Guilt!

I’m excited about my high school reunion that starts tonight. I look good. Last night I sat in bed, going through my high school yearbooks, looking at the pictures, reading what people wrote to me when they signed inside. I have to say that I sure did have a lot of hair on my head back then. Jeez! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me to get a haircut? I had such an afro.

It was touching to read what people wrote to me. Things like “don’t worry so much” and “the people at UVA don’t know what they’re in for” and “I’m sure you’ll be a success at whatever you choose to do.”

Whatever I choose to do. God, things seemed so simple back then!

This morning I was reading an article in the New Yorker — unfortunately, it’s not on their website — about Bruce Pandolfini, a man who makes a living giving private chess lessons to gifted children. He was apparently the model for the teacher in the movie Searching for Bobby Fischer (which I haven’t seen). He’s lived in the same little one-room apartment in the East Village since 1976. Twenty-five years in one place! His stove is blocked by stacks and stacks of books and magazines and so on and so forth that reach three-quarters of the way to the ceiling. And he makes a very good living going from home to home, helping these child prodigies improve their chess.

I’m fascinated by the roads people take to get places, especially when they wind up doing something they love, and even more so when it’s not something that would show up on a career placement test. If Bruce Pandolfini had taken such a test, would it have told him that he should become a “private instructor of chess prodigies”?

Or look at Will Shortz, the New York Times’s crossword puzzle editor. Like me, he received a law degree from the University of Virginia. But instead of becoming a lawyer, he went to work for a puzzle magazine publisher. He even designed his own major as an undergrad at Indiana University; he is the only person in the world with a degree in enigmatology.

God, wouldn’t it be so nice to just blindly follow my interests and see where they lead me? But that’s so scary. I worry so much about coloring within the lines, and I worry about dying if I don’t.

Even debt makes me worry about dying. I have lots of debt right now — law school debt, and also credit card debt that seems only to be growing. But I desperately needed new pants, so last night I went to the Gap and bought a pair of jeans and two pairs of slacks. Charged $112 to my card. It was my first credit card charge in a month or so, but it still made me feel guilty.

Afterward I talked to a friend on the phone. “I feel like I should be punished for going into debt,” I said. “You are being punished,” he replied. “It’s called interest.”

True, true.

But I meant morally punished. Or mortally. I feel like my debt is going to make me die. I don’t know why I feel that way. But there’s got to be some incentive not to increase my debt, right? There’s always payback, right? Why not death?

I began law school with zero debt. I finished law school with thousands in loans, but no credit card debt. It was only about a year ago that I really started to carry a credit card balance.

I just want to be punished. Or I don’t want to be punished, but I fear I’ll be punished. Why, why, why? I’m torn between two philosophies — one is that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself and I should enjoy life as much as I can, and the other is that I need to be responsible and not do anything unhealthy such as carry debt. I always need some force to struggle against. I’m very good at creating obstacles for myself, real or imagined. Because without obstacles — well, what fun would success be?

Why do I feel like my imperfections are going to kill me when rationally I know they won’t? Maybe I want them to. Maybe I want to go through a purifying fire to kill off all my imperfections. Maybe that sometimes feels easier than having to deal with imperfections and shortcomings and shortfalls day after day.

Really, how do we cut ourselves so much slack and still feel able to live with ourselves?

What I mean is, how can you cut me so much slack and still like me? What have I done to deserve it, really? I wrote a couple of e-mails to Blogstalker the other day, trying to pep him up, and yet here I am feeling some similar feelings. The guilt I’m feeling right now at living in a too-expensive apartment and at carrying debt, the dissatisfaction with my neighborhood and with the fact that I haven’t eaten enough fruit lately, that I’ve been too lazy to go grocery shopping and so have been buying cheap dinners, the dissatisfaction with my job — why do I feel all this guilt?

I can understand feeling guilty about murdering a fellow human being or about cheating someone out of millions of dollars. But none of the things I’ve done have any negative impact on anyone else. So why the guilt?

Why do we feel guilty about things we shouldn’t feel guilty about?

Who appointed me moral exemplar? I never asked for this job!

Okay, I was whining in that last entry. I think things are just fine. I just had to get it all out of my system. It’s all good.

Ghostbusting

Well, part one of the high school reunion went great. We met up at the bar in the hotel where most people are staying. I got there at around 5:45 in the evening and hung out with everyone until about 2 in the morning. Except for running across the street at some point to get some quick food en masse, we spent the entire evening in this lounge adjacent to the bar. We each were given a nametag that contained our name next to our high school yearbook photo. Kind of embarrassing, but since everyone had one, it was okay.

I think about 25-30 of us showed up last night — some much later than others, given the diverse schedules of airline flights. There was a surprisingly large number of people in from the San Francisco Bay area; I wouldn’t be surprised if San Francisco came in a close second in the vote for the reunion location.

There were some people I’d expected to see and others who were total surprises. Among those who showed up were Attractive Jockboy, the source of many a nighttime fantasy back in high school, and who I don’t think I ever had a single conversation with back then, but whom I wound up chatting with comfortably for quite a while last night. There was also Tall Cute Quiet Boy, whom I had a big obsession with/crush on back then, and who copied one of his mix tapes for me once (I still have it). Turns out he’s married. He lives in Brooklyn and he seemed sorta shy and uncomfortable last night. I think he barely cracked a smile.

There was also the guy whose older brother was a good friend of mine when I was a sophomore and the older brother was a senior; I idolized the older brother so incredibly deeply, and we acted in shows together, and we got to be really good friends that year. The older brother is about to move out to San Francisco with his wife and daughter, where he’s going to be a feature reporter on SF’s local NBC news affiliate. When I saw the younger brother last night, for a second I actually thought it was the older brother.

I was surprised by how much easier it was to talk with people last night, men and women both, than it was back in high school. For the most part, it seems that the cliques have melted away and we’re all adults now. For the most part. There were still moments when some of the formerly popular people were talking about things and looking at photos from 8th grade, which I couldn’t relate to at all, because we didn’t move to Japan until I was in 10th grade. (This wasn’t unusual — when you go to an overseas high school, there are always families coming and going.)

I feel like I exorcised many old ghosts last night. It felt wonderful and liberating.

We were going to meet up for a Central Park picnic this afternoon, but the weather is crappy, so instead we’re all just going to meet up at this restaurant for dinner, where we have a room reserved, and where we’ll eat and drink and look at a slide show of old school photos. It should be another blast.

Belonging

Last night, part two of the high school reunion, was an amazing experience for me.

We all met up for dinner at 7:00 at Osso Buco, an Italian restaurant. They had set up a long table for us in the back. It wasn’t a separate room, but it was up half a flight of stairs, and as we ate, some of us could look down on the rest of the restaurant. There must have been fifty of us there, including alumni and a few spouses. It felt like the royal family eating dinner — one enormously long table. Wine and beer were included, and the meal was served family style — waiters would come and put down plates of food, and we’d help ourselves. All of the people from the previous night showed up, as well as a few others. We were going to have a slide show, but there was nowhere to project slides, so people just passed around photos and old yearbooks.

Two and a half hours later, the dinner was over. From there, most of us went to this dance club in Tribeca called Culture Club. What a place! The club was a paean to the 1980’s. The DJ spun nothing but 80’s tunes, one great song after another. The decor… well, let’s see. On part of one wall there was a painted mural of the cast of The Breakfast Club. Above one of the bars was a neon sign that said “Cocktail,” just like the sign in the Tom Cruise movie of the same name. Hanging from the ceiling were a full-size Delorean, with one of its gull-wing doors open, and a giant Rubik’s Cube. Another wall had a reproduction of the famous shot of Eliot riding his bicycle with E.T. in the basket, silhouetted against a giant moon.

We graduated in 1991, which wasn’t exactly the 80’s but wasn’t exactly the 90’s either. Post-Reagan, pre-Clinton, my high school years were defined by international events — the fall of the Berlin Wall, the collapse of the Soviet satellite states, the Persian Gulf War. (Living overseas, international events loomed larger, and we were spared the gloomy American economic recession at home.) Pop music during my high school years was in a pretty sorry state: it was after the 80’s kitsch, yet before the arrival of Nirvana and the grungy “alternative music” that would come to define a decade, and we were stuck with the likes of Milli Vanilli, C & C Music Factory, and Vanilla Ice.

Life as an American teenager in Tokyo was pretty charmed; on the weekends, many of us would go out and party in Tokyo’s nightlife district, Roppongi. It didn’t matter that we were only 14, 15, 16, 17 years old. Either the Japanese bouncers couldn’t tell how old we foreigners were, or they just didn’t care, because they always let us in. While high schoolers back in the States were sneaking kegs into their parents’ basements, we were buying cans of beer from vending machines on the street and ordering our Moscow Mules and Amaretto Cokes at the bars, then getting onto the dance floor and dancing like crazy.

But I was pretty inhibited back then, and when I’d go out, I wasn’t really with the “cool people,” as I said the other day. I’d go out with some of my other friends, and I’d see the cool crowd and sort of aspire to be part of them, but I never really felt good enough to mix with them. And I wasn’t a very good dancer.

Last night was different. I was out there on the dance floor with everyone else, dancing my feet off. I’ve neglected to mention this, but none of the people whom I hung out with in high school showed up for the reunion. For the entire weekend this was great for me, because without them around — with me unburdened of them, if you will — I could finally be the guy I’d always wanted to be.

We were out there, dancing in a big crowd, sweating like crazy. (In the first two or three years after graduation, my dancing improved.) I was totally relaxed and pumped and enjoying myself. One great song after another came on, and I mouthed the words along with everyone else. It felt so great finally to be part of the cool crowd, to show people that I could dance, to show them that I knew all the words, to show them that I wasn’t just a nerdy smart guy after all.

We traveled back in time. It was 1990 and I was back in Tokyo, at Buzz, one of the hot Roppongi nightspots of the era. Hearing a song like “Funky Cold Medina” really enhanced the experience. I was completely immersed in high school memories. The past ten years since graduation had all been just a dream.

But then something strange happened. They started playing “Rock the Casbah,” a song that for me evokes late 1992 and early 1993, when I was in my second year of college. That year, one of the UVA a cappella groups performed that song and put in on their CD. I would listen to that CD over and over, desperately wanting to audition and get chosen for that group or one of the others. For about a year and half in college, I was obsessed with this goal.

So here I was on the dance floor, steeped in all this Japan-era high school nostalgia for 1990 and 1991, and suddenly I was wrenched a couple of years into the future to 1993. It was temporal whiplash! Paradoxically, 1991 felt so immediate in time but 1993 felt like years and years in the past. Here I was, at my high school reunion, suddenly being overwhelmed not by this collective nostalgia for high school but by an individual nostalgia for my first couple of years of college, for experiences and memories that none of these high school people dancing around me knew anything about, and all at once I felt an incredible pride in those private memories and incredibly protective of them. I suddenly realized how much had truly happened to me since high school graduation — and not in ten years, but just in the first two years after high school alone. I was overwhelmed with emotion, and I wanted to cry and laugh and dance even harder.

I realized how much I had changed and how much I had learned. The DJ played REM’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” and when they got to the appropriate part I shouted the words “No Beer, Cavalier!”, just like everyone used to do back at UVA to make fun of former president O’Neill’s crackdown on drinking. (UVA students are known both as Wahoos and as Cavaliers.) And none of my fellow high school alumni even knew.

The night went on and on, and before I knew it it was past three in the morning and there were only seven of us left: me, four former football players, and two women. One of the football players was Mr. Attractive Jockboy, whom I mentioned the other day, and another of them used to hang out with the intelligent and preppy and popular crowd. And there we were, all dancing together in a circle. I couldn’t believe I was out there with them, one of the last seven holdouts — it was so surreal and cool. At this point, some great things happened.

Great moment #1: I knew the words to every song, and every so often, Mr. Attractive Jockboy — whom I never, ever talked to in high school but whom I had a big crush on — would give me a big smile and stare at me with a wild crazy expression on his face and mouth the words along with me. At one point he even put his hands on my sides and mock-danced with me. (I don’t think he has homosexual tendencies, because he was majorly going after one of the two remaining women in our group, and had been doing so the night before as well.)

Great moment #2: One of the guys obviously knew that I was gay, because at one point when we were all on the dance floor he asked me, “So are you on the prowl? Any gay guys around here?” It was so great — not only was this former high school jock actually talking to me, but he was totally comfortable with my being gay as well. I was so happy, I felt like I was soaring.

Great moment #3: I left the dance floor for a while, and when I came back again, one of the guys gave me a big high-five.

Finally we were all worn out and it was time to leave. At 4:00 in the morning we stood on Varick Street outside the club. Some of them were going back to the hotel and others were going in other directions. Before I left to catch my train, we all said goodbye and they gave me big chummy handshakes and masculine hugs and pats on the back.

And so my ten-year reunion ended.

I forgot to mention that on the wall of the club — along with all the other 80’s paraphernalia — was a picture of the logo from the movie Ghostbusters, the ghost inside a red circle with a slash through it. And this weekend I accomplished exactly the goal I’d hoped to accomplish. I killed all the ghosts. Back in high school I’d often thought that the problem was not that these “cool people” didn’t want to hang out with me, but rather that I was too scared to hang out with them, to let them get to know me. If only I hadn’t been so shy and nervous and in awe of them — if only I’d got up the courage to hang out with them — they would have liked me. It had been all my fault.

Have you ever seen the movie Can’t Buy Me Love, in which — for a short time — the perenially geeky guy manages to transcend the social barriers and become one of the cool people? That’s how I felt last night. But it was even better than that, because I hadn’t had to sell my soul in order to do it. I had truly changed in the past ten years. I had changed myself for the better. We all had. That was the greatest thing about last night, and indeed the greatest thing about the entire weekend.

I was just being myself. And finally — yes, yes, finally — being myself was good enough.

Stealth Cutie

I forgot to mention Stealth Cutie. Have you ever known a stealth cutie — someone about whom you have said to yourself, “Why didn’t I realize until now just how cute this person is?” or “Why did my subconscious wait so long to tell me about this?” Well, I encountered a stealth cutie this weekend. He was a member of my high school graduating class. I always knew who he was — my class had only about 100 people in it — but for some reason it wasn’t until this weekend that I was fully aware of his adorableness. He wasn’t around on Friday night, but someone mentioned that he’d be showing up the following evening, and I thought to myself, “Oh really? Well, that would be terrific,” without even realizing that I was thinking it. But my subconscious must have known what was going on.

On Saturday night, there he was. He didn’t come to the restaurant, but he showed up at the Culture Club afterwards. He’s only an inch or two taller than me, and he has dark hair and dark eyes and eyebrows — Caucasian, but with sort of a Mediterranean or Italian or Eastern European look. He was wearing a pair of glasses with narrow tortoise-shell frames. And he looked adorable. I felt this instant visceral attraction to him, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I looked at him and I was in love.

Stealth Cutie went to law school, and now he works in Manhattan as a litigation consultant. He’s a really nice, soft-spoken guy. And… he’s married. To a woman, of course.

Damn.

Another gay member of my high school class, whom I’ll call Joe, was at the club, too, and at one point, over the din of the music, I shouted to him how incredibly cute and adorable I thought Stealth Cutie was and how if he weren’t straight I would totally marry him. I might have said something sexual, too, I’m not sure.

I got to talk with Stealth Cutie on the dance floor for a little while. And later, a few of us were taking a break from dancing and were sitting on some bleachers against a wall, and he came up to sit with us. Two of us were sitting at the top row with a space between us, and he sat right there between us. None of us really said anything — we just kind of sat there, relaxing, listening to the music and watching the crowd.

Later, back on the dance floor, when Stealth Cutie was shouting his goodbyes to everyone, he gave me his business card. I was flattered and moved and internally excited, because he didn’t give his card to the other people who were around at that moment. But hey, we both went to law school and we both live in the New York area, so maybe he felt some sort of connection to me.

And then yesterday I was talking with Joe again, because he’d invited me to go to Queens Pride with him and his boyfriend. (“Queens” as in the borough of New York City. Otherwise, the name would have been redundant.) And Joe told me that Stealth Cutie had overheard all my enthusiastic effusiveness about him. He’d been standing nearby, and I had been shouting because the music was so loud, but apparently I’d been shouting too loudly. I wasn’t even drunk. Anyway, I guess Stealth Cutie must have said something afterwards.

So Joe told me about this and I was mortified. He told me I shouldn’t be, that Stealth Cutie was probably flattered. I guess that’s true. It’s embarrassing, though! I tend to be a tad uncomfortable around straight guys who know I’m gay, because I’m afraid they’ll think (or know) that I find them attractive, and I don’t know how they’ll react to me. But I guess if a guy is secure enough in his heterosexuality, it won’t bother him. Obviously Stealth Cutie wasn’t bothered by it since he gave me his business card.

But it’s still embarrassing.

Oh, Stealth Cutie… I’d love to meet a gay guy who looks like you.

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
   Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
   One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
   One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
   One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

This always has, and always will, give me chills. And just the sight of the word Nazgûl makes me want to run and cower underneath under my blanket. Whatever you call them — the Nazgûl, the Black Riders, the Ringwraiths — they’ve always been the most terrifying beings I’ve ever read about.

I first read The Hobbit back in third grade. Soon after that, I began reading part one of the trilogy, The Fellowship of the Ring, but I never finished it. In fifth grade I started over, and this time I got halfway through part two, The Two Towers, but again I never got around to finishing it. Finally, ten years ago, during the summer after my high school graduation, I read the whole thing, all the way through the end of Return of the King, even though I’d seen the animated film and pretty much already knew how the trilogy turned out. Wonderful, wonderful. (Except for the last hundred pages or so, which seem so excruciatingly boring and anticlimactic.)

Last night, after reading the first part of Andrew O’Hehir’s exegesis of the trilogy in Salon yesterday, I picked up my copy of The Fellowship of the Ring and began reading it again. (These are the versions I have.) I don’t know if I want to trudge all the way through Middle-Earth all over again, but it’s nice just to delve back into it and look at the wonderful names of characters and places. Who knows — maybe I’ll get sucked back in. The first half of Fellowship is a frightening masterpiece of tension and suspense. I can say that I eagerly await the release of the film version of the first book in December.

The road goes ever on and on…

Bush will not designate June as Gay Pride Month. You know, I feel like I shouldn’t be angry. I feel like after four and a half months I should be used to things like this. But I am angry. It’s not like it would have been such a big step to do this; after all, Clinton did it. In situations like this, I find it’s helpful to ask: If you substitute the word “black” or “Jewish” or “Asian” for “gay,” would the outcome be different? Asking this question usually reveals the truth behind all those cowardly excuses and subconscious rationalizations such as “[Bush] does not believe in politicizing people�s sexual orientation. That�s a personal matter.� Seeing as how Bush proclaimed Black History Month back in February (and rightly so), the answer to the above question is yes, which makes this reprehensible.

It’s not like Gay Pride Month is cancelled. (“Okay, guys! Send back all the Bud Lite!”) But it’s not the practical effects that are important here. It’s the symbolism. Symbolism goes a long way. Yes, I will grant you that Clinton signed the Defense of Marriage Act and implemented don’t-ask-don’t-tell, both of which had more than symbolic repercussions. But on the other hand, the pathbreaking respect and attention that he gave to gay voters beginning in 1992 — even if you take the most cynical view that he did this only in order to gain the gay vote and appear compassionate and open-minded, a view I’m not sure I hold — really contributed to a sea change in this country’s perception of gay people and its discussion of gay issues. In light of this, Bush’s action here — or more appropriately, non-action — comes off seeming close-minded, reactionary, childish, snitty, and incredibly passive-aggressive.

I really don’t know how I’m going to get through the next 43 1/2 months — or, God forbid, 91 1/2 months — of this presidency.

Powers of Ten. Cool as hell! (link via swishcottage)

In today’s New York Times, op-ed columnist Maureen Dowd tries to help spread a new catch phrase. I think Ms. Dowd jumped the shark herself a long time ago, probably around the time she wrote this.

Yesterday, circa 5:00 p.m.

RJReynoldsNYC: but what about you?
RJReynoldsNYC: how’s YOUR life?
RJReynoldsNYC: i haven’t checked your blog yet today.
TinMan25NJ: well, today’s blog-entries are non-personal…
TinMan25NJ: i’m in more of a linky-love mood today
RJReynoldsNYC: ahh. so what’s the word on you?
TinMan25NJ: oh, you know me. i think i need prozac.
RJReynoldsNYC: you probably do.
RJReynoldsNYC: time for therapy for you.
TinMan25NJ: tonight’s my therapy night…
TinMan25NJ: really, though, not to complain, but my life feels so EMPTY.
RJReynoldsNYC: yay! make em cough up the pills.
RJReynoldsNYC: well that means your life isn’t full.
RJReynoldsNYC: and you need to go on adding some stuff in.
TinMan25NJ: but i’m afraid of that
TinMan25NJ: i’m afraid of fear…
TinMan25NJ: damn that FDR
RJReynoldsNYC: ha ha
TinMan25NJ: seriously, though, i am…
TinMan25NJ: my mode lately has been so lazy
TinMan25NJ: i think i’ve been trying to un-learn my childhood high-stress life
RJReynoldsNYC: lazy as in depressed?
RJReynoldsNYC: or lazy as in comfortable?
TinMan25NJ: a little of both… i’m just so bored
TinMan25NJ: although, sunday afternoon, i actually did feel depressed.
TinMan25NJ: i don’t want to say i felt suicidal, because it wasn’t quite like that, but i couldn’t really see any hope, you know?
RJReynoldsNYC: oh but that’s SUNDAY afternoons. they ALWAYS suck.
TinMan25NJ: yeah…
TinMan25NJ: you know what’s weird? i feel like i need more chaos in my life
TinMan25NJ: well, more fullness, as you said
RJReynoldsNYC: more excitement.
RJReynoldsNYC: a little fun.
RJReynoldsNYC: a reason to live.
TinMan25NJ: yeah — i need new things…
RJReynoldsNYC: BESIDES fucking blogging.
TinMan25NJ: the blogging’s okay… but no bloggers ever really call me to get together
TinMan25NJ: all these great people but we never really socialize
TinMan25NJ: and my debt keeps going up
TinMan25NJ: since i can’t afford my apartment
TinMan25NJ: and if i get this new job, i have to live in new jersey
RJReynoldsNYC: OOO what job?
TinMan25NJ: unless i use my parents’ address
RJReynoldsNYC: oh yeah. that’s a better idea than living in NJ
TinMan25NJ: the government job… lawyering… not something i’m looking forward to
TinMan25NJ: i just feel so NEGATIVE though
TinMan25NJ: like, i’d be lying
RJReynoldsNYC: it sounds like you don’t like the job you have now, the job might get, OR the place you live.
RJReynoldsNYC: well THAT”S no fun.
TinMan25NJ: no, no, and no… you’re right
TinMan25NJ: and basically i can’t even concentrate at work
TinMan25NJ: and you know what? i don’t feel like i can get out of this by myself
RJReynoldsNYC: ahh.
RJReynoldsNYC: you’re waiting for a crisis to smack you awake.
TinMan25NJ: i need a drastic change in my life!
RJReynoldsNYC: well you’ll end up like [xxx], getting evicted.
RJReynoldsNYC: THEN you’ll feel better.
TinMan25NJ: i won’t get evicted
TinMan25NJ: i’ll just deeper into debt
TinMan25NJ: get deeper into debt
RJReynoldsNYC: oh that sounds fun. and hitting your parents up for more money.
RJReynoldsNYC: whirr.
TinMan25NJ: i don’t want to move further out into new jersey, i really don’t
TinMan25NJ: i want to live in NYC, in an affordable place
RJReynoldsNYC: then you shouldn’t.
RJReynoldsNYC: then you should.
TinMan25NJ: although i also wonder, it would be great to move to like, Taos, New Mexico
RJReynoldsNYC: HA HA HA
TinMan25NJ: i almost want to just tell my landlord i’m leaving, and force myself into action that way.
RJReynoldsNYC: i’ll call your landlord.
RJReynoldsNYC: tell him you’re a baby murderer.
TinMan25NJ: hehe… actually, he gave me a few extra days to pay my june rent
TinMan25NJ: and i’m getting a paycheck on thursday, which will cover some of my rent…
RJReynoldsNYC: not if you had dead babies in your fridge.
RJReynoldsNYC: then he’d want you out.
RJReynoldsNYC: poor kitten.
TinMan25NJ: i have baby carrots in my fridge
RJReynoldsNYC: close!

[snip]

RJReynoldsNYC: okay: anxiety is only the fear of more anxiety.
RJReynoldsNYC: panic attacks are all about having the next panic attack.
TinMan25NJ: i feel like anxiety will kill me.
TinMan25NJ: it makes me feel like i’m going to die… does that even make sense?
RJReynoldsNYC: what does your shrink say about that? shouldn’t you be getting what sounds like an anxiety disorder treated?
RJReynoldsNYC: the best thing you can do in therapy is take something to suppress the symptoms so you can get at the root of the problem.

[snip]

TinMan25NJ: i feel like i want to quit my job and do nothing for a few weeks…
RJReynoldsNYC: gee that sounds fun.
TinMan25NJ: but i can’t do that, right.
TinMan25NJ: that would be so incredibly irresponsible.
TinMan25NJ: and then people would look down on me or something.
RJReynoldsNYC: what people?
TinMan25NJ: bloggers…
RJReynoldsNYC: what fucking people? oh come on.
TinMan25NJ: ok, isn’t this weird? i care about what my readers think of me.
TinMan25NJ: too much.
RJReynoldsNYC: that’s lame.
TinMan25NJ: i blog to make friends.
TinMan25NJ: maybe.
RJReynoldsNYC: you do?
TinMan25NJ: well, no
RJReynoldsNYC: hmmm.
TinMan25NJ: i blog to be admired.
RJReynoldsNYC: no i don’t think so.
RJReynoldsNYC: ahhhh
RJReynoldsNYC: better
TinMan25NJ: and to meet people…
RJReynoldsNYC: sure.
RJReynoldsNYC: fair enough.
TinMan25NJ: but i do care very much about how i present myself
RJReynoldsNYC: oh i know.
TinMan25NJ: i mean, people apparently like the personality i present…
TinMan25NJ: after all, they read me…
TinMan25NJ: why fuck with it?
TinMan25NJ: story of my life…
RJReynoldsNYC: oh dear.
RJReynoldsNYC: people love rash decisions and drama too.
TinMan25NJ: i’ve spent my whole life trying to replicate the admiration i got from my kindergarten teachers.

[snip]

TinMan25NJ: ok, problem number one with me, right?
TinMan25NJ: fear of offending…
RJReynoldsNYC: right.
RJReynoldsNYC: fear of OTHER PEOPLE’S OPINIONS.
TinMan25NJ: yes…
RJReynoldsNYC: okay. the rule is:
RJReynoldsNYC: what other people think of you is none of your business.
TinMan25NJ: right!
TinMan25NJ: i’ve heard that before… i love it
RJReynoldsNYC: what’s your second worst fear?
TinMan25NJ: death is my worst fear.
TinMan25NJ: my second worst fear is pain.
TinMan25NJ: and anxiety.
RJReynoldsNYC: emotional pain? or do you focus on physical pain?
TinMan25NJ: i fear i will be homeless on the street with no money.
TinMan25NJ: and then i’ll get mugged.
TinMan25NJ: or drugged.
TinMan25NJ: or imprisoned.
TinMan25NJ: i’ll turn into a lunatic wandering around on the street and people will stare at me or arrest me or rob me
TinMan25NJ: and i will lose my personality, and all my talents will go to waste
RJReynoldsNYC: WOW!
RJReynoldsNYC: that’s incredible!
RJReynoldsNYC: HA HA HA
RJReynoldsNYC: what a fucking snowball!
TinMan25NJ: you wanted the truth…
TinMan25NJ: that’s what i fear, and that’s truly how my mind works
TinMan25NJ: i am so fucking scared of these things

[snip]

TinMan25NJ: thanks so much sweetie.
RJReynoldsNYC: oh sure pumpkin.
RJReynoldsNYC: i don’t like you being in pain.
RJReynoldsNYC: pain sucks.
TinMan25NJ: me no like pain either.
RJReynoldsNYC: when it’s over you’ll look back at this in shock.
TinMan25NJ: pain bad.
RJReynoldsNYC: you won’t believe you felt this bad for so long.
TinMan25NJ: yeah.
TinMan25NJ: hope!
TinMan25NJ: ok, i’m off…
RJReynoldsNYC: and blog about it!
RJReynoldsNYC: xoxoxo
TinMan25NJ: yes yes yes
TinMan25NJ: *hugs*

So I went into therapy and asked about medication. My therapist is a Ph.D. and can recommend me to an M.D. for medication, but she seemed reluctant. I guess she seems to think my problems aren’t chemical but situational. And psychological. I think they’re a little of everything.

Anyway, in therapy I just felt so frustrated. I felt like I was up against a wall, hitting it again and again and again. I wound up tossing my glasses on the floor and lying down on the couch instead of sitting on it like I usually do and I just spent the rest of the session in that position as we continued our conversation.

I told her I was so fucking tired of coming into therapy week after week and not having anything change. I go in and I talk about things and then six and a half days go by and nothing happens. I’ve been in a rut. I’ve realized I can’t make these changes on my own. I’ve never really been a self-motivator. I’m inextricably drawn to other things: books, online chats, being with friends. Distractions are so much easier. Change is scary. And I haven’t really known what steps to take, because the process seems so big and amorphous and confusing. So I’ve needed help.

By the end of it, we decided that I needed to set a target date for me to move. First we said July 1, and I’d just call my landlord and tell him he had to use my security deposit to cover my June rent. But that doesn’t seem like enough time to find a new place necessarily. As for finding a new place, we decided I need to get my mom to help me. I can’t do it alone, that’s pretty clear. I feel kind of embarrassed that I have to get my mom to help me, but that’s because my dad has often ridiculed me for just that. When I was a kid I remember him once making fun of me for “hanging on your mommy’s apron strings.” Hell. If I need help, I need help. Anyway, I think I’ve set a date of August 1 to move out of my place.

Resumé

Two weeks ago, I had my first interview for a position with the state attorney general’s office, which would begin in August, at the end of my clerkship. The man who interviewed me said that he’d send my file on to the director, who would decide whether there would be a second interview, and that if I hadn’t heard anything in two weeks, I should call him again. Yesterday was two weeks, so I called the interviewer again this morning. He told me that he’d recently sent my file up to the director but that the director has sort of a full plate right now, and that I should check back in another week or two.

He also said something that made me nervous. Now, there are two offices, one in Newark and one in Trenton. When, during the interview, he asked if I’d prefer any particular office, I said that I’d want to be considered only for the Newark office. (I sure as hell don’t want to move back down to central New Jersey and/or commute to and from Trenton every day.) During our phone conversation today, he told me that positions in Newark are actually kind of slim right now.

I do not, do not, do not want to work in Trenton. I have already decided that, damn the torpedoes, I’m going to move to Manhattan, and Trenton is an hour and 20 minutes by train from New York’s Penn Station. That’s in addition to getting to and from each train station. That commute really does not seem feasible to me.

So this is the point where I should start making contingency plans and look for a different job. One in New York or thereabouts. But I’m stumped. Nothing seems appealing: working for a law firm, working for a litigation consulting firm. It’s probably too late to get another clerkship elsewhere for the fall (though it wouldn’t hurt to try). I can say accurately that looking for a job is my least favorite thing to do in the world. I usually do it grudgingly, half-assed if at all, and with little or no motivation. This has usually worked to my detriment.

1990: Sixteen years old, the summer before my senior year of high school. Back in the States for the summer. The first summer that I didn’t go to camp or go away on some camp-sponsored program. But I didn’t have a job. I spent two and a half months lazing around my aunt and uncle’s house, with no friends in town, reading books and newspapers and going for aimless walks. I thought I was going to go insane.

1991: This was okay. My first job ever, I worked at the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo, doing data entry. Mind-numbing, but the embassy had a great library where I used to spend my lunch breaks.

1992: The summer after my first year of college. Came home from college with no summer plans. I had a job offer to work as a counselor at a sleep-away camp, but I didn’t want to spend my summer imprisoned at a camp, so I wound up working the cash register and the telephone at a small Japanese restaurant.

1993: Stayed at UVA in Charlottesville so I could take a biology lab course, which I needed for my pre-med requirements. Had a part-time job, my most embarrassing job ever, an experience I never acknowledge and usually try to repress. I worked as a fast-food cashier.

1994: (a) While other people seemed to have lined up impressive and enriching summer opportunities for their resumés, I ended the school year with no idea what to do. I wound up staying in Charlottesville again, where I wound up working for UVA’s catering service and also had two weeks of temp jobs. UVA Catering was actually kind of fun. Free meals, fancy parties, I could relate to the other employees (who were students like me), and I got to see parts of UVA I hadn’t seen before.

(b) The following fall I got a part-time job at one of the UVA libraries, shelving books. Mind-numbing, my brain had nothing to do but worry about my life. But the library stacks were peaceful. My boss, the stacks supervisor, had a Ph.D. in British history.

1995: (a) I graduated college with no idea what I was going to do. I spent the summer back at my parents’ house in New Jersey. Took a road trip to visit a friend in Colorado. Came back, spent several weeks in limbo. Made ten different plans and cancelled them all. Wound up working for a month at a data-entry temp job, this time in Chelsea (yet I never explored the area — what a wasted opportunity!). Actually, I quit after three weeks because the numbing mindless repetition made my brain focus on problems, and it was driving me insane.

(b) After a couple of weeks I decided I was going to move back to Charlottesville and find something to do there. I wound up finding yet another temp job, yet again doing data entry, this time at the UVA Health Sciences Center. Checking the ID numbers on patients’ medical records so they’d be properly filed. Inertia set in and the job stretched into five months. I couldn’t relate to any of my coworkers, and I was ashamed and aimless and again thought I was going to go nuts.

1996: A position opened up at the UVA Music Library in February 1996, and I was hired. It was a terrific environment, great people. The Music Department had been my second home at UVA. But the work wasn’t challenging, I wasn’t using my brain at all, and I spent much time on the Web. (Some things haven’t changed!)

I had applied to UVA Law, and I got in. I felt my life had a sense of direction again. I felt good about myself again. I felt like I was going to be productive once more.

1997: The summer after my first year of law school. I worked as an intern for a federal judge here in Newark, along with four other law students. It was without pay so I lived at home. The other students worked there only 3-4 days a week and had paying jobs (painting, library work) the rest of the week. Not me. I decided to work there 5 days a week. Didn’t feel like working in a retail-type job again.

1998: The summer after my second year of law school. While everyone else had been hired by a law firm for the summer, I hadn’t. I probably hadn’t made enough of an effort. I had interviews, but no firms called me back for a second interview. At the last minute I wound up getting a job as a research assistant for a UVA Law professor, which is typically a first-year summer job. The work was pretty boring and, well, my boss — I didn’t get along with her very well. And because I was largely unsupervised, I spent much time — you guessed it — on the Web. But it was great to be spending another summer in Charlottesville. C’ville in the summer is gloriously lazy and laid-back.

1999: The summer after my final year of law school. While everyone else had been hired for full-time positions after employment the previous summer, or was going to be entering a clerkship in the fall, I hadn’t secured a job for myself. But like everyone else, I spent that summer studying for the bar — in my case, New York (which I passed, yay!). At the beginning of August I went home to my parents’ house, tried to find a job. (Around that time I came out to my parents again, once and for all, which made things doubly rough.)

I managed to get hired part-time by a family friend for her Internet publishing company, down in bucolic central New Jersey, as a writer/editor. Four employees — myself, and three refreshingly liberal women who were into yoga and healthy eating. The office was in a Victorian house. But the work got old, and I often found myself — can we say it again? — surfing the Web.

That November I actually got a job offer from a very small suburban New Jersey firm, but the environment was sterile and I dreaded the idea of working there. It just wasn’t me. So I turned down that job and wound up moving to central New Jersey and increasing my hours at the Internet publishing job, though it still wasn’t full time. To supplement my income, I got a part-time job at Barnes & Noble. A guy with a law degree, working at Barnes & Noble.

2000: Out of the blue, last spring, this clerkship came up. The previous August, I’d sent my resumé to the New Jersey judiciary, and nine months later it had somehow found its way to this place. I interviewed, I got hired, and I moved back up here. For the first couple of months I worked diligently. But now, at work, I spend so much of my time — come on, you know! — surfing the Web! And writing blog entries!

So there’s my job history for you. Last-ditch acts of desperation, unsatisfying positions, false starts and stops. I’m not too enthusiastic about the possibilities for the immediate future. If this position in the Newark office of the AG doesn’t pan out, I don’t know what I’ll be doing come August.

In the past ten years, I have at different times wanted to become a doctor, a psychotherapist, a history professor, a journalist, a writer, a lawyer, a teacher. I have found problems with all of those ideas. I don’t know. I have no idea where my life is taking me. I’m so fickle, so easily distracted. I’m enthusiastic about things they don’t make jobs for. There has to be some sort of satisfying career out there for me. Probably something that I haven’t even thought of yet. I mean, look at some of you — gallery owner? HIV prevention counselor? Those types of things don’t show up on career tests.

Conan O’Brien’s Commencement Speech to the Harvard Class of 2000.

Shafts of Sunlight

I have returned from West Virginia refreshed and enlightened. A door opened partway this weekend, revealing shafts of light. I saw daylight, and now I know that the darkness I’ve been seeing in my life day after day is really only cloud cover. If you look higher, it’s actually sunny out there.

I started feeling great as soon as CanadaGirl and I hit the road on Friday. We met up at Newark Airport after work to pick up a rental car, and she volunteered to drive first. We got out onto I-78 and drove off west into the country. The route out to West Virginia was beautiful — we took I-78 into Pennsylvania, then I-81 south through Maryland, and then I-70 west into West Virginia. Green fields, rolling hills, farmland, the Pennsylvania Dutch Country, little roadside gas stations just off the highway. I’m very familiar with much of this route, having driven it back and forth between UVA and northern New Jersey many times during the last decade, so it was very nostalgic for me, and I felt a sweetness upon being on these roads once again. The sun went down and the stars came out, and although there seemed to be lots of vehicles on the road for a rural Friday evening, most of the land around the highway was dark. We listened to the radio, jumping among various FM stations, and finally, late in the evening, we turned to AM so CanadaGirl could find out the score of the basketball game. We picked up AM stations from Boston and Toronto and even from somewhere west of the Mississippi, which I knew because the call letters began with a K. Finally we picked up a fire-breathing Jesus preacher on the dial and listened to him for a while. It was amusing, but there was also something creepy about driving along a dark highway in the middle of nowhere and listening to this voice preaching fire and brimstone. It was like something out of Stephen King. Finally, at around 11:30 at night, we got to the town of Berkeley Springs, West Virginia — known for its spas and hot springs — and found our way to the rest of the gang in the suite we’d all rented together.

There were seven of us this weekend. One person was the fiancée of one of the guys, and another person didn’t live in our dorm but has sort of been an honorary member of our little group. Two or three people couldn’t make it this weekend, but there were enough. I mentioned last time that these are all very talented people. They probably just seem like an abstract group to you, because you don’t know them firsthand. But each of us has a very distinctive and individual personality. We’ve known each other for almost eight years now. We lived together in the same small dorm for two years during college, and during that time we each garnered a nickname. We also have tons of in-jokes and catchphrases that have developed over time. We also play spades together. And collectively, these people make me laugh more than any other people I know. I don’t think I can explain the chemistry we all have together. I love their company. I think of us as a family, and I consider myself extremely fortunate to have met everyone in our little band of friends. I cherish these people.

It was nice to be the token gay guy this weekend — it was nice to hang out with a bunch of straight people for a change. (Except CanadaGirl. She’s the token gay girl.) These people are so accepting and supportive of me and of who I am. They like me for who I am. In fact, they like me because of who I am.

But back to the weekend. It was not just a relax-and-hang-out sort of weekend. This time, there was an itinerary. Two of the guys had organized the weekend in order for us to discuss our professional lives, with an eye towards eventually perhaps putting all of our talents and skills together to create some sort of business or other endeavor. There were two big easels, markers, pads of paper, pens. Friday night we hung out and drank beer. Saturday morning we got up at 8:00, and by 9:00 we were sitting on couches and chairs. We went around the room and each of us summarized the paths of our professional lives since graduation — what we’ve done, where we’ve been, and more importantly, what we’ve learned and what skills we’ve developed over the last few years. After lunch, we sat around brainstorming about different ideas. Nothing fully concrete came out of it, but I think we’ve hit upon some interesting ideas that will germinate, and maybe something will come out of this eventually.

Late in the afternoon we went out for a short walk/hike. Then we came back and talked some more. At night we made dinner together and drank beer. Afterwards we sat around drinking lots more beer, talking about everything under the sun, playing some wacky games of Hangman on the whiteboard. CanadaGirl put up a phrase and told us the category was “70’s show.” The answer wound up being “That 70’s Show.” One of the guys put up a phrase, and it turned out to be “I don’t want to play Hangman anymore.” Later on he did another one, and it was “Can we please shoot the person who started this game.”

I laughed this weekend. I laughed more than I’d laughed in ages. At one point on Saturday afternoon, when we were sitting around brainstorming, a few incredibly hilarious ideas were thrown into the ring at the same time, and suddenly we all burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter. For about two minutes I was laughing so hard that my stomach muscles were hurting and there were tears in my eyes. I couldn’t catch my breath. I had to take off my glasses and collapse against the couch and I still couldn’t stop laughing. It had been a few years since I’d laughed that hard. It was absolutely wonderful. If I can laugh like that even just a few more times over the course of my existence, it will make this whole life thing worthwhile.

This weekend I thought about some things that I hadn’t thought about before. We talked about the concept of a corporation, the reasons for it, whether it’s a useful concept or not. Before the weekend, these words and ideas and everything surrounding them — “team,” “management,” “incentive” — were anathema to me and my left-handed personality and right-brained mind. They just sounded so Dilbert. Now I’m not so sure. I’ve always been skeptical about the idea of joining together with people to create a business, or to create anything, really. And on Saturday, while we were talking about this concept, I realized why. It’s not just that I feel it would be constricting and claustrophobic, and it’s not just that I resent people telling me what to do. It’s that I’ve wanted to achieve things on my own. I’ve wanted to be an acclaimed individual. I’ve wanted to be praised and known for myself, for who I am, for my own special talents and abilities.

You go through school and everything is geared toward the individual. Individual awards. Individual achievement. Individual talents. You’re rewarded for who you are and for what you can do by yourself. And then you become an adult, and you see that many things in the world can be accomplished only in teams. It seems so simple, but until this weekend, I didn’t realize why everyone out there talks about teamwork and group motivation and so on and so forth. It’s still not natural for me to use all those corporate-type words, but at least now I know why people talk about things like this. It no longer seems only like a way for Evil Forces to quash the power of the individual and make the world a gloomy place. Sometimes it’s actually the best way to get something done.

My most important epiphany came after all of us had summarized what we’ve done and where we’ve been in the last five or six years. I realized that I’m not the only one who has drifted from one thing to another. One guy worked for a company in Arkansas, and then one in Georgia, and then went up to New Jersey a year ago, but he got laid off, and just recently he moved to DC. One guy went into the Peace Corps, got sick and had to leave, and then he got a master’s degree, and he’s been working at a job for a year, and he’s already looking for something else. CanadaGirl worked in a French bakery out in Seattle for two years, then got an MBA, and now she’s a consultant for one of the Big Five. (Or is it Big Six? I can’t remember.) Another of us has just completed a five-year stint in the Navy, and at the end of the summer he’s off to Paris for a one-year French MBA program.

I realized that none of us really knows what we want to do with our lives. I don’t feel like so much of a failure anymore. We’re all either 26 or 27, and when I look at where I am and where they all are, I don’t feel much different from them. And I see that if they can all be more accepting of their own imperfections, then I should be more accepting of mine, too. Anyway, I may be a slacker in my current job, but I did get a law degree and pass a couple of bar exams. It just means that my current job isn’t really for me. But I really do need to lighten up.

And I’m young! I’m so goddamn young. For some reason it’s so hard for me to get this concept firmly lodged in my head. I always worry that I’m squandering my time, that my peak years are passing or have passed, that it’s all too late, that nothing good will happen during the rest of my life. I tend to extrapolate the present into the future — to tell myself that things will Always Be Like This. But they won’t. This weekend showed me that it’s still possible to feel full and alive.

I thought about some other things, too. I wonder if New York is the place for me. I wonder if someplace like DC would be a little better. It would be so great to live someplace where I have sunlight streaming in through the windows, and a homey atmosphere, and a car, and easy access to mountains and fields and vistas. We were only about two hours from Charlottesville this weekend, and I realized once again how much I miss that place. I don’t just miss UVA — I miss the town itself sometimes.

So I’m going to have to make some major changes in my life. I have to think about things and start some things afresh. This weekend I saw that it’s possible to be happy. I experienced some joyful moments, and I experienced some people upon whose shoulders the world weighs much less than it does upon mine. There’s a lesson here. In fact there are tons of lessons here. It’s going to take me a while to process everything that happened this weekend.

UltraFun!

Today I actually spent most of my workday working. Perhaps it’s because I was rejuvenated after my weekend away. Perhaps it’s because it was embarrassing to tell my old college friends that I spend much of my workday surfing the Web. Perhaps it’s because my new assignment is more streamlined and less odious and onerous. Or perhaps it’s because I have a tighter deadline on this assignment. I’ve always seemed to work better under pressure.

After work I met up with the always erudite and charming Sparky for dinner. I waited for him outside Café Rafaella on Seventh Avenue, alternately reading The Fellowship of the Ring and looking up from my book at all the eye candy walking in and out of the New York Sports Club across the street or strolling past me on the sidewalk.

Sparky and I had a nice, long, rambling meal — we sat at a sidewalk table, ate, talked, watched the world go by, felt a smattering of raindrops. Talked about the latest news of the blogging world, as bloggers are wont to do, as well as myriad other topics. From there we wandered around the West Village, almost all the way to the Hudson River and back again. We stopped off at Creative Visions on Hudson Street and looked through some soft-core gay male erotic art books, one of which had a photo of one half of a well-known romantic blogging N’awlins couple. Lucky guys, those two are.

All in all, Sparky and I had a nice, intelligent evening. And it was refreshing to socialize on a weeknight for a change. I’m trying to get out of the rut I’d lately been stuck in, and I seem to be successful so far. Thanks to you, Sparky!

As for tomorrow night, it’s a night on the town with Bryan. I think we’re gonna paint the town pink!

Coming Distractions

On the ride home from Manhattan last night, I was sitting on the PATH train, reading The Fellowship of the Ring. Sitting across from me was an Asian guy whose hair was either highlighted or dyed blond. He wore a tanktop that showed off his defined arms. My gaydar went off, but I’m not really into Asian guys, and anyway, he seemed absorbed in his book.

More appealing was the guy sitting next to me, a white guy in a blue soccer shirt and orange athletic shorts. I love athletic shorts, particularly orange ones. He had thin, sinewy arms and toned, hairy legs. While looking down at my book I kept glancing over discreetly at his skin, and I was getting a little hard.

I got off at my stop, and he got off as well. So did the Asian guy, and so did a bunch of other people. My eyes lingered on the soccer guy’s legs as I was getting off the train, and I was still lusting after him when I heard, “Are you reading that because of the movie?” It was the Asian guy with the dyed hair, and he was saying this to me. Of course, being an ordinary gay male, I wondered if I was being picked up. I wasn’t particularly interested, but I told him that I was in fact reading the book because of the movie, and also because of the recent article on Salon, and that I’d actually read The Lord of the Rings before. He told me he’d read it seven or eight times. As we were walking up the stairs he told me about all the miniatures they have for sale that are based on the images from the movie. “Wow, already?” I said, seeing as how the first movie isn’t coming out until December.

We both took the same stairway out of the station and wound up walking along the same street, which I always take to my apartment. We were walking along and he was telling me all about who he’d heard was in the movie. I didn’t really want to know any of this, because I’m trying to avoid as much information about it as possible so I can watch it in December with a fresh eye. But then he mentioned that a particular twentysomething actress was in the movie, and that he’d seen pictures of her in costume. “She looks really hot,” he said, sounding exactly like a frat boy standing at a keg. “Oh really,” I said, laughing politely.

We walked on a little further. “Well, good night,” he suddenly said with a friendly smile on his face, walking into a parking lot.

“So long,” I said, continuing on to my apartment.

Unfortunately, I have no idea what happened to the soccer guy.

Oz

This morning I woke up in Chelsea. I’d stayed overnight with Bryan and his boyfriend after an evening of bar-hopping, and it felt pretty cool to walk out of their building at 8:15 this morning and be in the heart of gayville. It had been more than a year since I’d last been in Manhattan on a weekday morning; I felt like I was seeing a whole new side of the city. I felt like I was part of a privileged community of people. Even though the streets are pretty ordinary at 8:15 in the morning, it felt kind of magical.

Several years ago I read the first book in this fictional series by John Jakes about a man and his descendants establishing themselves in America. I read about the young Philippe Charboneau of France arriving in colonial Boston and transforming himself into the American Philip Kent. When I read that book, I was moved by the descriptions of a fresh, bustling, colonial American city, a brand new world bursting with secrets, a place that could give you the chance to make a new life for yourself.

How great it would be to come home to Manhattan on a summer night! Come home to my apartment, change my clothes, go back out into the world.

That’s what last night was like. After a good therapy session (much more upbeat than last week), I arrived at Bryan’s place with my work bag and a backpack of clothes. I’ve been inside so few Manhattan apartments in my life, and it’s always a shock to walk up the front steps and through the front door of a narrow apartment building, sandwiched between other buildings, and see its insides. There’s always the illusion of more space than there really is.

I changed into a t-shirt and shorts and then Bryan gave me a photo-and-video introduction to the world of flag-dancing. Then we went out and had dinner at the Bendix Diner on Eighth Avenue, a good, decent place with good, decent food where I’ve had several meals before, and we talked for quite a while. New York City. Getting established. Different types of relationships. The wondrousness of trying new things.

From there we went to Barracuda, where Bryan’s guy met up with us. Thence to Blu on 23rd Street, where we had a few drinks and talked of cabbages and kings. After the boyfriend went home, Bryan and I walked over to the Lure, a leather bar, for a brief visit, for reasons I won’t get into. It was my first time inside a leather bar, although it was a Tuesday night, so the place was pretty empty. But I saw some chains in the bathroom, and the bathroom walls were painted black. From the Lure we went over to XL, a pretty (and pretty new) bar in Chelsea that’s very shiny and fluorescent, like something out of the Jetsons.

By that point I was pretty tired. It was a weeknight and I’d had three drinks. So we went back to their apartment at about 12:30. The boyfriend was asleep, but there was a futon bed already set up for me, which was essentially in the same room as the bedroom. They have three cute cats, and I have to admit I didn’t sleep too well, but not because of the cats. Several times during the night the air conditioner cycled on and off, and whenever it came on, there was this loud noise that woke me up and scared the bejeezus out of me. On top of that I kept waking up from rather explicit dreams.

I got up at 7:30, showered, left their place at 8:15 and got to my office in Newark at 9:00. Not a bad commute at all. But I feel like I’m among the walking dead today.

What a weekend.

Did I say weekend? Well, it felt like a weekend. It was a little sliver of weekend snuck into the middle of my workweek. A nice way to break things up. And despite the fact that I’m in Manhattan several times a week, last night was new. In some ways I felt like I was visiting the city again for the first time.

That settles it. As soon as I’ve figured out what I’m doing job-wise, I’m going to look for a place in Manhattan. Even though I only live 20 minutes from the West Village right now, there really is a big difference. If I screw up, I screw up. I can always look for a new place if the first one doesn’t work out.

I flew out of JFK Airport with my family one warm summer evening when I was 18. We were going to Israel for two weeks. I had spent much of that summer coming to terms with my sexuality and daydreaming about being gay in New York. As we were sitting in the airplane on the runway, I could see the sun setting over the Manhattan skyline; the sky was purple and orange and I could almost see the heat rising from the distant buildings. I stared out the airplane window, stared out at the distant silhouette, my eyes fixed on the low valley of buildings stretching between the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center. Somewhere in that valley were the streets of Chelsea and the West Village. It was a Friday night and I started to imagine what all the gay men there would be doing that night; they’d be getting dressed up, getting ready to go out to all the bars and clubs, where they’d meet people and fall in love on a romantic summer night. As the plane taxied down the runway and we took off into the air, I stared and stared, trying with all my might to see the streets of lower Manhattan. But we were too far away.

Everything on the ground became smaller and smaller as we flew up and out over the water. We were off to a distant land. But at that moment I desperately wanted to go back.

Race and Ethnicity: An Open Letter to “Disappointed”

Someone wrote a comment in response to yesterday’s entry. He didn’t give an e-mail address, so I thought of responding to him in the comments section, but then I thought maybe this deserved its own entry.

To avoid unnecessary clickage, here’s what he wrote:

********

Ugh. Don’t you just HATE it when Asian guys who truly and utterly don’t interest you at all, don’t get you hard and therefore merit no consideration whatsoever try to engage in some friendly conversation? I mean, an ASIAN guy, fer Chrissakes. As if he and an insecure, neurotic, short hairy guy could possibly have anything in common! Tinman, you can’t choose who you’re attracted to and should never have to apologize for what gets you off. OK, so he wasn’t your type. But you seemed unable to see beyond his Asian features and seemed more than eager to dismiss the facts that 1) you had something in common and 2) amiable banter on the PATH is somewhat of a rarity, given all our urban armor. I guess I just expected that someone both Jewish and gay would be able to see beyond overly-broad categorizations. We’re more than the sum of all the identities we adopt. Should I bump into you somewhere in the East Village, I promise I won’t get in the way of your cruising, or intrude into your sacrosanct circle of whiteness. Yet another GAL (Gay Asian and, yes, Lawyer).

disappointed – posted at 17:33 GMT 13/6/01

********

Disappointed,

I’m sorry you were offended. But I think you’re reading things into my words that aren’t there. It’s true that the guy didn’t turn me on physically. I just don’t find myself particularly physically attracted to Asian guys, and as you say, I don’t need to apologize for who I am or am not physically attracted to. (At any rate, I have in fact slept with Asian guys before.) But just because I’m not physically attracted to someone, that doesn’t mean I want nothing to do with that person. At the risk of using a cliché, I’ve known and been friends with people of all different races in my life.

And, sacrosanct circle of whiteness? Unable to see beyond his Asian features? Eager to dismiss the fact that we had something in common? Jeez, I did have a conversation with the guy. I did see it as kind of funny — and weird — that a complete stranger enthusiastically struck up a conversation with me about a series of fantasy novels, because, as you correctly note, “amiable banter on the PATH is somewhat of a rarity, given all our urban armor.” Not only that, but as I wrote in my entry, the guy was going on and on about something I really didn’t want to know too much about. Maybe I’m weird for not wanting to know too much about this long-awaited movie before I see it; fine. This had nothing to do with his being Asian.

Are you saying I shouldn’t have described him in as much detail as I did? I was trying to be descriptive, and with all due respect, it’s not too often that I see an Asian guy with dyed-blond hair and wearing a tank top, at least not on the PATH train. And those are the attributes I used in describing him. Anyway, as someone who spent three years living in and travelling around Asia, immersing myself in unfamiliar cultures and thereby learning a great deal about them, I feel that I am, in fact, “able to see beyond overly broad categorizations.”

Again, I’m sorry you were offended, but no offense was meant.

Sincerely,

Tin Man

Now I’ll open up the floor. I think this brings up some interesting questions:

1) If you become aware of a person’s racial or ethnic background — if you are struck by it even in the slightest way — is that inherently racist? Or is it racist only when that difference causes you to judge or treat people better or worse than others? Or is it impossible to notice such a difference without evaluating it?

My thoughts: If you believe that we should ignore each other’s racial/ethnic differences completely, then I guess it can be seen as inherently racist to be aware of them. But in my view, there are different racial and ethnic groups in the world, and it’s natural to notice those differences, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re making an evaluative judgment.

Read about what Psionic’s father used to say about “Phil, the black guy” (scroll down).

2) Physical/sexual attraction: If you’re not physically/sexually attracted to people of a particular race or ethnicity, is that racist? Or is it the same as basing physical/sexual attraction on height? Weight? Hairiness? Or are all of these bad? Or are all of these okay?

Or do people just tell themselves that they’re not attracted to a particular race when in reality they’re just uneasy about sleeping with someone of a different race?

Discuss.

Hmm, I wonder if this could go on Metafilter.

More Thoughts on Sexual Pickiness / “Erotic Racism”

I’m borrowing the term “erotic racism” from Queerscribe, and it refers to what I wrote about yesterday — using race or ethnicity as a way of screening out potential sexual partners. But although it’s a nice and pithy term, it presupposes a particular view, and I think we can just as easily call the issue “sexual pickiness.”

There were some particularly good comments appended to my last post. And I’ve been thinking about the issue a lot since yesterday. It’s such a complicated issue, because it combines much that society (particularly American society) obsesses over: race, sex, psychology, the right to hold your own beliefs, the right to control what you do with your body.

First, some excerpts from e-mails I’ve received. One person wrote that this form of sexual pickiness comes from an “amalgam of personal taste, [social] conditioning, and trepidation.” Another person wrote that “rather than this being racist, I think it’s more because people of a certain race are bound to have similar physical characteristics, and it might just happen that those features are not exceptionally attractive to a certain person.”

Finally, “Disappointed,” who wrote the original comment, sent me a nice and rather friendly e-mail, in which he wrote in part:

I almost never use the word “racist” because I can’t really say I know what it means. For one thing, the impossibility of defining either “race” and “racism” makes the label problematic, too fluid. Inevitably, the question of what constitutes racism is reduced to a problem of semantics. Instead of asking “Is conduct X racist?”, which can never be answered sufficiently, I find it better to ask how race is deployed in all these different social and textual settings, whether racially-conscious conduct perpetuates white privilege.

Here are just some musings as I try to figure out what I think and feel about this.

Isn’t there a difference between societal discrimination and individual sexual pickiness? If someone is denied a job or a place to live, that’s one thing, because people have certain rights. But if I deny someone the opportunity to sleep with me, I’m not oppressing that person. (In fact — to channel the spirit of Brad for a moment — some might say I’m doing that person a favor.)

But perhaps sexual pickiness is really a symptom of latent racial prejudice. And perhaps one of the best ways to overcome such prejudice is by experiencing the most extreme type of intimacy possible — skin against skin. Perhaps having sex with someone of a particular race will wind up erasing a person’s latent prejudice against people of that race.

On the other hand, what’s more important — physical intimacy, or mental and emotional intimacy? After all, there are stories of racist white men who rape or have consensual sex with black women while remaining racist. You can be sexually attracted to people of a particular race while still holding racially prejudiced views of that race. Having sex with people of a particular race won’t necessarily remove one’s prejudice.

And anyway, who says that sexual pickiness is a symptom of latent racial prejudice? I like Mike’s comment: “I am not attracted to women in general. Some of them have features that I find sexy, yeah, but they just don’t turn me on. Too squooshy. Too vocally high-pitched. Not what gets me excited…. And I refuse to provide any further explanation or apology for the sake of political correctness. I want who I want.” (I particularly loved the word “squooshy”…)

I’ve thought about this as well. After all, I already spent enough energy in my life trying to conform to society’s ideas of whom I should or shouldn’t find attractive. “Have you tried sleeping with women? How do you know you don’t like them?” Part of me wants to say, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let people do this to me again.” (And let’s not forget this guy.)

If I don’t want to sleep with women, does that make me a misogynist? No. Just because I don’t want to sleep with women, doesn’t mean that I don’t respect women or that I’m prejudiced against women, right?

On the other hand, maybe you can say that this is all a false comparison, because, as many believe, sexual orientation is hormonal, and all men give off the same hormones, regardless of race, right? There’s more of a difference between a white man and a white woman than between a white man and a black man. Right?

Sex is one of humanity’s greatest mysteries. Lots of people have sexual hangups. Sex can be used to express intimacy. Power. Control. Revenge. Love. Pity. As a tool for procrastination. Sexual abstention can involve issues of health, purity, cleanliness, even self-discipline or autonomy. Many people are very conscious and careful of who they allow near (or in) their bodies. We don’t always understand our sexual desires. We can’t even pinpoint the exact cause of homosexual attraction.

So when it comes down to it, who are you to tell someone else what that person’s sexual criteria “really mean”? And is it really your problem? I’m not saying it’s not. Perhaps it’s our collective problem. Calling it “erotic racism” seems to imply a certain question, so I’ll get all Sex and the City now, and boil it down to one question typed across a computer screen:

Is screening one’s sexual partners based on race or ethnicity harmful to society?

Or, more succinctly:

Should we fuck for world peace?

Queerscribe responds, and eloquently so.

Its About Time Someone Put the Apostrophe in It’s Proper Place

Ya know, I, too, was going to link to this article yesterday. But the crazy thing is, I just KNEW that both these guys were going to do it, so I figured, why bother?

That’s the cool thing about blogging. The more you read someone’s site, the more you can predict what’s going to catch their eye.

I love being a grammar queen.

Stalkin’ with the Blogstalker

I finally got to meet the Everlasting Blogstalker last night. You just know there’s gonna be a plethora of blogging words about this, because after all, we’re talking about two of the most verbose guys on the gay blogging circuit. But I’ll try to omit needless words. Let’s just see if I can do this.

Oh, too late.

At 9:30 I stopped by his apartment, which is a stone’s throw from the center of the universe. I met the incredibly cute Dex and Molly. Much licking occurred — from Dex and Molly. Then we left for dinner — without Dex and Molly, although Molly tried her damnedest to squeeze her head through the doorway before Blogstalker could shut the door.

Dinner was cheap sushi a few blocks away in Hell’s Kitchen. I didn’t know it was possible to find sushi that cheap. For just under eight bucks I managed to stuff myself. We talked and talked, and I have to say, Blogstalker is one of the nicest, sweetest, coolest, most generous guys I’ve met in a while.

After dinner we went to Barrage, a gay bar several blocks from the restaurant. Nice atmosphere — no Chelsea ‘tude, and more clean-cut and less grungy than the East Village. I was wearing my miami-sky-blue-colored Gap ringer tee, and I noticed in shame and embarrassment that two other guys were wearing the exact same shirt in the exact same color. Oh, the horror.

The bar was in Blogstalker’s neighborhood, so it was inevitable that he’d know some of the patrons. At first he was surprised not to recognize anyone, but then more people showed up. I wound up in a circle with Blogstalker and three other guys. One asked me, “So, how do you two know each other?” I paused, fishing for an answer that wouldn’t require a chapter and a half of explanation, and I finally settled on, “Oh, we have some mutual friends.” That seemed to satisfy him. They all dished about the theater while I drank my beer and looked from face to face and smiled and nodded and tried to keep up. I was proud of myself for knowing who Park Overall was. You know, I used to be such a theater hound, but these days I just can’t afford it. It would be fun to get back into it again.

At one point Blogstalker spotted a guy he knew, a guy whom he thought was my type. It was the roommate of a friend of his; he was of moderate height, dark blond hair, slim, a goatee on his chin. He certainly didn’t look too bad. Eventually I decided I was interested, so Blogstalker brought me along to meet him. We talked for a few minutes, and — in what can only be considered a crazy, crazy plot twist — it turned out that not only had he gone to my school, the University of Virginia — which would have been cool enough — but on top of that, we’d been in the same frickin’ graduating class. He’d wound up leaving UVA after two years in order to study hotel management at Virginia Tech, but he fondly remembered his days at UVA. As we continued to talk, Blogstalker somehow snuck away, presumably with a smile on his face and a feeling of Yenta-ish satisfaction in his heart.

The guy and I wound up sitting down and talking. We turned out to know several of the same people, and we waxed rhapsodically about the Rotunda and the Lawn and UVA and Charlottesville. He had beautiful blue eyes and these little tight biceps. At one point Blogstalker came over to say goodbye (he had to get up early in the morning), and after he left, the conversation continued. I don’t know if we’d have had anything to talk about if not for the UVA connection, and as the hour grew late, I wondered if this was going to go anywhere. He did live around the corner, after all.

It was approaching 2:00, and our conversation seemed to be running out of gas. There’d be a long pause, and then one or the other of us would bring up something else UVA-related, and after a couple of minutes there’d be a long pause again. I couldn’t quite figure out what was happening, because we were running out of topics and the bar was beginning to empty and he was occasionally looking at his watch and yawning, yet he wasn’t making any motions to go home. On the other hand, he wasn’t getting any closer to inviting me over, either. It was like he wanted to call it a night, but he wanted me to leave first. He kept looking over at this other guy, standing alone against a wall, but he said it was his roommate. I don’t quite know what was going on.

Eventually he asked how I’d get home to Jersey City, and I told him I’d take the subway to the PATH train. We talked for a little bit about how close the 42nd Street station was to his apartment. Then he said, sort of sleepily, “Well, anyway, you can pretty much catch any train from there if you want.” O-kay! I get your signal, loud and clear. So after a pause, I slowly, casually looked at my watch. “Well, I guess it’s about time for me to head out,” I said. “Okay — it was nice meeting you,” he said, and he gave me a little hug, and I left.

Walking along the streets to the 42nd Street station, in my khaki pants and my blue ringer t-shirt, I thought to myself, yup, the gods haven’t changed their minds. Tin Man, thou shalt not have the pleasure of going home with someone you meet at a bar.

Dinner with Dad

I had dinner with my dad tonight — my family wound up doing nothing for Father’s Day, and perhaps this was on his mind this morning when he called me at work and asked if I’d like to have dinner. He asked what I felt like eating, and, my taste buds still reminiscing about Saturday night’s sushi with the handsome Blogstalker, I wanted sushi yet again. So after work I met up with my dad at Monster Sushi, on 23rd Street between 6th and 7th Avenue. We had Sapporo beer, as well as plenty of salmon, yellowtail, fluke, giant clam, tuna, and more. It’s always nice to have Japanese food with members of my immediate family, because it’s like returning together to our time in Tokyo. And strangely, there wasn’t an ounce of tension during the meal. We actually had a really nice time.

When we walked out of the restaurant I noticed that Blu was right across the street, a gay bar where Bryan and Bryan’s boyfriend and I went last week. I smiled to myself. My dad and I walked along 23rd Street, crossed 7th Avenue, and walked toward 8th, getting perilously close to the heart of Gay Chelsea, where I spend lots of my free time. These two mutually exclusive concepts — my dad, and gay Chelsea — tried to occupy the same space in my mind at the same time, but they just couldn’t do it, and so after my dad and I parted at 8th Avenue, so he could walk north up to Port Authority and take the bus home, I walked in the opposite direction, south, into familiar territory, right past the Big Cup, and back into my own familiar world.

Song of Nimrodel

An Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,
And fair she was and free;
And in the wind she went as light
As leaf of linden-tree.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,
By water clear and cool,
Her voice as falling silver fell
Into the shining pool.

Where now she wanders none can tell,
In sunlight or in shade;
For lost of yore was Nimrodel
And in the mountains strayed.

The elven-ship in haven grey
Beneath the mountain-lee
Awaited her for many a day
Beside the roaring sea.

A wind by night in Northern lands
Arose, and loud it cried,
And drove the ship from elven-strands
Across the streaming tide.

When dawn came dim the land was lost,
The mountains sinking grey
Beyond the heaving waves that tossed
Their plumes of blinding spray.

Amroth beheld the fading shore
Now low beyond the swell,
And cursed the faithless ship that bore
Him far from Nimrodel.

Of old he was an Elven-king,
A lord of tree and glen,
When golden were the boughs in spring
In fair Lóthlorien.

From helm to sea they saw him leap,
As arrow from the string,
And dive into the water deep,
As mew upon the wing.

The wind was in his flowing hair,
The foam about him shone;
Afar they saw him strong and fair
Go riding like a swan.

But from the West has come no word,
And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard
Of Amroth evermore.

–from The Fellowship of the Ring

Beautiful, just beautiful.

Now sing it to the theme from “Gilligan’s Island.”

Why Tuesday was a Good Day

1) I had my second interview with the New Jersey attorney general’s office. This interview was with the Director. I had an internship with a federal judge a few summers ago, and here’s some cool news: it turns out that the Director used to be his law clerk. Score! The interview went really well, too. And apparently, if you make it to the second interview, you’ve been hired.

2) It turns out that if I get hired and accept a position, I don’t have to remain a New Jersey resident! The Director told me so, and if anyone would know these things I suppose it would be him. Apparently the person who interviewed me last time was wrong. They do want you to be a resident at the time they hire you, because apparently when the personnel office does background checks for people who live out of state, they send out the file and it never comes back. Also, although he doesn’t make guarantees as to whether a person will wind up in Trenton or Newark, he said that he tries to take into account where a person lives. (And I live much, much closer to Newark and am on record as strongly preferring to work in that office.) So we’ll see.

Meanwhile, I’ve also got the Blogstalker whoring hawking my resumé, so who knows what other opportunities will arise?

3) Between the one-hour train ride down to Trenton, and the one-hour train ride back, I managed to finish The Fellowship of the Ring. (I’ve now read it three and a half times.) Therefore, I’ve begun part two, The Two Towers. Goodbye blue cover, hello green cover. (What was I saying a couple of weeks ago about hoping I wouldn’t get sucked back into Middle-Earth?)

4) At night I went to Twentysomething. Each time I go, I seem to know at least one or two more people than the previous time, which makes it easier to talk to other people. And I walked in there feeling like I looked good. On top of that, we were talking about New York’s Gay Pride Week and this Sunday’s gay pride march. Twentysomething is marching behind its own banner (last year they had 100 people in the group). Before the meeting, I wasn’t going to do it. But after the meeting, I decided I will. It will be the first gay pride parade I’ve ever attended, let alone march in.

When I was at the meeting, I felt something I hadn’t felt since the first time I’d been there, back in September. Perhaps it was because of the warm weather, but I suddenly realized, holy crap, I’m in a room filled with all these guys in their twenties, all of whom like other guys. A room full of sausages who like other sausages. I felt proud, and erotic, and excited, and cool, and grateful, and happy.

New York. Summer. Gay. Men. Heat. Short-sleeves. Tank tops. Calves. Sunglasses. Sand. Asphalt. Drinking beer outdoors on humid nights. Foreheads shiny with sweat. Catching a glance. Looking away. Looking back. Smiling shyly. Locking eyes.

Will it happen? In my dreams it already has.

Deep Sea Diving

Speaking of therapy, I had my own therapy session yesterday evening. RJ, maybe you have too many meta-discussions about therapy with your therapist, but I don’t have enough, and yet last night we did. She usually starts a couple of minutes late. Last night I got there, and she opened the office door and welcomed me, and as I walked in she excused herself for a couple of minutes. When she came back we first went over some financial stuff, except she thinks she might have forgotten to record a payment in her records. She seemed a little flustered. Something seemed slightly off. Then we were about to begin, and literally as soon as I inhaled to begin speaking, the phone rang. The phone rang! This is my biggest pet peeve. I’m now on my fourth therapist in ten years, and she’s the only one who lets phone calls interrupt the session. Usually it’s very quick — she tells the person “I’ll call you back later” — but I don’t think she should be picking it up during my session in the first place. I don’t even think the ringer should be on.

So I said, bashfully, not looking directly at her, “It kinda bothers me that you take phone calls during my therapy session.” Her eyes lit up, and she said, “Okay… what are you really trying to tell me?” Straight out of a TV movie, right? I mean, total therapy cliché. So first we talk about how I’m often so hesitant to criticize someone or stick up for myself because I want people to like me. My identity is built on me being a nice, intelligent, talented guy. And won’t they all be oh so impressed by my self-sacrifice?

Then we move on to the problems I have with her sometimes. Like consistently starting a few minutes late. Or how every few weeks the phone rings during the session. And basically I think she gives too much of her reactions away. I don’t think she’s enough of a blank wall. Sometimes that can be good, because at least she’s not obnoxiously hiding the ball. But sometimes… she seems… well, too human.

Oh my god! Humanity! How dare you interject humanity into my therapy session, right? I talked about how my therapists in the past had all been men, and wore ties, and how she’s a woman and every week she comes in wearing a different color and how I feel like this undermines her authority. The whole thing just feels too informal sometimes, and it makes me worry that we’re not doing therapy the “right” way, that we’re not following the rules and that therefore I’m not getting my money’s worth, and this is all going to have tragic consequences, and how do I know I’m entrusting my psyche to the right person? This is so me. Oh my god, the universe is going to implode if we don’t follow the rules. Ignore the rules or make your own rules and horrible things are going to happen.

She wanted to get back to this whole male/female thing, and so I talked about how a man wearing a tie just seems like more of a reliable authority figure to me. Sort of like my dad. BINGO! And we’re off. I’ve been angry and pissed at my dad for so much that I’ve felt he’s done to me, for the way he’s sometimes treated me, and yet at the same time I’ve been afraid to get out from under him. He was always reliable, he always set the rules, and I knew I couldn’t go wrong if I listened to him. He knew how to do things. He knew how to make mechanical repairs. He knew how to rent a car and plan a vacation. He knew to add up the check in the restaurant to make sure we weren’t getting overcharged. He knew how to tell people off when they were trying to cheat him. He knew how to make his way in this world. He knew what the rules were, he knew how to do all these things, and he did them right, and I’d think to myself, how could I possibly attempt to do things any differently than the “right” way, and how could I even attempt to do these things by myself at all? I mean, he’s so perfect. And he was the boundary. He was this stone archway around and above me. Protecting me, doing everything correctly and so well, and lecturing me on how I didn’t know how to do things. “Don’t put the stamp on the envelope crooked!” “Don’t put the dishes in the dishwasher that way!”

And at night he’d come home from his generic office job wearing his suit and tie and sometimes he’d have some candy for me. Usually M&Ms or Chuckles or Chiclets. It was so great.

And I looked like him in many ways. I had his curly hair. “You look just like your father!” people would say. They’d take a look at me and immediately know whose son I was. And one night I dressed up in his office clothes. I put on his glasses, his vest, his tie. I was this little bitty version of him. And we have similar brains — intelligent, an aptitude for math and science and the biting argument. In more recent years we could go toe to toe, like two powerful wizards who know each other’s tricks, throwing ineffective spells at each other. And I’d sometimes be yelling at my mom about something that my dad had done to piss me off, and she’d get a smile on her face and shake her head in disbelief and say, “You know, it’s amazing how similar you two are,” and I’d want to scream. I didn’t want to be similar to him.

Last night I told my therapist once again about my first memories of my mom and my dad.

My earliest memory of my mom is from when we were living in a two-family house in Queens. I was no older than three, because when I was three we moved out of that house. She and I sat on the floor of my bedroom, playing with the Fisher Price Little People™ Sesame Street Playset. I felt love and nurturing and companionship.

My earliest memory of my dad isn’t a real memory, but a dream. I had it when we were living in that same house. In the dream, I was standing alone in our kitchen at night. The kitchen had these ugly 1970s bright green walls and the lights were on. Suddenly this man walked into the room dressed from head to toe in a black scuba outfit, and although I couldn’t see any of his features I knew it was my dad. He had black flippers on his feet and his face was hidden behind a scuba mask and his body was covered in black. He seemed like a stranger. I was scared to death. What was he trying to scare me like this? Why was he doing this to me?

I have no idea why my earliest impression of my dad is based on fear. I doubt he physically abused me, but when I was a tiny bit older, I knew that he had a bad temper, and he could be menacing and he could yell, and he did hit me sometimes. He could be unpredictable, sometimes loving and proud of his son and sometimes terrifying and contemptuous of his son’s great incompetence, and because there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason as to what would trigger the bad stuff, I was afraid to act at all. Often I didn’t like him very much.

Of course, the answer is that it never really had anything to do with me. It was all about him. I kind of know that now. It’s just that the rest of me has to learn it.

Letters in response to the New York Times article on apostrophes.

Critics call Abercrombie & Fitch catalog soft porn. (Like that’s anything new…)

Date Bait

Tonight I went to Date Bait. I’d wanted to do this for a while, and tonight they were having one for guys in their 20s and 30s, so I decided to go. I wrote down a few things about myself beforehand. What I really mean is that I printed out my PlanetOut personal ad and wrote down some of the same things on a separate sheet of paper.

There were 48 guys. A few relatively attractive ones. One of them was someone I’d met at Twentysomething the other night, this cute bespectacled blond guy from Wales. Anyway, we all sat on chairs in a big circle. We took turns going around the room, each guy having up to a minute to speak about himself into a microphone before passing the mike to the next guy. Some people were witty, some people seemed sort of boring, some people seemed like ordinary human beings. Nobody really said anything pathetic, like they did when RJ attended, but there were some good lines. One guy said, “I’m not very physically active. I like the idea of physical activity.” That got a good laugh. Then there was this guy who seemed kind of charming but ended his very short speech by saying, “And I’m a total bottom boy.” That got another laugh, the kind of laugh where people are amused and stunned at the same time.

The microphone got to me faster than I’d expected. Oh, shit. I stood up, feeling kind of nervous. I didn’t have my piece of paper with what I wrote down, because I thought it would look stupid, but I wound up saying most of what I intended to say anyway. It was really strange listening to my voice through the speakers. And unfortunately I didn’t say anything very exciting. I was just laid-back and intelligent and sincere, and perhaps sort of boring-sounding. I should have come prepared with a few funny lines.

Finally we got to the last guy, who I’d thought looked a little familiar for some reason. He said his name and began to speak, and I realized who it was. It was Steve! You long-time readers might remember Steve. He was the creepy non-date who wound up costing me $8.50 back in January. (If you haven’t read that far back, or want to be reminded, the Steve saga begins here and continues here, then here, and finally concludes here. What a fiasco that whole thing was.)

Anyway, the introductions ended, and then we had 30 minutes to mingle. I talked to various people, some whose numbers I’d already written down and some whose numbers I hadn’t. At one point I went upstairs to use the bathroom and accidentally dropped my as-yet-unmarked computer card into the wet bathroom sink, so I had to get another one. I also talked to the Welsh guy for about 30 seconds — he recognized me and said hi. Then there was this other guy, with very very big glasses, straight out of Nerdville circa 1983. His glasses weren’t the problem, though. When I told him I worked in Newark, he said, “Oh, there are a lot of black people there, right?”

Finally it was time to fill in our little computer cards with the numbers of the guys we were interested in. I was really only interested in one, the Welsh guy. But I put down nine people altogether, some of whom seemed attractive and some of whom I thought it might be fun to at least talk with further.

Before we got our results, the organizer said that of the 48 people, 62 percent got matches and 38 percent did not. Steve wound up being one of the volunteers who handed out the results. I was in his line. I didn’t even look at him as I got my piece of paper. It read: “Sorry, #031 you have no matches today.”

Ouch.

I’m sure Steve was laughing on the inside.

So, yay. I was one of the 18 guys who didn’t get any matches, instead of one of the 30 guys who did. I nonchalantly walked back to my seat, picked up my bag, and nonchalantly walked out. I was so nonchalant that I was practically whistling a little tune as I walked out of the room. But on the inside I felt like the kid at camp who doesn’t get any mail while all the other kids are tearing open their care packages.

I walked down Hudson Street feeling all pissed off and embarrassed and worthless. Of course, the organizer had made clear beforehand that if you were to get no matches, it wouldn’t mean that nobody picked you. It just would mean that none of the guys that you picked picked you. But you know, I’d really been hoping for the Welsh guy. And maybe some others. Instead, this wound up being as useful as my PlanetOut ad. I haven’t had anyone respond to my ad in several weeks, even though I occasionally make a minor update so my ad will move back to the top of the list. (By “update” I mean that I insert a space, then delete the space, then hit “save.”)

This is making me think about what it is that I really want. I haven’t referred to someone as a “boyfriend” since April 1999, although I sort of dated someone long distance for a few months last spring. It’s been a year since there’s been a hint of anything. Do I really want to date someone? In theory, yes. But I’m rather picky. I’m not so unhappy being single that I’ll date someone just to date someone. I have an idea of what I want in a guy. If I don’t feel that spark with someone, why bother?

Could it be that I don’t really want to date someone? Could it be that I’m finding excuses, because I don’t want to sacrifice my independence and freedom right now? I don’t know. But I really need to rethink my whole approach to the dating scene.

And what about the reverse — why don’t people express an interest in me? I’m not talking about those of you who read my blog. Several of you have told me that I’d make someone a great boyfriend, that I really deserve someone good, that I’m a great guy, et cetera, et cetera. Some of you have still believed this even after meeting me in person, so I know I don’t give off a foul smell or an evil aura or something.

It could be that the great qualities I have are qualities that aren’t apparent immediately. I’m shy, and much of my goodness is deep within me. Which makes me think, you know, the same could be true for lots of those other guys out there. Perhaps a compatible person was at Date Bait tonight, but I didn’t pick him, because of his looks, because of his occupation, because of whatever.

Like I said, I need to rethink my whole approach to the dating scene. Or maybe not? Perhaps I should hold onto my standards and keep looking for that spark with someone. After all, there are still lots of guys out there whom I haven’t met, and I’ve still got lots of looking to do. And after all, the spark is important.

Isn’t it?

What do you experienced relationship folks think?

Any Recommendations?

I’m planning to leave Blog*spot in the near future and get my very own domain name, but I’m not sure what company to use to host my site. Any recommendations? I’ve looked at HostingForHumans and DreamHost. Can anyone recommend these, or any other companies?

I’d like to be able to have an e-mail account (or maybe up to five, who knows), and I’m thinking I might want to run a poll occasionally (would that require CGI access? I’m not totally sure what that is anyway), and I might switch to Greymatter. I’d still like to be able to use a comment system.

(While you’re at it, what’s the best price you’ve found to have your domain name registered, and through what company?)

Much, much obliged! Thanks!

Möbius Trip

Sometimes I have trouble getting close to other gay men. Sometimes it’s because I’m afraid they’re mistakenly going to think I’m interested in them. Sometimes it’s because I’m afraid they’re correctly going to think I’m interested in them.

That doesn’t really connect with anything I’m planning to write about. I know, a good opening paragraph is supposed to prepare you for what lies ahead, and that one didn’t. Sue me, but remember, I’m a lawyer. Anyway, that’s been on my mind.

Last night I stayed in. By choice. I felt like staying home, opening a beer, fixing myself some dinner, and spending time brushing up on my CSS skills. I found this great site that filled in lots of gaps in my knowledge. As I noted in my previous entry, I’m planning to move my site in the near future. Everybody’s doing it. Thanks for all the recommendations on registration services and hosting companies. Yesterday afternoon I actually went as far as sending Your-Site a request to register a domain name and open a web hosting account. I was supposed to receive a confirmation e-mail but it never showed up. An hour and a half later, the site went down. I’m tempted to think there’s a connection between my registration and the site going down, sort of like Arthur Dent picking up the toothbrush and the bulldozer plowing away. The site stayed down for at least the next ten hours, and by this evening, I still hadn’t received confirmation, so I called them up and cancelled my request. Thanks for the recommendation, Mattee, but it looks like bad karma between me and them, so I’m going to use someone else.

Tomorrow is the Pride Parade, and I’ll be marching with Twentysomething. My biggest fear is that I’ll be stuck somewhere along the route and have a major attack of the runs. God, please don’t let that happen.

Yes, it’s Gay Pride Weekend, which means that if I wanted to, I could have reserved a ticket for Caligula 2001 for 75 bucks. No thanks, really. But that’s sweet of you.

Speaking of tickets, my parents and my aunt have tickets to see “The Producers” next week. I’m envious as hell. It’s always my parents who get to do the privileged stuff. Of course, if I’d had the foresight to order a ticket back in March, as well as a hundred bucks, I could have written “The Producers” on my calendar as well. This really must be bugging me, because this morning I woke up from a dream in which Mel Brooks and Leonard Bernstein were doing some sort of wacky conducting/directing/comedy routine in tuxedos, making fun of all the conventions of their craft, sort of like Victor Borge does with piano playing. It was hilarious. I had never seen anything that had made me laugh so hard. Of course, when I woke up, I couldn’t remember what was so funny. Also keep in mind that Leonard Bernstein has nothing at all to do with “The Producers,” which is marginally related to the fact that he’s dead. Nevertheless, he’s one of my idols.

Anyway, I was invited to this party tonight, but I’m not sure I’m going to go. “What?” you’re thinking. “You talk about your dearth of social activities and here you’ve been invited to a party and yet you’re not going to go?” Well, yeah. I don’t totally know if it’s going to be my crowd. I just don’t seem to fit in with the sleeveless muscle-tees and all. But maybe I’ll go. What would be nice is if someone would ask me sometime, “Hey, wanna go see Troy’s swing band perform on Thursday night?” Like that’s going to happen. Because I’m just an afterthought.

I think it was easier to make friendships with other guys back when I was still in the closet. None of that gay stuff got in the way. Today, I’m so worried about getting close to guys because I’m afraid of what it’s all going to mean. As if it’s not possible for two gay men to just hang out and enjoy themselves. It’s sort of like the gay version of “When Harry Met Sally.” Can two gay men be friends without all that complicated stuff getting in the way? I think so. But I need to get past some quirks in my thinking.

You know why I have trouble calling people up? Because I really, really want to connect with someone.

That might not seem like it makes sense, but it does.

So my opening paragraph worked after all.

What an awesome, awesome day.

The weather was perfect for a parade. There was a chance of rain, but it never rained. At times the sky got overcast, but it was mostly sunny. The temperature was mild with a cool breeze. At times it was hot, but there was no humidity at all.

At around 11:15 in the morning I arrived at 56th Street between Madison and Fifth to meet up with the Twentysomething people to march in the parade. I got a free t-shirt, which I wore. There were about 25 of us. We stood around until just after 1:00, first waiting for the parade to start and then waiting for our turn to start marching. While we waited, we were right near the people from Urban Outings, as well as the Xena Warrior women (those people can really ululate), and the Gen-X Bears, and the Gay Video people. There was a man wearing only a thong and high-heels. There was a guy wearing a short gold lamé skirt with no underwear, though I think he had a cock ring. I know this because I saw him bend over. And there were drag queens everywhere, looking absolutely amazing. And New York mayoral candidate Mark Green came over to us, wearing a button-down shirt and khakis, and I got to shake his hand. And he patted me on the back. And I think I saw former Massachusetts governor William Weld, standing by himself in a shirt and tie, enjoying the mild weather and watching us get ready to march. A double-decker bus of bewildered tourists rode by and we cheered at them.

I noticed the cute blond guy from Wales arrive. To refresh your memory, I met this guy on Tuesday night at Twentysomething, and then I saw him again at Date Bait on Thursday night, where we briefly said hi. I’d put him down as someone I was interested in, but he hadn’t put me down, and I left that night with no matches. Anyway, there he was today. As we all stood around waiting, he was on the other edge of our group from where I was, so I went on talking with my friend Jay. We pointed out hot guys to each other as they walked by.

Finally, Wales and I made eye contact, and I waved, and he smiled and came over and said hi. We talked for a little bit, and then Jay joined in, and then it was (finally!) time to start marching, and the three of us continued chatting as we all began to walk.

We were all wearing our white t-shirts. Jason, one of the officers and a big guy, wore his t-shirt and a big yellow tutu. He marched in front of our banner and waved a big rainbow-striped American flag while a few guys twirled long rainbow-colored ribbons in synchronicity. We turned onto Fifth Avenue and began marching. People behind the police barricades cheered. There were also three pathetic-looking people holding placards imprinted with all the reasons why we were on our way to hell. We clapped and cheered at them, and then one of our guys turned to them and yelled, “God hates stupid people!” at which point we clapped and cheered some more.

As we marched, Wales and I wound up talking a lot. At times I’d straggle behind, talking with Jay or with someone else, and I’d see him glance back. Then I’d catch back up to him and we’d talk again about the parade and about the cool sights and about the people on the sidelines. And it turns out he lives in Jersey City, just one PATH stop before my own. He’s here on a one-year visa as part of a British program that sets people up with jobs in the U.S., and he lives in an apartment with five other people. Whoa.

In front of us was a float of scantily-clad women from Shescape. Behind us was a float of drag queens from Lips. And over the course of about three hours we marched all the way down Fifth Avenue. Past St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Past Rockefeller Center. Past the New York Public Library. Past the Empire State Building. Among the Lips drag queens were Wonder Woman, Jeannie, Elvis, and Liza Minelli. While we were stalled at the Empire State Building, Liza stood on top of her float and lip-synched to “New York, New York.” She looked like Liza Minelli on crack. She did an incredibly dead-on impersonation, and at the end of her song the crowd went wild. So did we.

We began to move again, continuing through the 30s, and then down through the 20s. As we approached Chelsea, the crowds grew larger and the cheering grew louder. It was so moving and heartwarming to see and hear them — I felt like we were coming home. Jay and I pointed out a plethora of hotties to each other. We marched down through Chelsea, finally reaching the arch at Washington Square Park, where we turned right and continued marching into and through the West Village, eventually turning onto Christopher Street, that most fabled of yellow-brick roads. As we marched along Christopher Street the crowds grew even larger and even louder and even more manic. I wanted to cry, it felt so great. And there were even more hotties than before.

Finally we reached the end of the parade, and we turned onto Hudson Street (where I saw a Boy Scout wearing a rainbow-colored fastener on his ascot and felt like cheering and giving him a great big hug). Our entire group decided to find food somewhere — good fucking luck. But after walking around for a while we managed to find a place. We sat down, taking up several tables. Wales and I had our own table. He looked at the menu and after a few minutes decided that he didn’t feel like buying a ten-dollar hamburger, and on top of that he really wanted to go back out and walk around and watch the rest of the parade. He said I was welcome to join him, and of course I said sure, so we said goodbye to everyone and we left.

We picked up some cheap sandwiches at Subway and then walked back up Seventh Avenue, maneuvering through the crowd, watching the rest of the parade. We found a less crowded spot just off the route, where we sat on the curb and ate our sandwiches and talked and watched the last few floats. The crowd cheered so loudly when the gay police officer contingent marched by towards the end.

We got up and decided to walk west along Christopher Street to the river. Whoops. We got stuck in a big crowd of people and had to wait behind some police barricades so they could let some of the traffic go by. And then it happened. I’d been just fine all day. I’d eaten only a piece of bread in the morning and a pretzel in the afternoon and had drunk very little water. But the Subway must have done it. Suddenly I needed to find a bathroom. Uh-oh. Fortunately we found a line of porta-potties (porta-loos, as Wales called them), and everything turned out okay. Whew.

We made our way to the river, but although there was a big crowd, there really wasn’t much going on. Wales suggested we go to Chelsea and have a drink at a pub (I mean a bar), so we continuing walking up West Side Drive along the river and then walked east and into Chelsea. We had a beer at Barracuda and talked for quite a while. Then we went to View Bar and we each had another drink and continued talking. It was almost 9:00 and he had to go home and take care of some things, so we walked to the PATH and rode it home. We exchanged phone numbers and e-mails and he suggested we go out to some bars next weekend. He offered to invite a couple of other people from Twentysomething he knows as well. At about 9:25, we arrived at his stop and he got off the train and I continued on my way.

When I got home I looked in the mirror and noticed that I’d got a little bit of sun. Not a whole lot — I’d put on sunblock — but enough to give my face a nice, healthy glow. And you know what? I looked pretty damn good.

Anyway, what does it all mean? I don’t care what it means. It means I’ve made a new friend. Meaning doesn’t matter here. All that matters is that I had an amazingly wonderful day. There were gay people in singles and in couples, of all shapes and sizes and colors. White, black, Asian, Hispanic, old, young, with kids, without kids, thin, fat, wearing clothes from the Gap, wearing tank tops, wearing dresses and thongs and chaps and leather vests and police uniforms and boas and scary makeup. I’d never had an experience like this before, and I loved every moment of it. Today it felt like the whole world was gay.

And — for just one day — it really, really was.

Dates

Life is funny. I went to Date Bait on Thursday and wound up hoping for a match with Wales so we could go on a date. The Date Bait people define “date” as hanging out together in a public place for at least 30 minutes. Wales apparently wasn’t interested. So what happens? We wind up spending practically all of Gay Pride Day together — talking while marching, then getting lunch together, then watching the end of the parade, then going for a long walk, then having drinks in two different bars, then riding the PATH back to Jersey City together. Estimated time elapsed: nine hours.

I’m not even saying, or even really thinking, that anything “romantic” is going to come of this. But that’s not my point.

My point is this: what the hell is a date, anyway? Is the concept of a date just totally archaic? Is it at all meaningful to purposely set up a meeting with someone so you can evaluate that person as a potential romantic interest? It just seems so… artificial. I don’t do so well on “dates” anyway. But when I’m just hanging out with someone, I do just fine.

My friend Nick, whom I first met at Twentysomething in September: the first time we decided to meet up, on a Saturday, we wound up tooling around Manhattan for about twelve hours. The following Saturday we did the same thing. I was interested in him, but he wasn’t interested in me in that way, so he never considered our get-togethers to be dates. Yet he’d go out to dinner with people he was interested in, and he’d call those get-togethers “dates.” I guess the idea of a date has to do with all that evaluation and expectation. But how can you possibly get to know someone under all that pressure, and how can you possibly feel comfortable?

That’s why I’m coming to think that the idea of a “date” is a stupid, stupid concept.

“Tinman, tinman, tinman.” Had I been drinking something when I read that entry this morning, the beverage would have wound up all over the computer monitor as a result of my hysterical laughter…

Congrats on the new house!

Franks Gets Schundted Aside

Schundler wins the NJ Republican primary. Remember, that was the conservative guy. Well, it’s going to be an interesting election season. New Jersey and Virginia are the only two states with governor’s races this year, so this should get lots of attention.

I don’t think Schundler should be underestimated. Even the campaign of Democrat Jim McGreevey, who has been running for governor almost constantly since almost beating Christie Whitman four years ago, seems slightly unsettled by this win. For four years he’s been preparing to run as an outsider against Trenton and the state Republican establishment, but now it turns out the Republican nominee is an outsider, too. And unfortunately, I think Schundler has a decent chance of winning.

“We’ve got 45 drawers on Bob Franks and only one on Schundler,” according to a researcher for the Democratic State Committee. “We’re going to have to throw the Franks drawers out the window.”

Anyway, are you bored yet? I guess by now my secret is out. It’s true: the real goal of my blog is to educate all of you about the intricacies and machinations of New Jersey state politics! All that gay stuff and angst was just a ruse.

At any rate, assuming all goes well, I know who’s getting my vote in November. The choice is clear.

I’ll be voting for the Democratic candidate for mayor of New York City.

You GO, boy!

I’m so happy for him. It’s a true milestone for this guy.

I hope he goes into more detail. But then again, it’s his life…

Gays in the Military

I’ve just read an extraordinary series of letters. Two days ago Salon.com ran an article by David Horowitz called Why Gays Shouldn’t Serve. Horowitz is a former member of the New Left who turned conservative a while back, and I think Salon hired him as a columnist in order to provide some counterpoint to its liberal views.

I find Horowitz’s columns infuriating. It’s not just his views, but his tone. I think he’s snide, mean-spirited, and incredibly childish. He’s also a lazy thinker — the substance of his argument is usually peppered with clichés and old chestnuts. He mischaracterizes the people who disagree with his views, for example, painting them all out to be angry, unthinking, P.C. zealots; he focuses on the most extreme examples, never acknowledging that rational people out there might disagree with him. (It’s certainly easy to make an argument when you perpetuate the fiction that no rational person would disagree with you.) Finally, he seems unable to write too many columns without referring to himself and the accomplisments of which he’s apparently proud. He injects too much of his ego into his writing. Journalism is supposed to be about the stories, not about those who write them.

In short, Horowitz is one of the most obnoxious writers I’ve ever read. I don’t know if he’s completely unaware of his obnoxiousness, or if he cultivates it in order to gain fame and exposure. Either way it’s pathetic.

Anyway, his column on Monday about gays in the military was typically infuriating. But today, Salon printed a plethora of letters from people who disagree with him, including some from members of the U.S. military. I wanted to quote one of them here, but I couldn’t single any of them out. They’re all so excellent.

I love, love, love it when people can express disagreement through calm, logical argument. It makes my spine and my brain tingle. Calm argument is classy. Logical argument is elegant. The clarity that calm logic can bring to an issue, the light it can shine, the power it has to excavate our minds and unearth all the old moldy assumptions we have about things — in short, the truth that it can bring into the world — well, that can only be good for human society. And that’s the case no matter what side of an issue you’re on.

I love it, I love it, I love it when that happens. If you have a chance, please read the column and the many responses — each of them. I found the experience incredibly enriching.

Blissful Inconsequence

I realize that I haven’t written about my personal life since the weekend. That’s because nothing of consequence has happened. Actually, I’ve been really obsessed with moving/tweaking my site over the past week. My schedule has been: go to work, come home from work, eat dinner, get online, and work on my site. At some point each night I grab a beer from the fridge and get back to the computer. It’s really been wonderful. All has seemed right with the world; I haven’t worried about anything, because I’ve been really interested in what I’ve been doing.

I did get an e-mail from Wales yesterday — he was invited to go to a bar and an 80s dance club tonight, and he invited me along. He’s probably going to skip the bar and just go to the club. Maybe I’ll do that too.

Meanwhile, yesterday I talked to my friend Nick for the first time in a little while. He amazes me — he seems to have dates with three or four guys a week. And whenever I ask how he met so-and-so, he says, “Through PlanetOut.” I really don’t understand it. He must just be really motivated. I’ll admit I’m kind of envious, but at the same time, for some reason, I just want to laugh at the whole thing. It’s becoming comical. “Tonight I have a date with so-and-so, and tomorrow night I have a date with such-and-such. Oh, and I had a date with this guy the other night… he was SOO adorable.” I get tired of hearing about it after a while.

Still, like I said, it’s been a good week. It’s been nice to be working hard on things that really interest me. Happiness is nothing happening at all.

Woof!

I was tooling around on the Internet this morning, reading the New York Times and contemplating entering the chat rooms, when I got an instant message from someone unfamiliar. “Jeff?” the person wrote. “Yes?” I wrote back. It turned out it was my dad. I’d never had an online chat with one of my parents before, and I wasn’t sure how to express myself. It just seemed weird to have a conversation with my dad using “LOL” and “oh” and “oh ok” and smiley faces. But I got used to it.

My dad told me that my parents have settled on a new dog. When our old dog died last month after a long life, my mom said that she wasn’t interested in getting another one, but as the house’s emptiness turned to sullenness she changed her mind.

But how to acquire a new dog? The last dog was a mixed-breed animal from a shelter, but after considering the options, my parents decided to go to a breeder. I think I would have been torn. If you get a dog from a shelter, you know you’re doing a good deed, rescuing a dog from harsher fates, but you don’t really know what you’re getting. If you get a dog from a breeder, you know what you’re getting, but… I don’t know. Ever see the Simpsons episode where Santa’s Little Helper was replaced with Laddie? A perfect dog… too perfect.

Anyway, I’m sure I don’t know what I’m talking about. Like I know from dog breeders.

So they decided to go through a breeder. But what breed? My brother and I were pushing for a retriever of some sort — my brother really wanted my parents to get a golden, and I would’ve been happy with that or a black lab. But since I don’t live there anymore and my brother’s moving out soon, I guess it’s up to them. They considered basset hounds (my mom had one as a kid) and the aforementioned golden retrievers, but they finally settled on getting a German shorthaired pointer. They’ve picked a breeder and everything, and they should get a puppy in about a week and half. They don’t yet know which member of the litter they’re getting.

I’m happy that they’re getting a new dog, but I think the first time I see him or her I’m going to feel a fresh wave of lament over the loss of our old dog. On top of that, I had a really bad roommate experience last year for a few months, and the guy had a German shorthaired pointer, the only one I’ve ever known. She was a great dog, but I still associate that breed with the bad roommate. I assume that will change.

Sigh… I guess I won’t be able to call the new dog “my” dog, since I won’t be living with it. But maybe someday I’ll get a dog of my own. Or a boyfriend. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s someone to lick my face in the morning.