOYfriends, for godsakes!
I know I'm supposed to cherish the passing years, take joy in fantastic health, feel blessed for where I've come from, blah blah. To which I respond, fuck you, you piece of candy assed shithead and I hope you choke on your own sugar-filled bile while having a diabetes induced coma. And that's my birthday wish.
Do you think this is where I envisioned myself at this age? Managing an industrial tool rental department in a large city? Living with a roommate in lower-middle class neighborhood (but it's a fantastic apartment and a great roommie)? Buying moisturizers? Economizing?!
I do not celebrate this birthday; I tolerate this birthday. This is the birthday where I say, 'Finish my Master's? Ehh, why bother....' This is the birthday where I can no longer shop in Abercrombie and Fitch. This is the birthday where I contemplate the advantages of joining AARP (in a few years). This is the birthday where I don't pluck the greys.
Don't misinterpret me- I'm not sad or regretful. I'm shocked that this came so fast. Wasn't I sneaking cigarettes in the back yard just a few years ago? Doing 11pm rehearsals for Naturalism class just a few months ago? Smoking doobies yesterday? What the Hell have I been doing?
So resolved: I'm not where I want to end up, so I'll take steps to where I want to be. Maybe I won't get to where I planned, but I can try.
I'll figure out where I want to be. Soon.
I just saw the 'We Are the World' video remake for Haiti for the first time. I didn't know anyone in the video except Barbra Streisand and Tony Bennett. God - I'm 46.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Tears for Years
I cry. For a fortysomething year old man, I cry a lot.
And it's not about real stuff. I mean not about things like a broken heart, or paths not taken, or other self pity shit. Stupid stuff makes me cry.
I wonder if that's expected of someone like me or not; the first time people meet me, do they think, 'Oh, he seems like a crier?' I don't think so, but I also think I look a lot better than I actually do, so my self-image may be slightly skewed. (I have half-heartedly attempted online dating, and twice when we got to the point of exchanging real photos, not just the ones in the best lighting or the professionally done ones, I never heard from them again. Of course they were both in their early 30's, so maybe the reality of dating someone over forty for them didn't match the fantasy. I probably couldn't have really followed up on it anyway. Incidentally, I'm not too worried about it: the relationships I have and had are decidedly with guys that are way off the Richter scale attractive, so I assume that, while they undershot, I have to be close. The rule is that the people you date are always plus or minus two from where you are on the attractiveness scale. Husbands and wives don't count; love throws the rules out the window. Whatever love is. Point being that Guy Lepore, if that's your real name, I'm not offended. You're very cute and I think you're closer to 25 than 30 anyway, so a conversation about skateboards and Justin Bieber would have been imminent, and I know nothing about either. Conversely, you probably have no idea what the president has and hasn't done as part of his campaign promises, let alone who the president is. Just saying I'm not bitter.)
I will get choked up at the movies. Every movie. I mean almost every single movie. 'Avatar' was not a good movie - it had a predictable a trite story line with an ending to match. But the effects were so overwhelming I cried. (Not every movie- I saw one Tyler Perry movie in my life, and the entire theater cried except me. It was an awful movie with a story line that seemed passable only because the acting was so much worse than the script. And what the fuck was Gladys Knight doing in that piece of shit movie? Just because you're a black celebrity does not mean you have to do a Tyler Perry movie. She should be ashamed. sidenote: my ex, the one appearing in previous posts, needed a Kleenex throughout that movie. That should have been a sign.)
I will bawl recounting the storyline of a particularly moving film. I can't even say the title "In America" without getting a lump in my throat. Or "Lion in Winter." Not that the story is so touching, but that Katharine Hepburn is so good in that movie, I am humbled by her existence. My own humility makes me cry.
Dogs make me cry. I met a Bernese Mountain dog yesterday, Lily, that was so beautiful and amiable and trusting and bouncy and monstrous pulling her mistress around that my eyes welled in awe and jealousy, due to Lily doting on that lady being pulled around and not on me. The stories of Steve (the dog that previously appeared in the upper left corner-I lost the pic!) being such a monster get my eyes watery. Steve has now taken to nipping at his real owner's calves while his dinner is being prepared. And Steve can't help himself; his excitement is so massive that he can't contain it within himself. His honesty and reckless abandon is tear-forming.
Animal abusers will bring a tear. Ashley Yeater made the news because she gave up her dog rather than her boyfriend, who was convicted of throwing her yorkie down so hard that he broke six ribs and lost an eye. Ashley said, "Let's keep things in perspective: it's only a dog." Ashley makes me cry.
Forgetting someone's birthday will make me cry, apparently. It makes me feel so selfish and egocentric, which I don't think I am, that I cry at myself.
Ricardo Antonio Varela Peralta makes me cry if think about him too much. He's not supposed to not be here, and we weren't together long enough.
But I laugh alot, too, just in case you're worried that I'm chronic. But mostly at myself. Like at how much I cry.
And it's not about real stuff. I mean not about things like a broken heart, or paths not taken, or other self pity shit. Stupid stuff makes me cry.
I wonder if that's expected of someone like me or not; the first time people meet me, do they think, 'Oh, he seems like a crier?' I don't think so, but I also think I look a lot better than I actually do, so my self-image may be slightly skewed. (I have half-heartedly attempted online dating, and twice when we got to the point of exchanging real photos, not just the ones in the best lighting or the professionally done ones, I never heard from them again. Of course they were both in their early 30's, so maybe the reality of dating someone over forty for them didn't match the fantasy. I probably couldn't have really followed up on it anyway. Incidentally, I'm not too worried about it: the relationships I have and had are decidedly with guys that are way off the Richter scale attractive, so I assume that, while they undershot, I have to be close. The rule is that the people you date are always plus or minus two from where you are on the attractiveness scale. Husbands and wives don't count; love throws the rules out the window. Whatever love is. Point being that Guy Lepore, if that's your real name, I'm not offended. You're very cute and I think you're closer to 25 than 30 anyway, so a conversation about skateboards and Justin Bieber would have been imminent, and I know nothing about either. Conversely, you probably have no idea what the president has and hasn't done as part of his campaign promises, let alone who the president is. Just saying I'm not bitter.)
I will get choked up at the movies. Every movie. I mean almost every single movie. 'Avatar' was not a good movie - it had a predictable a trite story line with an ending to match. But the effects were so overwhelming I cried. (Not every movie- I saw one Tyler Perry movie in my life, and the entire theater cried except me. It was an awful movie with a story line that seemed passable only because the acting was so much worse than the script. And what the fuck was Gladys Knight doing in that piece of shit movie? Just because you're a black celebrity does not mean you have to do a Tyler Perry movie. She should be ashamed. sidenote: my ex, the one appearing in previous posts, needed a Kleenex throughout that movie. That should have been a sign.)
I will bawl recounting the storyline of a particularly moving film. I can't even say the title "In America" without getting a lump in my throat. Or "Lion in Winter." Not that the story is so touching, but that Katharine Hepburn is so good in that movie, I am humbled by her existence. My own humility makes me cry.
Dogs make me cry. I met a Bernese Mountain dog yesterday, Lily, that was so beautiful and amiable and trusting and bouncy and monstrous pulling her mistress around that my eyes welled in awe and jealousy, due to Lily doting on that lady being pulled around and not on me. The stories of Steve (the dog that previously appeared in the upper left corner-I lost the pic!) being such a monster get my eyes watery. Steve has now taken to nipping at his real owner's calves while his dinner is being prepared. And Steve can't help himself; his excitement is so massive that he can't contain it within himself. His honesty and reckless abandon is tear-forming.
Animal abusers will bring a tear. Ashley Yeater made the news because she gave up her dog rather than her boyfriend, who was convicted of throwing her yorkie down so hard that he broke six ribs and lost an eye. Ashley said, "Let's keep things in perspective: it's only a dog." Ashley makes me cry.
Forgetting someone's birthday will make me cry, apparently. It makes me feel so selfish and egocentric, which I don't think I am, that I cry at myself.
Ricardo Antonio Varela Peralta makes me cry if think about him too much. He's not supposed to not be here, and we weren't together long enough.
But I laugh alot, too, just in case you're worried that I'm chronic. But mostly at myself. Like at how much I cry.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Friends, Lovers, Stylists, Bloggers
Well, I couldn't be more pissed! So I have this love/hate relationship with me ex/current/ex. But he is such a dick.
When we first broke up, last summer (right before my birthday, which I don't think is a coincidence at all), it was childish and shocking. I merely mentioned to him that I found it insensitive and demeaning when, in the movie theater, he hissed at me that "You're not helping the situation!" when I whispered that I wish the other theater-goers would stop talking. It was a hiss. Big ol' nelly hiss.
So of course his response to me when I said I felt a little put off by his reaction to my whisper was to put his hand in my face and stomp off to his train platform. When I sit and wait with him, telling him he might feel better if we talk about it, he puts his headphones on and didn't speak to me again. For two months.
But I'm the forgiving type - what can I say? And I think too the fact that he had the final say rubbed my craw for that span of time. So I contacted him via text. Asked him if was doing well, and to tell him I was just thinking about him.
"Who is this?" was the text I got back.
SO, one would think to say 'fuck this', right? But yet I still pursue. All right, I admit it, the sex was amazing. A-MAZE-ING. (I'm reluctant to write that, not because of any protestant editorialism, only that I hate to advertise for him. But it's also an ad for me isn't it?) Male anatomy (read: penis) is like a dog's nose: it can lead you where you know you shouldn't be going, and you know you're a bad dog for turning the garbage can over, but the immediate gratification is worth the potential outcome. And who knows? Maybe the the upside-down garbage can will never be discovered. Worth a shot, right?
And don't get me wrong - I can get along with Ex. We always have a good time when we're out. We understand each other. And while our interests are fairly dichotomous, we can talk for hours, look into each other's eyes, and know that we're each thinking, "ehh. Good enough. I'm not gonna kill him, so...."
Well, it's all past. We have made a not-entirely-unhealthy break-up. It's been about two months or so. And we still talk, and hang out occasionally. And he still does my hair (tonight). Free. Not too bad: friends with the ex, right?
He's blocked me from his Twitter account. He's taken me off as a Facebook friend, and put up some wall that I can't even see that he is still on Facebook (a mutual friend is still friends with him. That's the only way I know he still has a Facebook account). AND he has a blog site on this same portal! Which he was doing whilst we were together and he never told me! Granted, it's one of this 'paste and copy' blogs, where he reads something and relays it on his blog - totally unoriginal-, and he hasn't added to it since October, but all the same, right? Wouldn't you say to your partner, 'Hey, I started a blog. You should check it out?'
Just for that, I'm not telling him that I just wrote about him when I see him. Tonight. To get my hair cut. Free.
When we first broke up, last summer (right before my birthday, which I don't think is a coincidence at all), it was childish and shocking. I merely mentioned to him that I found it insensitive and demeaning when, in the movie theater, he hissed at me that "You're not helping the situation!" when I whispered that I wish the other theater-goers would stop talking. It was a hiss. Big ol' nelly hiss.
So of course his response to me when I said I felt a little put off by his reaction to my whisper was to put his hand in my face and stomp off to his train platform. When I sit and wait with him, telling him he might feel better if we talk about it, he puts his headphones on and didn't speak to me again. For two months.
But I'm the forgiving type - what can I say? And I think too the fact that he had the final say rubbed my craw for that span of time. So I contacted him via text. Asked him if was doing well, and to tell him I was just thinking about him.
"Who is this?" was the text I got back.
SO, one would think to say 'fuck this', right? But yet I still pursue. All right, I admit it, the sex was amazing. A-MAZE-ING. (I'm reluctant to write that, not because of any protestant editorialism, only that I hate to advertise for him. But it's also an ad for me isn't it?) Male anatomy (read: penis) is like a dog's nose: it can lead you where you know you shouldn't be going, and you know you're a bad dog for turning the garbage can over, but the immediate gratification is worth the potential outcome. And who knows? Maybe the the upside-down garbage can will never be discovered. Worth a shot, right?
And don't get me wrong - I can get along with Ex. We always have a good time when we're out. We understand each other. And while our interests are fairly dichotomous, we can talk for hours, look into each other's eyes, and know that we're each thinking, "ehh. Good enough. I'm not gonna kill him, so...."
Well, it's all past. We have made a not-entirely-unhealthy break-up. It's been about two months or so. And we still talk, and hang out occasionally. And he still does my hair (tonight). Free. Not too bad: friends with the ex, right?
He's blocked me from his Twitter account. He's taken me off as a Facebook friend, and put up some wall that I can't even see that he is still on Facebook (a mutual friend is still friends with him. That's the only way I know he still has a Facebook account). AND he has a blog site on this same portal! Which he was doing whilst we were together and he never told me! Granted, it's one of this 'paste and copy' blogs, where he reads something and relays it on his blog - totally unoriginal-, and he hasn't added to it since October, but all the same, right? Wouldn't you say to your partner, 'Hey, I started a blog. You should check it out?'
Just for that, I'm not telling him that I just wrote about him when I see him. Tonight. To get my hair cut. Free.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Dear John and John and John,
Dear Marles,
I'm sorry I can not see you again. It's not you - it's me.
When I met you at the gym, you seemed like a very nice gentleman doing your leg presses very diligently. It was actually a nice amount of weight; your legs must be very fit.
I should have somehow gotten you to stand up. Totally my fault.
It's not that I don't like overweight people. Most of the people in this country are fat and I have many friends that are overweight. I just can't imagine spending the night with them. Well, most of them. And you.
And also, I assumed when you accepted my invitation, you were single. As you described to me in several details that most people would be embarrassed of and probably not even admit until at least the third date. Maybe ever.
Going through your boyfriend's Blackberry - not endearing. OK, so you found some phone numbers and messages that makes him seem untrustworthy. I give you that. Apparently, he has justifiable reasons to not trust you, also. Besides that you went through his Blackberry, YOU WENT OUT ON A DATE WITH ME!!!!
And really?!! You bit him?!?! On the cheek?! In an attempt to kiss him in the middle of the Blackberry fight?!? I'm trying to visualize how one tries to kiss someone and it turns into a bite on the cheek. Can't see it. Nor do I see it in my future.
So thank you for the text today, and maybe yes we can see each other again. But either you're paying or we're going dutch. No, you're paying because that'd be the only way it'd be worth it.
Sincerely,
Bob
p.s. Word of advice: don't get the tattoo of an arrow on your back pointing to your ass with the caption "Entrance Here." You'll regret it at some point in your life. And could you ever go swimming?
Dear Carlos,
I'm sorry I can't see you again. It's not you - it's me.
You are actually a very nice gentleman and you are going to make some one very happy. Probably. Someone really odd. And appreciates your 'visions.'
I just don't know how to take it when you look at me and tell me you see images of stags and dreamcatchers in a doorway. Is that a compliment? I mean I guess I'll take it that way, since you told me that most people give you panoramic visions, and I give you very specific visions. But can I really live up to it for a long term relationship? Or pretend that I find it unique and fascinating beyond the second date? And guess what - if you wake up with a different chant that is somehow 'communicated' to you each morning, and your chant for the day we got together had something to do with butterflies, and you actually SAW a poster of a butterfly when we were in Chelsea, it's not a sign. Butterflies are kind of gay, and Chelsea is kind of gay. It's like thinking about sand, and later that day you go to the beach. Not a sign of anything - it's just nature.
Also, don't order rose' wine on the first date. Or ever, but particularly on the first date. Does not
impress. Well, it actually does impress, but not the good kind of impressing.
Sincerely,
Bob
Dear Eru,
I'm sorry I can't see you again. It's you.
You are very very very cute and I wish it were different.
I'm all about a fantasy. In the right time and place, everything's game. But I'm probably not going to call you 'daddy' in public. And forgive me for being an ageist and an elitist, but shouldn't YOU be calling ME 'daddy?' It just seems more appropriate for a thirty year old dancer to call the older and, frankly, more established man the daddy. And giving me the nickname of 'Slip and Slide' was a little presumptuous and honestly, something you'll never ever know.
And I'm not sure if you are able to stop drinking. You drank A LOT. Now, you may say that it wasn't that much and you can handle your booze. However, the fact that you fell asleep in a position that most people don't really fall asleep in, tells me that you indeed drank a lot that I didn't see. There was already a lot that I did see.
You'll be fine. I don't think you even remember my name. Actually, I don't think I ever told you. Thank God.
Sincerely,
Bob
I'm sorry I can not see you again. It's not you - it's me.
When I met you at the gym, you seemed like a very nice gentleman doing your leg presses very diligently. It was actually a nice amount of weight; your legs must be very fit.
I should have somehow gotten you to stand up. Totally my fault.
It's not that I don't like overweight people. Most of the people in this country are fat and I have many friends that are overweight. I just can't imagine spending the night with them. Well, most of them. And you.
And also, I assumed when you accepted my invitation, you were single. As you described to me in several details that most people would be embarrassed of and probably not even admit until at least the third date. Maybe ever.
Going through your boyfriend's Blackberry - not endearing. OK, so you found some phone numbers and messages that makes him seem untrustworthy. I give you that. Apparently, he has justifiable reasons to not trust you, also. Besides that you went through his Blackberry, YOU WENT OUT ON A DATE WITH ME!!!!
And really?!! You bit him?!?! On the cheek?! In an attempt to kiss him in the middle of the Blackberry fight?!? I'm trying to visualize how one tries to kiss someone and it turns into a bite on the cheek. Can't see it. Nor do I see it in my future.
So thank you for the text today, and maybe yes we can see each other again. But either you're paying or we're going dutch. No, you're paying because that'd be the only way it'd be worth it.
Sincerely,
Bob
p.s. Word of advice: don't get the tattoo of an arrow on your back pointing to your ass with the caption "Entrance Here." You'll regret it at some point in your life. And could you ever go swimming?
Dear Carlos,
I'm sorry I can't see you again. It's not you - it's me.
You are actually a very nice gentleman and you are going to make some one very happy. Probably. Someone really odd. And appreciates your 'visions.'
I just don't know how to take it when you look at me and tell me you see images of stags and dreamcatchers in a doorway. Is that a compliment? I mean I guess I'll take it that way, since you told me that most people give you panoramic visions, and I give you very specific visions. But can I really live up to it for a long term relationship? Or pretend that I find it unique and fascinating beyond the second date? And guess what - if you wake up with a different chant that is somehow 'communicated' to you each morning, and your chant for the day we got together had something to do with butterflies, and you actually SAW a poster of a butterfly when we were in Chelsea, it's not a sign. Butterflies are kind of gay, and Chelsea is kind of gay. It's like thinking about sand, and later that day you go to the beach. Not a sign of anything - it's just nature.
Also, don't order rose' wine on the first date. Or ever, but particularly on the first date. Does not
impress. Well, it actually does impress, but not the good kind of impressing.
Sincerely,
Bob
Dear Eru,
I'm sorry I can't see you again. It's you.
You are very very very cute and I wish it were different.
I'm all about a fantasy. In the right time and place, everything's game. But I'm probably not going to call you 'daddy' in public. And forgive me for being an ageist and an elitist, but shouldn't YOU be calling ME 'daddy?' It just seems more appropriate for a thirty year old dancer to call the older and, frankly, more established man the daddy. And giving me the nickname of 'Slip and Slide' was a little presumptuous and honestly, something you'll never ever know.
And I'm not sure if you are able to stop drinking. You drank A LOT. Now, you may say that it wasn't that much and you can handle your booze. However, the fact that you fell asleep in a position that most people don't really fall asleep in, tells me that you indeed drank a lot that I didn't see. There was already a lot that I did see.
You'll be fine. I don't think you even remember my name. Actually, I don't think I ever told you. Thank God.
Sincerely,
Bob
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About Me
- trying to begoode
- New York, NY, United States
- on a quest to expand my horizons