The Play About the Baby

I saw the play about the baby last night.

What play about what baby?

No, no, no. I saw The Play About the Baby last night. By Edward Albee. You know, the guy who wrote Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf 40 years ago? Yup, he’s still alive and kicking.

The play’s message wasn’t very original, but it was a pleasure to watch. Terrific use of language, and some hilarious moments to counter the pessimism. Marian Seldes was a real treat. And there was nudity. An incredibly cute, fresh-faced young guy — buck naked. Well-hung, too! (There was a naked woman, too, but I didn’t really notice.) During the rest of the play, the guy wore just a pair of blue jeans with a hole in it and a white t-shirt, and his feet were bare. Very sexy.

Unfortunately, my theater curse kicked in. When I see a play or musical, there’s almost always an understudy in an important role. (Just ask Mike.) This was only a four-character play, and yet the most important character was played by a standby. He was terrific, though. I wouldn’t even have known he was filling in.

It’s so annoying, though. This happens almost every time I go to the theater. In Tick, Tick… Boom!, the lead actor was out. (And there were only three actors. Again, the standby was terrific, though.) In Ragtime, Brian Stokes Mitchell was out. In Rent, Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal were BOTH out. (I wanted to scream.) When I went to see A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, Nathan Lane was out, so we exchanged our tickets for another performance. When we finally saw the show, Nathan Lane was there, but another main actor was out. I’ve reached the point where whenever I see a show, I’m paranoid that a major actor’s going to be out. It’s a good thing I don’t have a ticket to see Madonna in concert, because she’d probably be M.I.A.

In one of those New Yorkish experiences, the actor Edward Norton was in the audience last night. (No, not that one.) I recognized him in the lobby during intermission. He was wearing a gray pullover tucked into a pair of black pants and he was with some woman. My friend CanadaGirl came out of the restroom, and I moved in close to her and whispered, “Do you know who Edward Norton is? I think he’s standing over there.” Of course she turned around and very obviously looked over, at which point he and his date/friend/girlfriend walked out of the lobby and presumably back to their seats. It wasn’t a very big theater, and our seats were up in a box, so before the second act began I scanned the orchestra seats and found him. During the second act I kept looking down at him because I wanted to see how a well-known actor watches other actors. Whenever I looked down he was sitting with his right elbow on the armrest, his face resting in his right hand — his thumb and his middle finger holding up his chin, and his index finger lying along his cheek — with a bemused smile on his face. I guess he enjoyed it. And from some websurfing for this post, I learned that he’s acted in one of Albee’s other plays, Fragments.

I’d be such a starfucker if only it wouldn’t be so totally and completely humiliating. It’s kind of pointless, anyway, considering that famous people are just people, just as normal or abnormal as anyone else.

Which brings a thought to mind: Have you ever wondered if famous people read blogs? What if Michael J. Fox or Tom Cruise or Madeline Albright or Al Gore sits there in front of a computer screen, just clicking away? What if there’s some famous closeted gay actor out there who can’t start his day without catching up on the doings of the gay blogging circuit?

After all, celebrities surf the Web, too! Right?

From the Salon

Two interesting gay-ish pieces from Salon.com:

Coming out of the closet — to be straight. “At the age of 28, after eight years of dating women — that is, never having dated men — I realized that I wanted to be with men. And that, in fact, I had never wanted to be with women — not sexually, anyway.” (The writer is a woman.)

Nellies need not apply. “This is an absurd cruelty that gay culture plays on itself. We encourage effeminacy with one bejeweled, manicured hand but slap it down with the callused, unjeweled other. Few of us want to have sex with guys in dresses. Especially the guys in the dresses.”

Crossfire

I had a date last night.

This guy replied to my personal ad a couple of weeks ago. He was the first person to respond to my ad in a couple of months, if not longer. His pictures didn’t look that great, but he seemed intelligent and intriguing and he was Jewish, and those are all pluses with me.

We e-mailed and instant-messaged and set up a meeting. Twice he had to postpone it: the first time it was because he’d partied too much the night before, and the second time, I don’t know why. I was ready to throw in the towel, thinking to myself that if this guy breaks two dates in a row, I don’t know if he’s someone I want to meet. But I figured, what the hell. So last night we met up for drinks. He was going to meet a friend for dinner afterwards, so we had about an hour.

He was much more attractive than his photos made him appear. He’s got some of my favorite characteristics: short, dark-haired, Jewish. He’s only an inch taller than me, and he was wearing glasses and has a nicely-developed body. He’s 22. Physically I felt an electrical charge, which has never happened to me on a personal-ad-inspired date before. It was exciting.

There are some drawbacks. He smokes (after we left the bar he pulled out a cigarette). He makes a lot of money and works in the corporate world (for one of those big financial firms). He seems pretty outgoing and outspoken and forthright and kinda backslappy.

I dislike cigarette smoke, I make little money and don’t really see myself as a corporate type, and I’m softspoken and hesitant. He’s very Type A. Type-A people get to me.

There was something really exciting, though — and this may sound strange — but it was his politics. He describes himself as a conservative/libertarian along the lines of William F. Buckley. He’s done lots of reading and has tried to eliminate all inconsistencies in his political thinking. So he’s against the death penalty, and he thinks abortion is murder. Low taxes are a given. He supports the free market and dislikes the idea of subsidies of any kind. And he’s against rent control. He thinks the Constitution should be strictly interpreted. (For myriad reasons, which I learned in law school, that’s pretty much impossible today.) He thinks that practically every law Congress makes is unconstitutional. He thinks the federal government should stay out of everything except national defense and maintaining highways.

I asked him what he thinks of the religious right, and thankfully he doesn’t agree with them at all. He says they’re not actually conservative. They want the government to stick its nose into all our business, and a true conservative wants the government to stay out of all our business.

My immediate thought upon hearing that he was a conservative was, “Oh, jeez… what a loon.” How could he be gay… and Jewish… and yet conservative? But it turned out to be incredibly stimulating and enlightening. He gave me lots to think about.

I’m not the flaming liberal you might think I am. When I exit the realm of identity politics, things get kinda wishy-washy. I’m less ideological and more pragmatic. But whether based on ideology or pragmatism, I do believe certain things, and I find Alex P. Keaton’s beliefs here to be overly ideological and kind of heartless.

Oh, can you see it? We could be like James Carville and Mary Matalin. Like Nick and Nora. We could exchange sharp and witty repartée and then roll around in the sack. Ooooh… I bet political disagreements make for very hot sex.

On the other hand… his personality. He seems to have a sarcastic and cynical streak, and I’m more understanding and sensitive. He’s corporate and I’m more touchy-feely. And then there’s the money — I can’t afford the same social experiences he can, restaurants and so forth. And I’m kind of directionless right now, while he seems to know what he wants and to go after it. I felt kind of spineless next to him.

He doesn’t seem to know any of this about me yet. He really seemed to like me, and he wants to get together again. He’s going on vacation to Prague next week and he said he’d send me postcards if I gave him my address. I suggested we can see a movie when he gets back, and he’s already thinking about what movies to see. This morning we sent each other simultaneous e-mails saying that we enjoyed last night. He wrote in part:

Good meeting you yesterday. Smooth chatter is always wonderful. Y’know those situations where both people bark awkward contrived remarks? This wasn’t one of them (as far as I can tell ;)

So, I’ve written all this, and I know that someone will tell me to relax and not think about it too much and just go with the flow. It will probably be Sparky, and he’ll be right. I know, I know… but I’m me, and this is what I do. And I have to blog, after all.

Are you relationship-ready?

My result is pretty dead-on:

Willing and Able

You want to be in a relationship, but you’re somewhat wary of giving up your independence. No worries — when Mr. or Ms. Right comes along, you’ll know it, and you’ll be ready. In the meantime, have some fun and carpe diem while it lasts!
—–

Log Cabins

My date the other night got me thinking: how much do we shape our political views based on what we ourselves truly believe, and how much do we shape our views based on the culture or identities of the other people who hold those beliefs? “All politics is local,” but how much of politics is personal?

I’m Jewish and gay and from the Northeast. It’s certainly easier for me to adopt the political beliefs of the people with whom I normally associate. Support Israel, support gay rights, keep Christianity out of government. You go to the Newport Folk Festival and listen to James Taylor and the Indigo Girls, and you see all these free-spirited idealists, and these people seem so great, and you want to believe what they believe, because you like them so much.

And as for the other side? These days I associate the Republican Party with fundamentalist Christians, who seem kind of poisonous to me — given that they think I’m going to hell both for having sex with men and for not believing in Christ’s divinity, and maybe even for living in New York. That’s probably a bit paranoid on my part, but not totally.

These are usually unconscious decisions.

And then I meet a politically conservative gay guy.

I think to myself, how can he hold these beliefs? Isn’t that self-hatred?

But there are gay Republicans out there.

Political beliefs come in packages in this country. You can’t pick and choose in the United States; you have to choose Group of Beliefs A or Group of Beliefs B. You have to be for one major guy or the other major guy, or else you come off looking like a kook.

Based on that idea, we make so many assumptions about people. If all I knew about a guy was that he was pro-life, I might assume that he was a fanatic or a deeply religious person or anti-gay or against poor people and so forth. And I might be wrong.

As I wrote yesterday, when I exit the realm of identity politics, my beliefs aren’t well-formed. I support gay marriage and I think gays should be allowed to serve openly in the military. (I don’t support hate-crimes laws, though.) But what about everything else? Are low taxes better? Or is it better for the government to do everything it can for its citizenry? Does government have some sort of moral obligation to help? Or is it that in a perfect world, the government wouldn’t have to help, but since nothing else is working, the government should? Or should we have high taxes, but only to pay off as much of the national debt as we can, because the government’s debt is the people’s debt?

Is a missile shield maybe not such a crazy idea, and am I just disdaining it because Dubya supports it? After all, what’s so crazy about wanting to defend your nation in the best way possible, at least in theory? But what about in practice? And what about abortion? Do I have complete disdain for the pro-life point of view, or do I just have complete disdain for the people with whom I stereotypically associate that view? Is killing something with a heartbeat okay? But what’s wrong with doing so when technically it hasn’t been born yet? And what about “take your laws off my body”?

There aren’t quick and easy answers. My political beliefs are not well-formed, because so many issues are so complicated. I’m open to other people’s arguments most of the time. I guess that’s a good thing. But it doesn’t make me a very lively debater. Instead, it makes me a very lively deliberator.

1 Mayor, 2 Guys, 1 Shih Tzu. It turns out that as New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani’s marriage has been falling apart, he’s been bunking at the home of a gay couple. For real. A hilarious and optimistic column by the always-terrific Frank Rich.
—–

Saturday Night Fever

I’m staying in tonight. I seem to have caught the Blogger Flu; first Blogstalker, and now me. I have a slight temperature of 99.2. (That’s Farenheit, for all you non-Americans. Celsius? Metric system? Bah. Too rational.) I was going to go out and party with MermeatherEggiac and the gang tonight, but instead I’m sitting here eating a bowl of soup. Better safe than sorry.

I had a great time with them last night, though. Bill and Ron came in from San Francisco and Boston, respectively; there was also a surprise appearance by Andy, as well as all the usual suspects, and even Beau! He has a goatee now, and I didn’t recognize him at first. Looks great.

I have low tolerance for alcohol, apparently. I had a big bowl of pasta for dinner — two, even — and yet, after three and a half beers last night, I couldn’t drink anymore, so I switched to water. That’s what happens when you weigh 125 pounds, I guess.

It’s almost seeming so routine… all these visits from far-off bloggers… I met so-and-so and so-and-so and we went to so-and-so and so-and-so and drank so-and-so. But it’s always great to meet new people, and it was wonderful finally to meet the men behind Leather Egg and Mermanaic after all these months. Now if only Jonno had shown up. It could have been like the royal family or something. Aw well.

Anyway, I’m sitting at home, finishing up my soup, and maybe I’ll make a fried-egg sandwich (you’re supposed to feed a fever, right? Or… heck, I don’t know). I’ll tool around on the Internet and try not to stress about the fact that my job ends in two weeks and I still don’t know what I’m doing afterwards, or how I’ll pay my rent next month. I’m going to send my resumé to a legal temping firm and see if I can maintain some cash flow two weeks from now.

God, this is so par for the course for me. It’s such a familiar place for me — not having a job. Happened during college, happened after college, happened after law school, and it’s about to happen now. I feel like a screw-up. I’m sure my parents won’t be happy about this. I’m sure as heck not moving back home again. They don’t want that. And neither do I.

The only difference this time around is that there’s a bunch of people reading my words, and so I feel a little less alone; maybe I’ll feel like less of a fuckup if I can remember that I have something of value to contribute to the world. Moral support, baby. That’s what it’s all about.
—–

Fireworks

I feel like I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.

In a good way. I think.

When I wrote last night’s entry, I had a very slight fever, and I was going to just sit at home and surf the Web and take it easy. So I read part of Sunday’s New York Times online… got caught up on my MetaFilter reading… and I wandered into the chat rooms.

I saw a name I’d never seen before. He was in Jersey City. There was no photo, but his stats looked appealing: he was my age, not much taller than me, ex-frat guy. Hmmm.

I opened up a window with him and said hi. About a minute went by, and then I got an unusually (for chat rooms) friendly and polite response: something like, “Hey dude, I’m really sorry but I’m kind of busy chatting with an old friend right now… can we chat later?” I said sure thing, no problem, talk to you later. I figured I was getting the brush-off.

A while later I was in the chat room again and he reappeared. In the public window I said hi to him, and then, to my surprise, he opened up a window with me. He apologized again, I said it was okay. We chatted for a while. He was intelligent with a dry wit — both good things in my book. It turned out he lived four blocks away from me. It was after midnight. My fever had pretty much disappeared. And I was sort of horny.

He told me that he was on his way into Manhattan to go to a piano bar. He asked if I’d like to join him. But singing showtunes with a stranger wasn’t really something I was prepared to do at that point in the evening. So I politely declined.

We continued chatting for a while, and he asked what I was up to. I told him not much. We chatted for a while longer, and eventually he decided that it was probably too late to go to a piano bar.

He asked if I’d like to meet up. I said sure. We decided to meet in front of this bar/restaurant around the corner from my apartment.

Here it was, Saturday night, a quarter to two in the morning, and I was showering and changing in order to go out and meet a guy.

He showed up, and he was pretty cute. Clear, tanned skin. Nice arms, nice legs, nice eyes.

The bar looked very crowded and very straight, so we decided to skip it and tried to think of other places to go. After a very short and half-hearted attempt to think of places that might still be open, he suggested we just go hang out at his apartment.

That was totally fine with me.

He fixed us a couple of drinks and turned on some music.

There was an armchair and a loveseat. I sat down on one end of the loveseat. When he sat down on the other end, I figured that was a good sign.

We talked, and talked, and talked, and talked. He’s a pretty masculine guy. An ex-fratboy who’s into showtunes. I thought that was cute. He’s only been out for about two months, but he’s no gay novice.

He’s a corporate guy with libertarian politics. Wait, didn’t I just meet one of those a few days ago? What’s going on here? But unlike my date from the other night, this guy’s a big fan of Bill Clinton. He won points for that.

At some point his leg brushed against mine. We kept talking. Then his hand grazed against my hand. We kept talking. Then we were holding hands, and I stroked his palm with my fingers. We kept talking.

I leaned over to get my driver’s license out of my wallet so he could see what I looked like before the goatee. When I settled back against the couch, his arm was there, and it went around my shoulders. Then mine went around his. We kept talking.

Shortly thereafter, sometime after 4 in the morning, we stopped talking and started kissing.

Fireworks.

Eventually, we made our way to the bedroom. Things continued.

Amazing. Incredible.

I hadn’t felt like this in ages.

Several times he said, “I don’t want this to be a one-night stand.” I told him I didn’t either. And I was pretty sure of it. He kept telling me how cute he thought I was. I told him he was too. And he was.

We exchanged witty and sly remarks.

Finally, at around 7 in the morning, we were wiped out. It was light outside. We cuddled up together underneath the covers and closed our eyes.

When was the last time I’d spent the night with someone? February, but that kinda sucked, so really January. More than six months ago.

This felt wonderful.

I’ve lived in Jersey City for nine months and this guy has lived four blocks away from me the whole time.

I couldn’t sleep.

I started to feel a faint undercurrent of panic. Um, wait. Do I really want a relationship yet? I say that I do, but do I really? It’s all fine and dandy until it actually happens. I mean, my life is kind of quirky. I haven’t turned on my TV in more than two months. I don’t even have cable. My refrigerator’s practically empty. I barely have any spending money. My job is about to end and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Meanwhile, he’s a corporate guy who owns his own apartment at age 27. How can I keep up?

And I don’t know all that much about him yet. And what about the date from the other night who seems to like me? Do I toss him aside now? And I have another personal-ad-initiated date with someone on Monday night, someone I’m not all that enthusiastic about meeting anyway. Do I still go on that date? What if this guy lying next to me in bed wants to become a couple already? My longest relationship was two months. Well, there was a four-month long-distance relationship a year and a half ago, too, but that was different. I don’t have too much experience. And I promised myself that the next time, I’d be more careful, I’d move more slowly.

I realized that it was exactly two years ago that I’d met Biosphere Boy. Exactly two years. To the day.

I desperately wanted to blog.

I couldn’t sleep at all. Hours went by.

Finally it was about 11 in the morning. We cuddled again. Smooth, soft, warm skin. And he liked my body. We cuddled so deeply, so tenderly. But he didn’t want to kiss anymore.

I guess he doesn’t like morning mouth. That’s unfortunate, because kissing is, like, my favorite thing in the world, morning mouth or no.

It was hard for us to make eye contact, too.

At noon he had to get up and go into the office, so I had to leave. There was something weird about our interactions. Slightly stilted, slightly embarrassed, slightly unsure of ourselves, maybe.

We exchanged phone numbers. Hugged. A big, long hug.

I came home.

I need sleep.

Months go by without any dating prospects, and then two of them appear within days of each other.

What is God trying to do?

I’m confused. Very confused. What happened last night? What will happen? I don’t know. This is all too weird.

Move slowly. Move slowly. Move slowly.

Ugh.

I feel like I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.

In a bad way. I think.

Or, actually, I don’t know.

This job I’ve been waiting to hear about? I found out this morning that they’ve filled all the available positions. They’ve put my application on hold. If anything opens in the next couple of weeks they’ll let me know.

I hung up the phone and started to feel queasy. I wanted to vomit.

I talked to my boss’s contact later in the afternoon, and he said in a few days he should have a better idea of whether there’ll be an opening. It didn’t sound like there were guarantees.

So I faxed my resumé to a legal temping agency today. Without steady income throughout this month, I won’t be able to pay my rent at the beginning of next month. I guess I’ll get a cash advance on my credit card if I need to. As a last resort.

I’ve also unearthed an available position in Hoboken with a major legal publishing firm, and I e-mailed them my resumé this afternoon. And I also faxed my resumé to five law firms looking for entry-level lawyers, one on Newark, four in Manhattan.

Now. My job ends in two weeks and I’m faxing out resumés NOW.

I’m a fucking idiot.

I was assuming this job was going to come through for me, and it hasn’t. If I’d begun the application process earlier, they might have had a position for me. They don’t. Other people, but not me. I put all my eggs in one basket and the basket got run over by a truck.

It’s not like this is the first time this has happened to me. It happened to me after I graduated from law school, too. As my parents have told me in the past: Jeff, you never learn.

You know, there are lots of self-critical words I could write here. And I’ve said most of them to myself today. In fact, I wrote most of them down while writing this entry but I wound up deleting them because they would seem so mopey. Anyway, criticism is the last fucking thing I need right now, from myself or from others. So if you have any, save it.

I fucked up. Okay. People fuck up. I’m moving on. Only because I don’t really have a choice.

Meanwhile I’m still on pins and needles wondering what’s going to happen with the guy from Saturday night. I decided to leave him a casual phone message last night. I said, “Hey, just wanted to let you know that I had a really good time last night, and I’d love to hang out again sometime. Hopefully sooner rather than later. Anyway, I’m going to take a nap, but feel free to give me a call if you want… as long as it’s not too late.”

He didn’t call. It must have been too late. Anyway, the next move is his.

And I’m exhausted — I still haven’t caught up on my sleep. So I’ve postponed a date that I was supposed to have tonight with this late-30ish British guy. I don’t think he’s what I want anyway. I responded to his e-mail only because his picture was kinda good-looking and he was a writer. I thought he might be interesting. But over the phone there’s no chemistry. The few times we’ve talked on the phone, he’s been a slow and shy speaker. Unfortunately he really seems to be looking forward to it, not knowing that I don’t share his enthusiasm. After we made plans via telephone a few days ago, there was a pause, and then he said, in his British accent, “So, this is going to be quite exciting, isn’t it?” Dude, have you never been on a personal ad date before? It’s not always exciting.

Tonight I’m going to do laundry and sleep.

Last night I had two weird dreams about people coming back from the dead. Actually, one of them wasn’t people. It was our old dog. I dreamed that somehow she’d come back to life and was still living in my parents’ house along with the new dog. But she was in bad condition. And when I went over to pet her, she bared her teeth and growled at me angrily. She was pissed. Almost as if she’d preferred to stay dead.

The other dream was about John F. Kennedy. In my dream, there was an alternate history. JFK wasn’t really assassinated; as we all know (in the dream), he was just presumed dead, and he wound up imprisoned on an island somewhere in the South Seas, where he was beaten and tortured until he made his way home a few years later. In the dream, I was watching a recreation of his homecoming played by actors in a TV movie. Jackie was pushing his wheelchair up the front path of their house while reporters snapped photos. He said “it’s great to be back” or something like that. The actors were remarkably similar to the real people. How postmodern.

Weird. What is my subconscious trying to tell me?

Only two things have made my day today. One is this beautiful e-mail from a fellow blogger, in regard to the guy:

listen to me and hear me now. relax. lighten up. a guy does not hook up with you, brush your knee, hold your hand, talk to you, guide you to the bedroom and make love to you until 7 in the morning because he “just wants to hook up.” no sir. he is doing that because he has a genuine need, he is *truly* attracted to you and he is comfortable with himself. relax. it’s ok. you are ok. it was good. why think so paranoidly ahead? just like it for what it is. relish it. roll in in. love it. live it and experience it. don’t worry about how much money he makes ( you are SO caught up in that….it. does. not. matter.) just go for it and take it where it leads.

how old are you? i’m 36 and it took me about 33 years to realize these things. i can only hope that you get beyond your insecurites. because, mr. tinman, there is a beautiful YOU waiting on the other side.

Thank you… I needed that.

The other thing that made my day is this. Had I been drinking water it would have come out through my nose as I laughed my head off. It’s about halfway down. You’ll know it when you see it. Thanks, RJ. I needed that.

Palm-Stroking

I slept at his place again last night. I’m exhausted.

He called me around 9:30. Turned out we were both in the middle of laundry. We talked for a while and made plans for Thursday night (he’s going to cook). But then he invited me to sleep over, so I did. Walking at a normal pace, door to door, it took me five minutes. FIVE MINUTES. It’s insane how close we are.

He had cooked something and was putting away leftovers. He has a big collection of Bon Appetit magazines. I waited for him to clean dishes while we talked. After that, I waited for him to finish folding laundry. I was feeling impatient. I wanted to sleep with him.

Later, we’re lying down, staring into each other’s eyes. He tells me I’m cute. I tell him he’s cute too. Our faces inches from each other, he looks at me with a smile on his face, then shakes his head in awe. “Ya kill me,” he says, laughing as if in disbelief that he’s found someone like me. Then, later, in bed, holding me in the darkness: “Jeff… you’re such a special guy.”

Later he’s snoring. We’re still snuggled up together. My hand is on his chest. I feel/listen to him breathe. This is bliss. I could lie against him like this forever. It’s like our bodies are made for each other.

As I lie there, Brad’s words keep coming into my mind, over and over, like a mantra:

Less over-thinking, more palm-stroking.

I’m trying.

Here’s a caveat: The rest of this entry is neurotic. Yes, go ahead and shake your collective heads in consternation. Oh, that Tin Man. There he goes again. Why can’t the guy just relax? I know, there’s no need for me to be thinking such neurotic thoughts right now, I should probably just be enjoying the moment. But despite all my efforts to the contrary, these are the thoughts I’m having. I wish I weren’t having them. But I can’t seem to control them. I wish my brain didn’t work the way it does.

By putting these thoughts into words, I’m possibly giving them greater acknowledgment than they deserve.

With that caveat in mind, here goes.

I have some doubts. What do he and I have in common? I’m not sure. We both like theater. What else? How much should two people have in common? Is chemistry enough, or not? What will we talk about?

Last night, lying in bed, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he snored, I realized with unease that I’d hardly seen any books in the place. I wonder if he reads.

And then this morning, he woke up at 6 so he could go to the gym for a run. This after hardly any sleep in the last couple of nights. When he got back, I was still in his bed, having fallen back asleep. I was woken up by a loud CREEEEEK as he opened his ironing board. He was ironing to the sound of 1010 WINS, one of New York’s all-news radio stations. I’m really not a fast-paced morning-media person. It’s too much adrenaline, too early. And yet, barely any sleep and he was rarin’ to go. He told me that he’s totally wired in the morning and that he knows that it gets to some people, even his boss sometimes. I felt as dead as a salmon. I felt sloth-like and guilty, reinforcing what a lazy unsuccessful guy I’ve felt like lately.

I came home. Instead of crawling back into bed for another half hour, I showered and dressed and made some eggs and ironed some clothes. Trying to be more of a morning person. As I ironed I listened to NPR’s “Morning Edition” for the first time in ages. Not 1010 WINS. National Public Radio. That’s more my style.

Will I be able to stand him? Maybe we’re not really compatible. What will happen when he realizes that I’m lazy and unmotivated and unsure of myself?

And yet he seems wild about me. I have no idea why. Why is this Type-A, pretty cute, outgoing, former frat guy interested in me? What does he see in me? This isn’t self-deprecation. The fact is, he barely knows me. He doesn’t know I’m neurotic. All he knows, apparently, is that I’m a nice guy, and intelligent, and apparently cute.

Is that enough for him?

Maybe it is enough for him. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he’s not as judgmental as I am.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental, either.

Maybe I should just let me be me and let him be him and maybe that will be enough.

Am I just afraid of getting too close?

I’m not sure what it all means.

Again — this multitude of thoughts is competing with one other, simpler thought:

Less over-thinking, more palm-stroking.

I’m trying. I really am. Because that one simple thought seems so much more appealing than all this internal fiddle-faddle.

Damn, People

(Upon reflection, I’ve edited this entry a little bit since first posting it.)

Wow. That’s a lot of comments. Thanks to all of you who have written. Some of those comments, particularly Jonathan’s and Ester’s but also a few others, were terrific.

But let me clarify something. I DON’T WANT AN INTENSE RELATIONSHIP. In fact, I’d like to move more slowly. He’s the one who’s been saying things, not me. I didn’t mention that, I guess. But it’s true.

When we were rolling around in bed that first night, he’s the one who said that he hoped this wasn’t just a one-night stand. And he’s the one who said he’s at the point where he wants to date someone.

He also said, while we were kissing, “How did we meet?”

“Well, on the Internet, right?” I said, a little confused.

“No, no,” he said, smiling. “We can’t tell people that. We have to make something up. We met through our friend, uh…” He paused, smiling. He smooched me. “What’s our friend’s name?”

“Hmmm…” I said.

“Pete,” he said. “We met through our friend Pete.” He laughed.

Also, when he and I talked on the phone on Monday night, he mentioned that he’d gone on a couple of dates with another guy who he isn’t really into and with whom he hadn’t hooked up. He wanted to tell the guy that he wasn’t interested in dating him, and he asked my advice on how to do it. In fact, he said, “Should I tell him that I’m not really interested in dating him and that I’ve met someone?” That “someone” being me.

And, read my last entry. He’s the one who told me I’m a “special guy.” I haven’t been saying anything like that. In fact, his words are making me feel kind of pressured.

I’d like to go on another date with Mr. Conservative William F. Buckley Guy once he gets back from Prague. I’d like to be able to do it without feeling such pressure, direct or indirect. I don’t want to start breaking dates with other people because of the new guy. I want to be able to evaluate him and get to know him at my own pace.

So I’m not the one being Mr. Intense-Scaring-Him-Away, okay? To be honest, I kind of resent that characterization. No, not kind of. I do resent it.

I blog because I like words. I like to write. I like to explore my feelings. I like the sheer act of putting words together to describe what I’m feeling and doing. Yeah, I guess I could do this in a private journal. But it’s kinda cool to have other people read my words.

It’s kind of sick and twisted, really. Why the hell am I doing this? You go to a party where there are other bloggers and people ask, “How do you guys know each other?” and you feel really awkward and try to think of a way to explain how you know each other without coming off as a total kook. Why does anyone blog about one’s personal life? Probably because we like the attention and the interaction with other people.

I know I write about my feelings very honestly in here. (Figuring out why I do so would probably require a cadre of therapists.) And I know that sometimes I can be very neurotic. And I know that sometimes my words are a cry for help. And I know that I have a comments section. People are free to write whatever they want in there, basically.

I certainly don’t want people to start patronizing me.

But if you want to berate me in my comments section, can you first realize that if you do so, it’s going to come across as a public flogging? Can you choose your words more carefully instead of making me feel like I’m some kind of psycho? Did I say that I was telling the guy any of my thoughts? No. They’re just my thoughts.

I’m e-mailing the person whose comment really bothered me, so if you don’t hear from me, it wasn’t you. (It wasn’t Sparky or Choire, if you’re curious.)

Write responsibly. Please. I do enjoy the give-and-take that a comments sections allows, and perhaps this is just one of those blog-related risks. But comments such as that one hurt.

If you absolutely feel a need to say such things, send me an e-mail. In other words, if you feel like humiliating me, do it privately. Or maybe think twice about your words.

Other than that, keep those comments rolling in. They’re usually fun to read and they’re often informative.

By the way, I didn’t mention this in order to get sympathy. I mentioned it because the particular comment really made me angry.

Thanks, and enjoy your stay.

Worry-free

It’s light blue. It’s a tribute to peace and beauty. It’s two blogs on the same page. It’s cheese sandwiches and puppet masters and psychics and sweaty cats. It’s East Coast/West Coast Version 2! Congrats, RJ and Flip! I mean, Choire and Philo!

They’re closing our office early today because the air conditioning isn’t working properly. (I don’t mean that Choire and Philo are closing it. I mean the powers-that-be are closing it.) It’s only the hottest day of the year, so that’s okay. But actually, it doesn’t feel that bad here right now. And I have no A/C at home, so I’m not really all that motivated to leave the office yet.

If the last few days haven’t clued you in, I’ve been pretty stressed lately. It’s not my love life, it’s my job situation. It’s tying my stomach in knots and it’s causing me guilt and shame and worry. (The Jewish trifecta.) The fact is, this job I’ve been waiting to hear about — all the positions are filled, but there’s a possibility one will open up. I don’t know if it’s really a possibility or if they’re just wondering if it might happen. But, had I not waited so long before putting together my application and sending it off, I’d have been hired already. Hence the self-recrimination.

But self-recrimination is unhealthy. So enough of that.

On the up side, my boss has been able to wangle a three-week extension for my current job. On top of that, I’ll be able to cash out a week’s worth of unused vacation days if necessary. So I’m safe through September 14. This gives me a little breathing room. I’ve been sending out resumés for almost any law-related positions I can find — attorney positions, nontraditional legal positions. So we’ll see. And people at the office are helping me out immensely, especially the Office Mom. She’s been great.

Anyway, that’s really what’s been bothering me and scaring me more than anything else.

I think I may have to declare this place a worry-free zone for a while. Expressing my worries is so natural for me. It wasn’t until high school that I realized that not everyone worries as much as I do. That’s when I first realized how unusual this is. I couldn’t understand why I worry and other people don’t. It’s a total reflex for me. It’s not something I try to do. It just happens. It’s like breathing.

But when I express all my worries here, it tends to make things worse. It’s one thing to keep your thoughts in your head. It’s another thing to put them into language. I read my words and I think to myself, oh my god, I actually think like that?

Obviously, worrying serves some sort of function for me. I’m not sure exactly what function that is. But I guess I worry because some part of me, subconscious or otherwise, sees value in it. Gotta work on that.

Anyway, I’m just going to think positive. I’ll get a job and things will be fine. Part of me knows that.

Relief and Joy

The five-day heat wave is supposed to break today.

And this morning I learned that I’ve been offered the job I’d been waiting to hear about. Someone pulled some strings.

I will remain employed.

I can’t tell you how happy I am. And relieved.

I’m going to enjoy this weekend.

Anyway, it’s really been an exhausting week, blog-wise, so I’m going to cut it short today, except for a link:

Doonesbury is online. Not just today’s strip. Not just yesterday’s. No, you can search the entire 30-year archive of Doonesbury comic strips. Wow.

One more thing: Ernie, I’m sorry to hear about your layoff. But you know — with guys like this on your side, and with all your great abilities, I’m sure things will turn out just fine for you. Hang in there, and best of luck.

Insatiable

I want to read every great book that has ever been written. I get like this sometimes. My brain gets so stimulated. I want to experience everything in the world that is good, that has been created and has been judged to be exceptional. The tragedy is that there’s not enough time. There are terrific books I will never get a chance to read. Musical compositions I will never get to hear. Cities I will never get to see. There are tons of wonderful people I will never meet. It’s not my fault. It’s just the way things are. Life is filled with an infinite number of beautiful things. There’s only so much time.

Yesterday I went to the Strand, determined (after some Amazon.com research) to buy John Barth’s The Sot-Weed Factor. I was in the mood for something postmodern. The book was written in 1960 but Barth wrote it in the style of an eighteenth-century novel. I bought it. Then I left the Strand and went to Barnes & Noble in Chelsea, and I wound up buying yet another book — The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Murakami. My friend Nick is reading it and he thought it would be cool if we both read it at the same time, because then we can discuss it afterward. It was sitting there, prominently displayed on a special shelf. It looked interesting. So I bought it.

And so instead of The Sot-Weed Factor, which is now sitting on my bookshelf horizontally (I’ve been told it’s unhealthy for a book to lie horizontally, although maybe that only applies to hardcovers), I’m reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. It’s terrific. It turns out it’s exactly the type of book I was looking to read.

I want to read everything. At the end of Rita Mae Brown’s book on writing, Starting From Scratch, she sets out a recommended reading list of literature — books that anyone who wants to be a serious writer should read. There must be at least 300 books on the list. How anyone is supposed to read everything on her recommended list is beyond me. I have this almost unquenchable desire to read everything on the list, even though I know that I’ll never be able to do it.

I want to learn Latin.

I want to read every great book because I think and hope it will make me a better-informed writer. It will clue me in to the use of language, to structure, to plot, to character development. I want to be an expert. There’s also an element of pleasure, yes — it feels great to read a great work — but there’s a Puritannical (or at least very American) self-improvement streak there, too. Great literature will make me a better person. In addition to a better writer.

Hmm… suppose I read a book a month. Over the next 50 years I can read 600 books. That’s a hell of a lot of books.

But there’s also people to meet. Sex to have. Really good movies to see. Places to visit. Cuisine to eat.

I’m envious of people who were English majors in college and read lots of the classics by the time they were 22. I’m 27 and I’m young. But in some ways, 27 isn’t so young. There are people five or six or seven years younger than me who have read way more great literature than I have, and so they are much better informed about these things than I am.

I want to find a good primer on Western philosophy. I want to work my way through the great philosophers. Find out why Plato’s so great. Saint Augustine. Figure out what Wittgenstein’s all about. I want to read everything. Now. Paradise Lost. Dante’s Inferno. Everything by Charles Dickens. Gravity’s Rainbow. Now. Because I don’t trust my attention span. If I don’t do it now, I will lose interest.

Om

I feel like I’m on drugs. Is it sugar? I had a big brownie from a vending machine about an hour and a half ago. I’ve been drinking lots of water. Something feels… off. I feel slightly weird, slightly manic.

I’d been out of the blogging mood for several days. I hadn’t felt like blogging and I hadn’t even thought about reading anyone’s blogs. And then this afternoon I try to catch up on my usuals, and everyone’s gone bonkers. Choire and Philo have turned into Sally Struthers. Jonno is writing impressionistically about New York. Sparky’s using bullet points. And not only has the Blogstalker returned, but he’s writing about John Blair cards in a semi-fictional way. Something feels slightly insane. The universe feels unreliable. If everything in the universe suddenly grew a thousand times as large, including ourselves, would anybody notice? But I feel like I’m measuring the universe with an unreliable ruler. How do I know an inch is really an inch? I don’t feel upset or worried. Things just sort of feel trippy, like they don’t add up. It’s not a bad thing. I just feel like I’m on drugs. I feel slightly manic. Slightly overstimulated mentally. Maybe I need to have sex. But sex doesn’t seem as exciting as the mental stimulation.

I want to read and read and read. Not necessarily all at once. But thanks to utmaninva‘s comment to my previous entry I want to read The Passion of the Western Mind by Richard Tarnas. And on Bill‘s suggestion I checked out the website for Oxford World’s Classics and I want to read, oh, everything. Well, seriously. But right now I guess I have a few books on my reading list. St. Augustine’s Confessions and Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy and stuff by Plato and stuff by basically everyone else who’s ever written anything that has withstood the passage of time.

There are too many good things in the world. Do you know that I just got caught up on Choire’s last few entries and for some reason they completely blew my mind? The writing crackled with energy. It was so fucking refreshing and new. I wanted to throw out my keyboard and never write anything ever again. At the same time I wanted to write and write and write and keep trying.

Blogs trouble me. They trouble me because there is so much amazingly good writing out there that so few people know about. And not just blogs. There are independent bands. There are incredibly wonderful Broadway songs from long-lost musicals that flopped. Nobody’s ever heard of them. Are they still good? If a tree falls in the forest?

Who decides what is good? There is a surplus of goodness out there. Well, not a surplus, because that would imply that some of it is dispensable. But none of it is. It’s just that there’s too much. How can I decide what to read, what music to listen to, what movies to see, when all of it is so good? And how do I decide what is good and what is not? I want to read the classics. But there’s still amazingly good stuff out there. Fuck — last night at a pizzeria the TV was tuned to VH-1 and I saw a Sears commercial that was really witty. A Sears commercial! And yet there are all these classic works out there. My brain wants to explode. Oh my god there’s too much.

I feel like I’m drugged. I feel like right now I’m addicted to good things. I want to absorb the universe. I want to absorb everything that ever was, everything that is right now, everything that will ever be.

I believe that if I absorb all this goodness it will rub off on me and make me able to write The Perfect Novel. I want to assimilate Everything That Has Ever Been and write the Novel to End All Novels. I want to write the ur-novel. The uber-novel. I want to write the novel that will make all subsequent attempts futile and make the universe pack up and go home. Okay, fellas, the human experiment has been completed, human destiny has been achieved, we can go home now. Close the books on this universe. Time for God to make the next one.

What if God wrote a novel?

He has. We’re living it.

So it’s already been done.

Dammit.

I’m getting a headache.

Person Writes Blog Entry

The New Republic is running a Boring Headline Competition.
—–

My Acre

Blogging has grown tiresome lately. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

Not writing about my personal life lately has been refreshing and empowering. For a while, I’d been enslaved to the blog. And then last week it became less fun. I felt like I belonged to other people. Not to myself. I felt like a conduit and not a container.

Anne Lamott, in her terrific Bird by Bird (yup, Shadowy, I’ve read it and it’s great), writes that each of us has our own acre. You can do whatever you want with your acre. You can put whatever you want there, you can landscape it, and so on. And if someone comes onto your acre, you have the right to tell them to get off.

Lately I feel like I’ve been letting too many people onto my acre. I’ve thrown a party and people have left a mess of the place. There are crushed plastic cups all over the ground and the keg is empty. And then everyone goes home and I’m left having to clean it all up. But the next day I let everyone onto my acre again. There’s another party. They go home and there are more plastic cups for me to clean up, as well as sticky dried beer on the patio. Do I tell people they can’t come back? No. I let them come again the next day. And the next. One day someone brings her own keg. One day someone brings a kangaroo in a letterman sweater. Hannibal the Elephant comes and tramples the grass. And still the plastic cups everywhere.

One day I decide, screw it. I’m locking the gate and shutting the curtains and taking a nap. But people still come by. They wait at the gate for me to let them in. They start pounding. “Hey! Time for the party! Where the heck are you today?” They’ve forgotten that it’s my acre. My house. And I’ve forgotten, too. But then I remember. Because I don’t feel like throwing a party every day. I need my own time. Go throw your own party on your own acre.

Nevertheless. A few words to describe last weekend.

The cute fratboy showtunes guy. Marie’s Crisis, singing showtunes and drinking beer. Thai food for lunch with my friend Nick. Moviegoing (“Sexy Beast”) with my friend CanadaGirl. We ran into Sparky outside the Phoenix. The three of us hung out there. Then to Starlight, where we saw the guy who had been naked in The Play About the Baby. Up close. With clothes on. From there, CanadaGirl went home and Sparky and I went to the Cock. Finally, finally, finally met Jonno. He was a little different from what I’d expected but just as nice and friendly as I’d thought he’d be. Also the Minx showed up. Got to meet him finally as well. Also seems like a nice guy. Sunday was bookstore-hopping. I’ve already written about that.

Okay.

Please take your plastic cups with you on your way out.

A Year in Books

I decided to put together a list of all the books I’ve read in the past year. You can tell a lot about people by what they choose to read. Going back over this list I can almost recreate how I’ve felt at different times over the past 12 months… my mood, the weather. Here we go, chronologically since the middle of August 2000. I don’t think I’ve left anything off.

Books I’ve read in the past 365 days:

Roger Morris, Richard Milhous Nixon: The Rise of an American Politician

Jesse Green, The Velveteen Father: An Unexpected Journey to Parenthood

Michael Cunningham, A Home at the End of the World

John C. Waugh, Reelecting Lincoln: The Battle for the 1864 Presidency

Richard Posner, An Affair of State: The Investigation, Impeachment, and Trial of President Clinton

Michael Frayn, Headlong

Neil Stephenson, Snow Crash

Craig Lucas, What I Meant Was: New Plays and Selected One-Acts

Stephen McCauley, The Object of My Affection

Philip Roth, American Pastoral

Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

J.R.R. Tolkien, Return of the King

Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (almost done!)

Books I didn’t finish:

Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace, Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898

Kenneth George, Mr. Right is Out There: The Gay Man’s Guide to Finding and Maintaining Love

David Potter, The Impending Crisis: 1848-1861

Douglas E. Hofstadter, Gödel Escher Bach

Edmund White, The Farewell Symphony

James E. McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion
—–

Without History

Ten years ago today I was living in limbo. After graduating from the American School in Japan in June 1991, I’d spent the summer working at the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo. On August 9, I left Tokyo for good after living there for almost three years. I was off to college in Virginia. That summer we’d found out that my dad’s company was shrinking its Tokyo office and sending my family back home; my parents weren’t moving until October, but for me, this was goodbye. My 13-year-old brother was already back in the States in summer camp, and he didn’t yet know that he wasn’t going to get a chance to come back to Japan and say goodbye to his friends. My parents and I were flying east to Hawaii, and he was flying out from the East Coast to meet up with us for a week’s vacation.

Three years — in retrospect, three years doesn’t seem like a long time, but it was. Fourteen to seventeen years old. My freshman year of high school in northern New Jersey had sucked, absolutely sucked. My parents had made me skip seventh grade, and I’d never fit in very well with the people in my new class. And since I lost touch with my friends from my old grade, I had practically no social life. During my freshman year I’d have lunch every day in the amphitheater with this random guy from my geometry class. He was the only guy I ever really talked to that year. I wonder if he turned out to be gay. Of course he might have been merely a geek.

My only school activity was the chess club. I’d never been a fan of chess. As a club member I never won a game, either in a competition or during practice sessions. I don’t know why I joined. It’s almost as if I were stepping into some role I’d assigned myself. Before high school I’d done lots of acting in school plays, but for some reason I didn’t bother with it during my freshman year.

I spent most of my free time after school absorbed in comic books and soap operas. I was a big fan of both DC Comics and “Days of our Lives” and “Santa Barbara,” which I set the VCR to tape every day and watched every afternoon. I loved “Days” — I made family trees and cast lists and everything. I even wrote my own soap opera. Most of my reading consisted of Piers Anthony’s Xanth novels.

At the end of my first year of high school I didn’t really look forward to going back. There wasn’t much that got me excited at all. My life was stagnant.

And then, during the summer of 1988, my dad’s company offered him a position in Tokyo. After talking it over, we decided (my parents decided) to do it. We moved to Tokyo.

My life changed. I was thrilled to get away from the old school, away from all the people who already had opinions of me. Here in Tokyo, at the American School in Japan, nobody knew me. I could start with a blank slate. No baggage. No anticipated reactions. A brand-new kid. I decided this was my chance to start over.

But starting over wasn’t actually something I decided. It was something that happened to me. I was disoriented, living 14 time zones away from my old home, living in a foreign country in a strange apartment in a futuristic ultramodern city where I couldn’t speak the language and knew nobody except my family.

I didn’t choose to be a new person. I was a new person. All of my old fears and hang-ups about myself — I was too busy and dizzy and overwhelmed to feel them. They were gone. I felt effervescent, free of the burdens of any personal history. I had none.

During the first week of school I saw a poster announcing auditions for the fall play, M*A*S*H. In my effervescent carefree optimism (which was something new to me) I decided to try out. I got the part of Radar. And that set the tone for my three-year stint at the American School in Japan.

I met wonderful people through that show. I made friends. Real friends! Fun people! Cool people! Interesting people! Friends and freedom. In Tokyo we had complete mobility — we could take the trains anywhere we wanted, all around the huge, safe, modern city. We could go anywhere, with anyone.

After that show, I did others. Acting became my main high school activity. People knew me as the actor. (It wasn’t a very big high school, only 400 students.) I met more people. Then I tried out for the school chorus and met others. For the first time in my life I was part of a close-knit circle of friends. The students at this school were much more interesting than the boring, provincial New Jersey teenagers back home, who probably thought a trip to Florida was exciting. Hah! We were going on vacations to Hong Kong. Australia. Thailand.

During the summers we’d come back home. We still owned our house in New Jersey, but it was being rented out to another family, so we stayed with my aunt and uncle and cousin. One of those summers I spent travelling around the UK. At the end of the summer we’d fly the long flight back to Tokyo. Sitting in the airplane seat, I’d imagine the year ahead, thinking about the new people I’d meet (because there were always new arrivals), wondering what the fall play and the spring musical were going to be.

They were three of the best years of my life.

And then, on August 9, 1991, I said goodbye to it all. I remember riding with my parents to the airport, looking out the windows as the streets of Tokyo passed by, knowing I wasn’t coming back. It felt surreal. This was my home. I couldn’t believe I was leaving.

My parents and I flew to Hawaii and met up with my brother. Had a nice vacation. I tried not to think about the past, which I pined for (Tokyo), or the future, which scared me (college, Virginia).

After a week — August 16 or 17, 1991 — we all flew to the East Coast. We were going to spend a week living in a corporate apartment in Manhattan. I had six or seven days left before the trip down to UVa with my parents.

I felt homeless again, historyless. Limbo. Tokyo — which for three years had been as comfortable and familiar as an old blanket — now felt like a dream. I’d imagined it all — my school, my close group of friends, my plays. And in several days I’d be off to college, which I dreaded. UVa was my last-choice school, I wasn’t going to know anyone, I was a northerner, I was going to be separated from my family.

I was perched on the head of a pin — the beautiful past receding into a mist, a scary future looming up ahead.

I’d ended one thing but hadn’t yet begun another. I was in limbo. I had a past and a future but no present. I was disoriented again.

One night, sitting up in a bed in the unfamiliar apartment, I wrote the words for the very first time. I wrote them in the pages of my dear, dear, diary, in which I’d recorded the past three years of my life. I wrote them with my own hand, with a pen. I wrote:

I’m gay.

[from my diary]

Wednesday, August 21, 1991 1:25 am

Tonight, we saw a Broadway show! I haven’t seen one in a year! We saw Lost in Yonkers, Neil Simon’s 1991 Tony Award winner for Best Play. It was great. Really great.

It made me want to write! I really want to write a play. Unfortunately, I always want to write a play but I never come up with any good ideas. I started to write one during Drama Britain two years ago, but I only wrote about two or three pages. I never flesh out my play ideas beforehand. Maybe I should do that, like I did week by week with “Changing Times,” my soap opera. That way I could stick to an idea instead of meandering.

I never know what to write about, either. I think, actually, that I should just dig down inside myself, let it all go, let out and listen to my emotions, face them, and write about whatever strikes me as something I want to write about. I want to write about myself and what I see, like Neil Simon does in some of his plays.

I don’t think I’m so good at writing comedy. Maybe if I adapt funny real-life circumstances and situations, maybe that would work.

I just have to brainstorm.

Maybe it’s really just that I want to create! Because I have an urge to write, but no ideas to write about. Maybe I want to get my feelings out. I can’t get everything out of my brain.

Hell, this is a private book. That’s why I have it — because it’s private. I should feel free to write anything I want in here, right? It’s my choice whether or not I show it to anyone.

But I can’t write about something if I can’t admit it to myself first.

I think the reason — no, I know. I won’t admit it to myself because I always have the hope that I can cure it, or suppress it to the point that it vanishes, and disappears. But, it really won’t, will it. I suppose I’m stuck with it. And even if it is curable, admitting it to myself won’t make it incurable.

It’s my dad. I just realized it. Unbelievable. I have made a revelation! I may have discovered the problem just now! See, while I’m writing, I’m thinking ahead. I don’t believe it!

Here’s my newly discovered theory.

I’m ashamed to admit it especially to my dad. He’s always pushed me to this macho, assertive position that he wants me to be. I’m afraid of admitting it because of him. In a way, he blocks me from admitting it. I’m afraid of his reaction. My mom’s, too, but him more, maybe. And because I resent that, because I resent his blocking of my admitting it, I have bad feelings towards him!

That could be it! That could explain why I won’t admit it; that could explain why I don’t like my dad; he makes me ashamed of it. Because it’s something that makes me less masculine, and my impression is that he wants me to be so masculine, so pushy, so assertive — and it conflicts.

Then again, that’s why most people with my problem don’t admit it — because of fear of reactions, and because of shame. Because it’s not the norm.

I’ve thought this next thing before, but I’ve never written it down — this I know in my soul: that I am not myself. I mean that almost literally. My life is a lie; I am living a false existence. If I can’t admit the truth to myself, how can I live a truthful life?

I’ll just go on feeling half-baked and discontent by continuing the lying to myself. I can’t feel whole unless I admit it all — and for some reason, I keep thinking of J. Alfred Prufrock and Mr. Miller’s remark that he said: “Don’t you ever feel that you have a divided self, a divided soul? That somehow your two halves aren’t properly aligned, something is out of whack, 2+2 does not equal 4?” That’s all a paraphrase plus my own metaphors, but that’s me. Divided, malcontent, and not all together.

Admitting it could also end my guilt.

[…]

But there’s a problem. Let’s see… imagine an empty balloon inside a box. A strong balloon, with lots of force. It’s in the box but it’s deflated. There’s lots of room in the box, thusly. Now, the box has a safety valve. Right now the balloon is deflated, as I said, no, change that. It has a gas inside it, but it’s compact and aching to expand and break free, out of the balloon and out of the box and free. At a command, the gas can expand.

Right now that is the situation. I haven’t issued the command. But if I issue it, the gas will expand. It will be a bit relieved. Very relieved, in fact. But, it will make the balloon expand greatly, and the balloon will push against the box and try to force it open. It may — it will break the box and itself as well, unless I open the “valve” and release the gas to the outside.

Actually, there’s a better metaphor. There are two valves. They symbolize 1) admitting it to myself and 2) admitting it to society. The second is harder, because — I’m done with metaphors — that would mean facing ridicule, persecution, rejection. Maybe rejection from family, relatives, friends… I don’t know. But there’d be those who would support me, as well. What about getting beat up? That would be a risk, unless I worry too much and maybe it’s not such a big risk, but still a risk.

Oh — the point of the first metaphor: once I admit it to myself, it would be harder to keep it a secret from society. But who knows? Maybe admitting it to myself would actually ease my mind.

I feel that writing it would actually be admitting it to myself, finally. I should admit it to myself and then see what happens. I mean, it’s not like I’ll be able to change it whether I admit it or not.

Okay. Here I go.

I am gay. Why does that look so shameful? It does. Wow.

Not quite accurate. I’m actually bisexual. If pure heterosexuality is a 0 and pure homosexuality is a 6, then I’m between 4 and 5. I’m bisexual, with leanings towards males.

It’s weird, but I’m getting an erection now.

I wish I was different, but I’m not. Maybe there’s a way to change myself, but I don’t think there is. I think this a part of my life, forever.

My erection is gone… the initial shock is over.

I have to write it again.

I like guys more than I like girls.

I’m more gay than hetereosexual.

Gay. Gay gay gay gay bisexual bi bi gay.

Except that “gay” sounds better than “bi.” “Bisexual” sounds like something from Playboy, Penthouse or Hustler. Sounds kinky. For some reason I like the word “gay.” I mean, I think many girls are pretty and I get turned on by good bodies, but I have to push a bit, strain a little to feel it. (Interpret that the right way!)

I said I don’t want to reveal it to society, but actually, to tell the truth, I really want to tell [friend]. I wish he was here.

But would I really go through with it and tell him?

It’s late. This has all happened really quickly. In the morning, after my thoughts have cleared, I may regret this and want to turn back. But the truth is here.

Some of my daring moments are at night, when it’s right before I go to sleep and it feels like it won’t be permanent. I’ll have to see what it’s like in the morning. As of now, though, I’m glad I did this.

[…]
—–

Hey, y’all, just so it’s clear, I wrote that previous diary entry TEN YEARS AGO. Yes, I’m out, I’m gay, I’m here, I’m queer, I’m used to it.

I clarify this only because someone apparently thought otherwise.
—–

An Update

I feel some sort of explanation is order. I haven’t been writing as much as I used to.

I don’t want people to think this is out of pique or something. The truth is, I just haven’t felt like being very self-reflective lately. It’s not that I’ve been writing my thoughts down in a private journal in place of the blog; I just haven’t been doing much self-reflective writing at all. There hasn’t been much in my life to analyze lately, and that’s a good thing.

Lacking anything to analyze, but still wishing to keep my blog’s content fresh — and thereby prevent mass defections of readers — I figure I may as well at least update those of you who care on the current happenings in my life.

Romance

First, there’s that ex-fratboy showtune-lovin’ guy whom I met almost three weeks ago. That first week, I spent the night at his place four times; then last week I saw him briefly on Thursday night and then spent Friday night there. I haven’t seen him since then, but maybe I’ll see him this weekend. I’m more inclined now to think that nothing major is going to happen — we never seem to have much to talk about, despite the fact that he’s a nice guy. It’s incredibly pleasurable to cuddle with him, but as for sex, it’s more tender and gentle than exciting and adventurous. Tender and gentle is nice, but — well — I think the mouth plays a big role in sexual activity, and he doesn’t seem to agree. He’s not a very deep kisser, and he doesn’t use his mouth for anything else. And last week I was kissing his neck (something I really enjoy) and he seemed paranoid about me leaving marks there. That wasn’t going to happen — but it did kind of lower the enjoyment level, not being able to do that.

But my romantic life is the primary area in which I have learned (thanks to several of my readers) that analysis is not necessary and, in fact, can even be counterproductive. So I’ll just say that I don’t think anything permanent is going to happen here, at least not romantically. But again, who knows.

Work

I have been offered and have accepted a job as an attorney for the state of New Jersey. It won’t begin until late September or early October, and my current job ends September 7, so I’ll have a few weeks’ gap in which I’ll probably have to temp or something in order to keep the cash flowing in.

But on top of that, I have two other job interviews scheduled. (Thanks, you-know-who, for helping me revise my resumé. Apparently it helped!) One interview is with a legal publishing company this afternoon; another is with a law firm next week. I even had an interview last week with another legal publisher, but I decided it was a job I didn’t want. Both of these pending interviews are for jobs that would pay me a little more than I’d make as a state attorney, and I’d start sooner — both of which are pluses.

Home

This morning I looked at an apartment just a few blocks from where I currently live, at a monthly rent $350 cheaper than my current monthly rent. On top of that, the neighborhood is quieter and the place has a dishwasher, washer and dryer, and cable (none of which my current place has), and the landlord pays for utilities! One drawback is that it’s a basement apartment and doesn’t have as much light as my current place, but I’ve lived in basement apartments before and I can do so again. I found the place through a broker and I was the first person to see it, and I liked it, so I put down a refundable deposit, which means they’ll hold it for me (they won’t show it to anyone else) and they’ll run a credit check. I’d probably be moving in October 1.

Things are looking up!

Leisure

I’ve really been a homebody these last couple of weeks. I’ve hung out with people, but not as often as I usually do. I’ve been doing lots of reading. I read The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle last week, and yesterday I finished Richard Tarnas’s The Passion of the Western Mind, which presents a broad overview of Western philosophy. The latter told a great story and I know lots more about philosophy now than I did a week ago. Tarnas ends the book with this sort of wacky thesis, though, and I wonder if his presentation of the material in the book is tainted by the thesis he’s trying to present. At any rate — it was a valuable book for me.

Maybe I miss being in school, or maybe my brain is looking for things to crunch on, but at any rate, lately I’ve decided that I want to work my way through the Great Books. Homer. Plato. Aristotle. Dante. Et cetera. I really never had direct exposure to the foundations of Western civilization — somehow I managed to go through high school and college without ever having taken a course in Western philosophy or classical history or anything like that. I feel like these great books have things they can teach me; I feel they can enhance my life in some way — I’m not sure in what way, but there must be some reason they are still believed to hold value.

To that end, I’ve bought two books — How to Read a Book by Mortimer J. Adler and The New Lifetime Reading Plan by Clifton Fadiman. The former is about how to get the most out of a book and concludes with a list of Great Books. The latter is a list of Great Books and a collection of very short introductory essays on each one. I bought these at the Barnes & Noble on 18th Street and 5th Avenue, which is billed as “The World’s Largest Bookstore.” I have no way of verifying that claim, but it had the most extensive history and philosophy sections I’ve seen at any New York City Barnes & Noble.

And, having visited that store, I’ve now been to every Barnes & Noble on the island of Manhattan. That’s something to shoot for, eh?

So. That’s what’s been going on my life recently. I realize there’s little high drama, or even low drama, and I apologize if that makes for unexciting reading. But what’s good for the reader is sometimes bad for the writer, and vice versa.

Another thing… I may continue to post old diary entries here. It seems kind of fun. It also keeps me from having to think of things to write about. If current events in my life aren’t dramatic enough, maybe past events are…
—–

Another One

There’s a new law clerk in the office. She just started today. I’m only here for a couple more weeks, though, so I won’t be working with her for long.

Since it’s a nice day out, we had lunch together in a nearby outdoor plaza. I was talking about how I live in Jersey City, and she said that she and someone (I couldn’t make out the exact words) were thinking of going to Jersey City Pride on Saturday. Hmm, I thought. “Who did you say you were going with again?” “Oh, my partner,” she said. Ahhh, I thought. Cool! She hadn’t even tripped my gaydar. So I came out to her.

Until now I haven’t been out to anyone at work. I don’t know why. I guess I figured that it’s my own business and there’s no reason to ruffle any feathers unnecessarily. I don’t think people would care, but why bother?

Anyway, it’s kinda cool to be working alongside another gay person — even if it’s just for the next two weeks.

—–

Nostalgia

I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time: sadness. I feel slightly depressed. When I have a negative feeling it’s usually anxiety, worry. But today I feel sad.

Today was the University of Virginia’s annual move-in day. I feel kinda sad every year around this time, because it makes me miss it. Moving in; reuniting with friends after a long summer, or meeting new people; anticipating an exciting year ahead, filled with fun, activity, growth, self-exploration. I loved it especially when I was an undergrad (except for my first year — see below). When I was in law school, move-in weekend didn’t feel quite as exciting.

But this year… it’s been ten years. It was ten years ago this weekend that I moved into my first-year dorm at UVa. I was sad and scared and worried and nervous. I didn’t want my parents to leave me (although I tried to hide it). I didn’t want to be at UVa. I missed high school, the familiar halls, the familiar friends and teachers. I missed Japan. Now I was back in the US, feeling reverse-culture shock. And I was in Virginia — in the South, for goodness’ sake. I felt so out of place.

Things were rough for the first few weeks, but they got better once I joined the University Singers and the First-Year Players. I never felt close to my first-year suitemates, though. But the following fall I moved into a single in a brand-new building and met some great friends, and from then on, UVa was terrific.

Damn. Writing about all this is making me even sadder. I miss the place. Not just geographically; I miss being a college student. I wish I could have all that time lying in front of me all over again — empty space, filled with Expectation. The fall — anticipating new people and new things. Hanging out with my friends from the singing groups, hanging out with my friends in the dorms. Having dinner together every night. Going to Macado’s on the Corner. Hanging out on the Lawn in the fall, a slight chill in the air, the clock clanging at the top of each hour, the sound floating on the breeze. Yellow and orange leaves.

Damn.

I’m romanticizing it to a degree — but not totally. I really felt that way every year; I was always happy when a new year began. Even if I’d had an especially great summer and was sad that it was over, that was tempered by my happiness at starting another year of college.

I wish I’d come out sooner. I wish I’d been out during college; I wish I’d dated.

Now I’m in the New York area. New York is a great city, but it’s not like college. It’s big and impersonal and aggressive and dirty. I’m having dinner with a friend of mine tonight. But you know what? Afterwards, I’d like to go to a bar with a few people and just hang out. Not a gay bar. A real bar, like Chumley’s on Bedford Street, where Jack Kerouac used to hang out, a place where you can just chill and chat and drink beer. That sounds great right about now. Being gay in New York can get old.

Heck — being gay can get old.

I miss Charlottesville. I miss the lower cost of living. I miss the academic atmosphere. The sense of community. I miss all the traditions of the University. All the Jeffersoniana that pervades the Charlottesville area. I miss the fall. I miss all the secondhand bookstores. I miss the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Shenandoah Valley and I-64. Maybe I’ll retire to Albemarle County many years from now. Who knows.

Of course, during my very last year in Charlottesville — my last year of law school — I couldn’t wait to leave. Possibilities there were so limiting, especially socially, especially as a gay man. I wanted to come back to the New York area, where there were so many people and opportunities and seemingly an infinite number of possibilities.

Now I don’t know.

Possibilities.

What does self-exploration mean after college? Or after you come out, for that matter? For the longest time, I knew that my personal growth was tied to coming out. Until I finally came out to my parents two years ago, I knew that there were a certain things I had to accomplish before I could grow as a person. Coming out to my parents was going to be my greatest challenge.

But I’ve done it. And now I don’t know what I need to do in order to grow. I don’t even know what direction to grow in. In college, there’s so much to learn — so much that’s new — you can’t help but grow. But what about now?

I’m 27. How do I grow now?
—–

The Summer That Wasn’t

I spent yesterday at my parents’ house. My dad grilled some chicken and beef and we ate dinner outside on the deck. By 8:00 it was nearly twilight, which made me realize how quickly this summer has gone by. That always happens. First it’s Memorial Day, then it’s the Fourth of July, and before you know it, it’s the end of August. Next weekend is Labor Day Weekend already! And Rosh Hashannah is in three weeks! Cripes.

Here is what I thought this summer would be like:

It’s the beginning of spring but I can see time stretching before me, I can see the summer in the distance, like the horizon of an ocean, with the potential for so much to happen, things I can’t even begin to imagine…

It’s warm, it’s spring, we’re on the cusp of a new season, so much to anticipate: I will meet new people, visit new places, feel new emotions blaze inside me; there will be misunderstandings and happy moments, new things to feel and to write about and someday to remember, all against a mythic background of the echoes of the ocean and the taste of ice cream.

— Me, April 15, 2001

Heh.

Let’s evaluate:

Meet new people. Well, I’ve recently met ex-fratboy/showtunes guy. (I’m really going to have to think of a better nickname for him.) I’ve also gotten to know Wales. I attended many more Twentysomething meetings and got to make a few more acquaintances. Also got to hang out with some out-of-town bloggers.

Visit new places. I went to Berkeley Springs, West Virginia. I went to Fire Island for the first time. I didn’t take a real vacation.

Feel new emotions blaze inside me. Ex-fratboy/showtunes guy again. That first night I hung out with him was amazing. It hasn’t been as exciting since then, and I wouldn’t call my emotions “blazing,” but it’s fun, I guess.

Misunderstandings and happy moments. How dramatic-sounding! The only misunderstandings have been blog-related, and I’ve had some good happy moments — just got a new job, just found a new apartment. But certainly not the stuff of novels or summer beach movies.

New things to feel and to write about. I Went to my first NYC gay pride and even marched in the parade. I’ve decided to explore the great books of Western culture. I’ve also rekindled my interest in theater. The first is kinda exciting, I guess. The rest isn’t, but it’s interesting to me, at least.

All against a mythic background of the echoes of the ocean and the taste of ice cream. Um, I went to the beach once. And we had an ice cream cake at work last week.

Okay, so my summer hasn’t quite lived up to expectations.

What about the fall? Here’s how I usually see the fall:

Perhaps I’m just conditioned from years of living on the academic calendar, but when September arrives and autumn begins, everything feels new. And I can already see down the horizon, one straight path, following an arc through new TV shows, crunching leaves, colder weather, Halloween, Thanksgiving, the holiday season, all culminating in a climax on New Year’s Eve.

Well, no great expectations. Autumn is more of a feeling that pervades you rather than a series of things that happen; I can revel in the season’s crisp joys without anything spectacular having to occur. I do miss UVa around this time of year, though.

I guess the key is not to have any great expectations. Just live day by day and keep track of all the good things that happen, whether big or small. Appreciate every day. Life is a succession of small moments.

This is just the same advice you’d get from Oprah, but it still works.
—–

Goateeless

I shaved off my goatee this morning. I had an interview with a small law firm this afternoon, and I figured it was best to go for the conservative look. I didn’t feel like the interview went too well — I don’t even know if I’d want to work there anyway — and now my face feels naked without the goatee. I miss it. I’m going to grow it back.

Without the goatee I feel like a little kid. I started growing it in early April, shortly after I got mugged. It made me feel kinda cool. I feel like it gave me sort of an edge, made me look more adult, perhaps made me less likely to get fucked with. And now that I’m sitting here, clean-shaven, wearing my glasses, and just under 5’6″, I feel less secure for some reason. I feel like more of a nerd. I look so… plain. I liked the goatee. It made me look good. I’m growing it back.

Last night Masculine Showtunes Guy (MSG?) and I did some grilling in the backyard of his apartment building. I told him I was going to shave off the goatee for my interview and he said he hoped he’d get to see what I looked like without it. But I don’t think he’ll get a chance to.
—–

The Iliad

To kick off my foray into the Great Books of Human Civilization, I’ve been reading the Iliad. During my freshman year of high school I read the Odyssey, so I’m getting flashbacks to that mediocre year of my life.

I’m just over halfway finished, and it’s not really doing much for me. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be getting out of it; it’s basically a big war between the Achaeans and the Trojans, and there’s not much of a plot, and I don’t really know what the big deal is. But seeing as how it’s apparently the foundation for all of Western literature, I’m going to persevere. I prefer to have read it than actually to be reading it, though.

Anyway, if any of you more academic- or literature-oriented people out there know of any good commentaries on the Iliad, let me know. I’m reading the 1990 translation of it by Robert Fagles, which contains an introductory essay by Bernard Knox. I’m going to read the essay when I’m done with the Iliad itself, but I’d like to know what I’m supposed to be getting out this.
—–

Dammit

God dammit… the apartment I assumed I was going to sign a lease for? The landlord rented it out on his own, without using the broker. The broker, very apologetic, called me this afternoon to tell me. She wasn’t happy about this either, of course. So after work today she’s going to show me a couple of other apartments. One of them is the same price as the first one. The other is $100/month more. And neither of them has a washer and dryer. Dammit… I was really looking forward to having a washer and dryer. But maybe one of these two places will be better anyway. They’re in the same neighborhood as the first one. Anyway, I need to give my current landlord a month’s notice before breaking my lease, i.e. this Saturday, so if I don’t find a place by then, I either can’t break my lease or I have to hope that I find something else in my price range by October 1. Hopefully I’ll like one of the places I see this afternoon.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.
—–

The Academical Village People

Last night UVa had its annual fall Rotunda Sing. On the evening of the first day of classes, all of UVa’s a cappella groups perform a free joint concert on the south steps of the Rotunda. People get there early and put out blankets so they can get a good view of the groups as they perform, in total, about two hours of music.

I happened to be online at around 7:30-8:00 last night, so I checked out the RotundaCam to see if I could see any goings-on. The camera is too far away from the Rotunda, so I could make out only a blurry crowd of people gathered on the Lawn in front of it. But it got me all nostalgic for my UVa a cappella experience.

For those who don’t know, most American colleges have a cappella groups these days. A cappella means “without instruments” (that’s not the literal meaning, but that’s what it’s come to mean). A college a cappella group usually has about 14-16 members — sometimes all men, sometimes all women, sometimes mixed — and typically they sing vocal versions of pop songs from the 70s, 80s and 90s. For each song, one person sings the lyrics and everyone else does the harmony and the rhythm (which usually includes percussion). Everything is done using the voice or vocal percussive sounds. Here are some examples.

The first time I saw/heard an a cappella group was at an activity fair during my first week of college. I saw the Virginia Gentlemen (the VGs), UVa’s oldest a cappella group, perform, and I was enthralled. The VGs were a group of attractive guys performing songs for an enthusiastic crowd — mostly women — and they just looked so damn cool. I never even dreamed of trying out for them or for any other group, because they just seemed so far above me.

It wasn’t until the spring of my second year of college that I decided I wanted to be in a group. I already knew some of the members, because I was in the University Singers and the Glee Club and some of the people in those groups were in a cappella groups as well. They looked like they had so much fun, and they were so popular — they always got huge crowds, and the members of the groups seemed like this exclusive clique. Plus I loved to sing. I wanted to be a part of it so badly.

So that spring I tried out for the Hullabahoos. I hoped I’d make callbacks. A couple of nights later I walked over to the Lawn, went up to the particular door where the callback list was posted, and my name wasn’t on the list. I was so disappointed.

I tried out for a cappella groups seven times. Tried out for the VGs twice, the Hullabahoos twice, the New Dominions twice, the Academical Village People (AVP) once. I never made it to callbacks. Never. I always wound up frustrated, sometimes in tears. One semester I and a friend in my dorm both tried out for the New Dos. He got called back, and after callbacks they came by and got him and told him he’d got in. They sang to him and took him off with them. I stayed in my room with the door closed and I cried.

I knew I could sing, but I guessed my voice wasn’t good enough. And another problem was that I couldn’t loosen up enough. You have to be relaxed, you have to look like you’re having fun (and usually you are). I was too nervous.

But I never gave up. I wanted it too badly.

Finally, during the fall of my fourth and final year at UVa (or so I thought), I gave it one last shot. Even though it was my last year, I decided, what the hell? So I tried out a second time for AVP.

AVP — the Academical Village People — had been founded in the fall of 1993 by a group of guys in University Singers who were a year younger than me. They’d tried out for different groups without success and thus had decided to start their own, and they were the latest musical sensation at UVa — not always completely in tune, but inventive and irreverent and funny and entertaining and unpretentious. (Thomas Jefferson had called the original the UVa campus the “Academical Village,” so “Academical Village People” was a play on words.)

I knew several of the guys well, and one of the them suggested I try out again for them again. I went to the Rotunda Sing on the night of the first day of classes and saw all the groups perform, including them. They got enormous cheers — they were so good. I decided I had to give it one last shot. If I didn’t give it one last shot I’d never forgive myself.

So I signed up for auditions. I decided I had nothing to lose. I went to the audition a few days later, and for some reason — perhaps because I’d tried everything else — I decided to be relaxed and funny. And I sang pretty well. I felt pretty good about things.

That evening I ran into a few of the guys. They’d just completed the initial auditions. They said hi, and one of them said to me, “Hey, Jeff, be sure to check the callback list! It should be up later tonight.” That had never happened to me before. It was a good sign. Indeed, later that night I checked the callback list — and there was my name! I couldn’t believe it. I stared at it for a few minutes, smiling, so happy.

For the callbacks we had to prepare something funny and entertaining. They were a couple of days later, on a Sunday afternoon. There were eight of us at callbacks. I decided to perform my three-minute Hamlet. They laughed and they liked it. After our little performances, they did blending experiments with each of us — they taught us a voice part for a particular song, and they put us together with them in different combinations. They thanked us, told us that the results would be posted by the next day, and they sent us on our way.

I knew from others’ experiences that if I got in, I was going to find out that night. They’d probably come to my room in the middle of the night and wake me up. If I slept through the night and woke up and it was daylight, I’d know that they hadn’t taken me, and I’d see the list of new guys posted on the door of someone’s Lawn room.

I got into bed that night and tried to sleep. I couldn’t. I was afraid to fall asleep, because I knew that if it was daylight when I woke up, I was screwed. I didn’t want to know.

I tossed and turned and tossed and turned. It was 2 in the morning. Finally I couldn’t take it any more, so I threw on some clothes and walked over to the Lawn and sat on the steps of the Rotunda, staring into the night, letting my mind wander, trying to relax.

After about twenty minutes I went back to my dorm. As I walked into the building I could see something scrawled on our message board. Before I could read it I heard someone in my dorm, Emily, say, “Congratulations, Jeff!” Huh? I looked at my door and read the message. “Where are you?” it said, or something like that. And under my name one of the guys had written “Academical Village Person.”

“You just missed them!” Emily said. “They went down to the computer lab to look for you.”

Pumped with adrenaline, I ran down the hall towards the computer lab. They were still walking towards it when I found them. I ran up to them, they turned around and saw me, and they started cheering and hugging me and snapped a Polaroid and started singing this song to me — “Lover, lover, lover, you don’t treat me no good no more” — but in place of “lover” they substituted my last name. Three of the other guys from callbacks were there as well — they’d taken the four of us.

We all walked over to the Rotunda, where they took out a bottle of champagne and some plastic cups and poured some for each of us. They gave the camera to this girl nearby and had her take some pictures of us as a group, all 14 of us. That was it. I was officially a member of the Academical Village People.

They took us all back to our dorms. My friend — the one who’d got into the New Dominions the year before — was still up, and I gave him a big hug. We were now fellow a cappella people.

I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was too excited. So I threw my clothes back on and walked back over to the Rotunda.

I sat on the Rotunda steps again. I couldn’t believe it — I’d finally made it into an a cappella group. Me! It was the happiest night of my college years.

I stared down the Lawn, looking at the trees and the illuminated buildings. Gazed at Old Cabell Hall, the music building, at the other end of the Lawn. Looked up at the sky. Listened to the crickets. Felt a breeze through my sweatshirt and shorts. Sat there, just sat there, as the sky grew lighter and lighter.

Finally, around 6:30 or 7 in the morning, I went back to my room and went to bed.

It turned out to be a great year. Performances all over the place. In December I had a solo in the a cappella holiday concert — I sang this song, “Mambo Santa.” In February we performed our first full-length concert, “A Midwinter Night’s Sing.” In the spring we recorded our first album, “Hoos Your Daddy?”

I only sang with them for one year, but I made some great friends. I loved the singing, but mostly I loved the friendship and camaraderie I got — not just from them, but from some people in the other groups as well. It was so much fun to be part of the a cappella community.

We were a pretty decent group, but after I and all of the founders graduated, they got much better. In 1998 they made it all the way to the finals of the National Championship of Collegiate A Cappella and thus got to sing at Carnegie Hall. Many of us alums showed up and sat in the audience, nearly incredulous. These guys were singing on the stage of Carnegie Hall. The group had come a long way.

It’s funny. In the fall of 1994, I’d worried that my fourth and final year of college was going to be a bust. I wasn’t going to have any new activities. But then I got into AVP and my life changed. Those guys made my last year of college so wonderful and memorable.

I’m still in touch with many of them — we all exchange e-mail and such. I got to know some good guys through that group.

Thanks, guys, for making my dream finally come true. It really meant a lot to me.
—–

Holy shit. I can’t even imagine how many hits Choire and Philo are going to get from this.
—–