Posts - October 2001

Life Still Sucks

Let me just say that I’m rather frickin’ depressed lately. I mean, not clinically. But I’m dejected, at any rate.

I feel so undesirable it’s not even funny. First of all, I need a haircut. When I don’t get a haircut, my hair starts to slowly poof out to the sides, because it’s curly. If I went long enough without a haircut, it would become an afro. I have horrible memories of being in elementary school, when the frequency of my haircuts was controlled by my mom. In my fifth-grade picture I have such a huge afro. Of course, my dad likes to refer to it as a Jewfro.

I’m going to get a haircut tomorrow evening, right after therapy and right before Twentysomething.

I have no idea what’s going on with Wes. We haven’t seen each other since the night of Friday, September 7.

On Saturday 9/8 he went on vacation for a week.

On Monday 9/17 he returned from vacation, but that day I went home to my parents’ house for three nights because of Rosh Hashannah.

On Thursday night, 9/20, I saw “The Producers.”

On Friday night, 9/21, I went out to dinner with my family.

Early Saturday morning, 9/22, I went to Richmond for Doug’s memorial service. I got back late Sunday night, 9/23.

On Monday night, 9/24, Wes and I talked on the phone and made plans to get together the following night.

The following night, Tuesday, 9/25, Wes came down with strep throat. That lasted through Thursday, 9/27.

On the nights of Friday, 9/28, and Saturday, 9/29, he had tickets to see the Yankees.

When we’d talked on Tuesday, I told him I hoped he felt better soon, and I said, “I guess we’ll talk on the weekend and make plans for next week when you’re better.” Then he assured me that we’d probably talk before the weekend.

He never called.

Finally, last night, I called him to say hi and see how he was doing. I pointedly decided not to bring up the question of when we’d next hang out, because I wanted to wait and see if he’d bring it up. Eventually, he did. Apparently he’s busy until later in the week, though. So he said he’d call me later in the week and we could figure out when to get together.

Those first three weeks I can understand, because first he was away, and then either I was busy with something or he was busy with something. But you’d think that if he really wanted to see me, we’d set something up concrete, right? And maybe he’d call me when he was free? Like, for instance, yesterday? But no. He didn’t.

The crazy thing here is, I don’t think I want to date him anyway. But I want him to like me. See, I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t want him to hurt me either. Why am I concerned about being rejected by someone whom I don’t think I want to date in the first place? I don’t get it. This is screwy.

So there’s that.

Meanwhile, I’ve called World Trade Center Boy twice in the last week and left messages on his voicemail, and he hasn’t returned either of those calls.

Chat rooms aren’t giving me what I want lately, either.

At least there’s some friends, though. There’s CanadaGirl. And there’s Nick. And there’s also the guy whom I met at the Phoenix before my long all-night walk up Park Avenue. We were supposed to meet outside the Strand on Saturday afternoon, but he never showed up. We talked today, and apparently he’d just missed a train and by the time he got there I was gone. So we’re going to hang out next Saturday night, maybe.

At least I have some friends in New York. Seems like I have to find them all offline, though.

I’m sorry. I’m just unhappy about several things. I don’t like my apartment or my job. I don’t know where I want to live, though, so I can’t seem to make a decision on that front. Do I want to stay in Jersey City? Do I want to move to Manhattan? Do I want to move further out into the suburbs? Do I want to live alone? Do I want to have a roommate? Do I want to have a car or not? I don’t know. I just have no fire for life right now.

Jersey City depresses me lately. Then again, so does Manhattan.

Also, I think I’m reading the newspaper too much. I subscribed to the Times on paper because I thought it would bring some stability to my life. But unfortunately I’m reading it on the PATH in the morning instead of reading a book. I should read a book instead, like I’ve done for the past year. When you read a book, you can escape. When you read a newspaper, you can’t escape. Also, the New York Times is bulky and comes in too many sections. It’s annoying to read on the train.

I need to escape. I should read books again on the train.

I wish my commute was longer, though, so I’d have more time to read. So maybe I should move to Manhattan after all.

No choices seem good. Every choice seems to have a down side.

On a good note, I listened to the cast album of “tick, tick… BOOM!” three times in a row tonight. The music is awesome.

I have no food in my fridge. I don’t know why.

The light grows dimmer. It gets chillier. It gets darker earlier. I used to love this time of year. Lately, I greatly dislike it.

I’m not happy these days. I can only imagine that somehow, things will get better.

But I sort of feel like I want to stew. Or like I have to.

Tuesday Night Jeff,

Wednesday Afternoon Tin Man

Well, this is a record for me. I’m in the second week of my new job and already I’m slipping. I’m hung over, I went to bed at 4:30 this morning, I came into work 45 minutes late today. And on top of that, I’m blogging at work.

At least I’m wearing a tie. Oh wait, no I’m not anymore, because it was choking me.

“I can’t deal with the fact that life is hard.”

I said that about two-thirds into my therapy session last night.

That’s the source of almost all my problems in life. You know, I think the main difference between functional people and dysfunctional people is this: the functional people accept that life is hard, while the dysfunctional people either don’t accept it, try to fight it, or have convinced themselves that it’s not true.

I’m one of the dysfunctional ones. Surprise!

Long ago, when I was forming my perceptions of the world, back in kindergarten, here is what I learned: I’m smart. Schoolwork comes easy to me, and therefore I will never have to work hard. And my teachers treat me differently from everyone else. They treat me like I’m special. I’m better than everyone else because I’m smart. On top of that, I’m very well-behaved.

But, as my therapist told me last night, all these teachers did me a disservice by treating me that way. It was a disservice because it helped solidify my view that life was supposed to be easy, that I could coast. Now, when life gets hard, I’m usually convinced that it’s my fault, that I must have made a bad decision. If I’d made a different decision, things wouldn’t be so hard right now.

Not even school was always easy. The first time I realized that was in third grade. I had to write a report on a famous person, and I picked Albert Einstein. I remember sitting in my bedroom with a couple of child-level biographies of Einstein, getting really frustrated and angry and throwing one of the books across the room because this wasn’t easy. I was good at doing things that I could dispatch quickly — alphabetizing words, doing math problems, passing spelling tests. Fast equalled smart. Whenever it came to a long-term assignment — one that required perseverance — I had a harder time of things.

I wish I hadn’t been treated differently. I wish I hadn’t been placed on a pedestal because of my brainpower. When you’re at the top, all the pressure is on you. Everyone’s looking at you, everyone expects terrific things from you. You’re not allowed to be a normal kid or do normal things or have fun or play in the mud.

And so today I’m two different people. Part of me wants to please people, do the “responsible” thing, behave well, get that admiration from my teachers and others. But another part of me wants to misbehave, rebel, break out of that prison, because I never had a chance to do it when I was younger. You know how commentators used to describe Bill Clinton as two different people — “Saturday Night Bill” (the bad guy) and “Sunday Morning William” (the good guy)? It’s kind of like that. I’m divided.

I mean, look at me! I take a job as a lawyer because I think I’m obligated to give practicing law a chance. Obligated. And yet I give the job a big “screw you” by staying out too late last night and drinking too much and by not concentrating on my work. I’m doing these things as if there’s a higher person out there, someone whom I’m simultaneously trying to please and rebel against.

When will I realize that there’s no higher authority out there except the universal law that life is hard?

So, anyway. About last night. It sure was interesting.

Last night was Twentysomething. It was my first time there in a month, because the previous meeting had been during Rosh Hashannah. It was nice to be back after so long. Wales was there — I hadn’t seen him since the middle of August. He seemed happy to see me. (Wales, you may recall, is my British friend whom I first really got to know during the gay pride parade in June. I’d also talked with him at a Twentysomething meeting and at Date Bait a few days before the parade.)

After an initial icebreaking session, we split up into small groups to discuss the topic of the evening — coming out. In my group there was this cute, short, red-haired guy with glasses. I kept looking over at him during the discussion. Actually, there was this other guy who was even cuter — actually, he was adorable — and I kept looking over at him as well, but he’s not essential to the rest of the story.

At the end of the meeting, everyone mingled again, and I wound up in a conversation with the red-haired bespectacled guy and a couple of other people. One of those other people turned out to be his boyfriend. D’oh. The other person was this tall guy with nice dark eyes whom I’d seen at several meetings before. I’d actually caught him looking at me occasionally over the last few months, but although I thought he was kinda cute, he never made much of an impression on me. There’s something a little undefinably weird about him. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he doesn’t smile.

Anyway, he and I were talking for a while, and it seemed liked the conversation was winding down. Then the cute red-haired bespectacled guy and his boyfriend came up to us, and the boyfriend said to the tall guy, with no attempt at being discreet, ‘Do you need a pen so you can get his number?’ or something like that.

Um, that was kind of an awkward moment. At that point, Tall Guy said I was welcome to go to Beige with them.

I’d never been to Beige before. Beige is an event that happens every Tuesday night at the Bowery Bar (also known as the B Bar). Basically, it’s Gay Night at the Bowery Bar, and there are crowds of people there. Apparently celebrities like to go there — Rupert Everett, Matt Damon (!), Joan Collins, and Danny from “The Real World — New Orleans” have all shown up before.

Tall Guy was cute, so I decided to go. Why not? Bespectacled Guy came too, but his boyfriend didn’t. And Wales came as well, so it was just the four of us.

The place was enormous. We got there at around 10:30 and sat down at a table for some food and drinks. The four of us talked together for a while, but eventually we wound up splitting into two separate conversations — me and Tall Guy, and Wales and Bespectacled Guy.

Did you know that Tall Guy once made out with Anne Rice’s son Chris, right there at Beige? Wow.

After dinner, we all got up and each got another drink and walked around the place. Now, I don’t have very much tolerance, so after two and a half beers (and my dinner, which consisted of a third of a plate of calamari), I was swimming.

There was some major flirtation going on between me and Tall Guy. We’d find ourselves just looking into each other’s eyes for several seconds at a time (for which my head had to tilt way upward, since he’s nine inches taller than me).

But besides that, Bespectacled Guy — who, mind you, has a boyfriend — apparently had a big thing for Wales. I know this because Bespectacled Guy made his intentions clear to Tall Guy, and Tall Guy told me. Apparently he and his boyfriend have been together for two years and he’s never had so much as a blowjob from another guy, so this was kind of interesting.

I don’t know — when someone who has a boyfriend starts majorly coming onto someone else, it trouble me. I don’t know if I’m just envious, or if I have a moral problem with it, or what — maybe it has to do with the duel between my inner good guy and my inner bad guy, as explained above.

At around 2 in the morning, we all finally decided to leave. Tall Guy gave me his phone number and asked me to call him the next day (in other words, today), and then he caught a cab home. Wales and I had to walk back to the PATH station to Jersey City, and Bespectacled Guy decided to walk with us to the station.

I was kind of drunk, so I offered to walk up on ahead and let them be alone and whatnot, but Bespectacled Guy said that wasn’t necessary. So the three of us walked along.

I really had to pee, so we stopped inside Washington Square Park. I went over to a bush.

As I was peeing, I turned my head around and saw that they were kissing. Gee, what a surprise.

I turned back around, finished up, and then, pretending that I hadn’t seen anything, I announced, “I’m going to turn back around now.”

When I turned back around to face them, they were just standing there. Hahahaha.

We started walking again, and, still kind of drunk, I mentioned that I’d seen everything, and that it was none of my business so I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone.

But for the rest of the walk I felt dejected about the whole thing. So I kept on walking, dejectedly now, my head tilted down, eyes on the ground.

We got to the PATH station and Bespectacled Guy asked to exchange phone numbers and e-mails with Wales, so they did. Bespectacled Guy gave me a hug goodbye, and Wales and I walked down the steps to the platform.

I was still annoyed. And when I’m drunk, my thoughts and feelings — which are usually hard for me to hide anyway — become even harder to hide. My face becomes an open book. I don’t really know what bothered me about the whole thing, but I was bothered.

Wales and I sat there, and he looked kind of ashamed. He started talking about how he wasn’t sure what had just happened, and how he thought Bespectacled Guy was cute but had had no intentions of doing or saying anything because the guy had a boyfriend. And it’s true — Bespectacled Guy had been the one who’d initiated everything.

We were sitting there, and I was still sort of drunk, and suddenly I wanted to tell him about Date Bait back in June. If you don’t remember, I’d written him down on my card (a way of expressing interest in him), but he hadn’t written me down. Therefore, we didn’t have a match, but he also never knew that I’d written his name down.

I don’t know why I wanted to tell him right now. I’m no longer interested in dating him, so there’d be no purpose in telling him.

But as the train pulled in, I said, “You wanna know something interesting?”

“‘Sure,” he said.

I paused. And then I said:

“When we were at Date Bait –”

And then we got on the train, and suddenly I realized that this wasn’t a good idea after all.

“Oh, never mind,” I said.

“No, it’s okay, you were going to say something about Date Bait?”

“Nah, never mind, it’s stupid. Anyway –” and I changed the subject.

We stood on the train and had a non-sober talk about guys, all in earshot of a guy sitting right near us. I guess the alcohol made it not matter.

He got off at his stop and we said goodbye, and I continued on home.

But that’s not the end of the story.

It was 3 in the morning, and I had to get up at 8. But for some stupid reason I decided to go online and see if there was anybody “interesting” around. Despite the late hour, there was. There was this guy whom I’d chatted with the last couple of nights. He lived nearby and had a good-looking photo.

We chatted for a little bit, and then he invited me over.

At 3:30 I was at his place.

At 4:00 we were finished. It wasn’t very good.

By the time I got home and went to bed, it was just after 4:30 in the morning. I set my alarm for the latest possible minute. When I woke up at 8:15 this morning, I pressed the snooze bar several times, and I didn’t wind up getting to work until 9:45.

Fortunately, nobody seemed to notice. There was some sort of bagel brunch going on.

Now it’s 3:30 in the afternoon and I’ve done absolutely nothing today. And now I can flog myself in writing.

Oh, me.

Tuesday night Jeff, Wednesday Afternoon Tin Man.

Almost Famous

I had an interview with a reporter from the Associated Press this evening. He’s the AP’s National Internet Reporter, and he’s writing an article about weblogs in relation to the events of September 11. And he wanted to interview me, of all people! This afternoon he sent me an e-mail, and this evening he called me up and we had a nice phone interview. I’m incredibly flattered that he contacted me. And I think I gave him some choice quotes. I’d never been interviewed for a news story before, and I did my best to speak in complete, well-thought-out sentences. For the most part I think I succeeded.

And of course the thought crossed my mind that a mention of my site in an Associated Press article would be amazing publicity for this site.

Unfortunately, there’s a catch. If I give him permission to quote me in the article, he has to use my full name. I asked if he could just mention my first name and the URL, but he can’t — AP policy is that you must use full names of anyone you quote. And that means that my full name would be appearing alongside my URL in the Iowa Daily Grasshopper or the South Dakota Picayune-Ostrich or whatever.

My parents don’t know I have this site (at least, I don’t think they do). My employers don’t know I have this site. There are several people I’ve dated who don’t know I have this site. I’m not really sure I want to deal with the chance that some friend of my parents could call my folks up and inform them that their son has this online journal at Tinmanic.com, and that my parents (or my parents’ friends or random other people who know me) could then type in the URL and wind up reading about Internet sex. Nor do I want my employers reading about my work habits.

At first I told the reporter he could quote me. But at the end of the interview I asked him how much time I have to change my mind, and he said he’ll probably be writing the article in a couple of days.

Unfortunately, I think I’m going to have to call him back and rescind my permission to quote me.

Sigh… it would have been such great publicity for my site. Damn.

I should have given him a fake name. But, um, I’m a lawyer, and that probably wouldn’t have been kosher.

Anyway, I did send him over to East/West, because I think Choire’d be a great person for the guy to talk to, seeing as how he managed to lasso a whole shitload of links and photos and whatnot in relation to the events.

So much for my fifteen minutes of fame and glory.

What do you all think? Should I let him quote me or not?

The Game

Thanks to those of you who commented on the previous entry. I’m now leaning more towards letting the guy use my quotes if he so chooses. Of course, on the other hand, Monica Lewinsky sought out fame, and look what happened to her! She became the laughingstock of the nation.

Anyway, it’s always possible he won’t use any of my quotes, in which case this would have been a pointless debate.

I’m suffering through a rotten cold. I woke up Wednesday morning with a really scratchy throat (after about four hours of sleep, post-Beige), and I’ve felt rotten for the last three days, so I’m staying in tonight. I’m congested and my eyes are irritated.

I haven’t talked to Wes since Sunday night. I called him last Sunday night because he hadn’t called me in several days. He suggested we hang out later in the week or something, because he was going to be busy on Monday and Tuesday nights. I said sure, and so he said he’d call me later in the week and we could make plans.

Well, here it is, late on Friday night, and he hasn’t called me all week.

I didn’t think he was going to call me. In fact, in a weird way, I sort of hoped he wouldn’t call me, because that would prove to me that he really isn’t interested in me anymore, and I could step into the role of victim that much more easily. Oh, wonderful, right? Yeah, I’m oh-so-good at hurting my own feelings when nobody else will do it for me.

I want to talk with him, but I’m not quite sure what I want to say. I mean, I’ve decided he’s not what I’m looking for in a boyfriend after all, so why do I care? And if I try to confirm that he’s no longer interested in me, he might think I’m doing it because I’m still interested in him. If he’s not interested in me, then I must convey to him that I’m no longer interested in him, right? It all goes back to the game that Rob presented a few days ago. If neither guy likes the other, then the score is zero. But if you like the guy and he doesn’t like you, then the score is -1, which is worse than a score of zero.

You always want to move upward.

Okay, I’m being slightly facetious, but we really do act like that sometimes, don’t we?

I’m really annoyed that Wes seems to be avoiding me instead of calling me to talk. I mean, he’s not very touchy-feely (which is one reason he wouldn’t make a good boyfriend for me anyway). But it would be nice to get some closure here.

If he’d stopped calling me after only two or three dates, then maybe I could understand. After all, that happens.

But why does that even happen?

Why the fuck don’t gay guys communicate with each other? Is it really a gay thing? Or is it an urban gay thing? Or is it just a human thing? Why do gay guys avoid all contact instead of taking the time to say, “Look — I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is going to work out”? God forbid a gay man should show some respect for another gay guy’s feelings, because, oh my god, if you show a gay man that you care about his feelings, he might think you’re in love with him, right? Or you’ll be showing him that you care about people, and we all know that gay men aren’t allowed to care about people! That would make us vulnerable!

We’re too busy competing with each other. We don’t want to be the one to get rejected first, so we strike preemptively.

Yeah, there’s that. But this situation sucks even more.

Wes and I went out on more than two or three dates. Over the course of a month I slept at his apartment several times, and he cooked dinner for me twice, and we hung out a few times every week for a month. And we grilled together at my parents’ house when they were away. And we went out to dinner together and he used the phrase “when you meet my parents,” not if. And we cuddled up on the couch together and watched a movie and he said to me, “You know, this is kinda like what boyfriends do.” And he e-mailed me while he was on vacation. And a couple of days after the World Trade Center collapsed, he called me from vacation to see how I was doing.

Oh, we went on more than just a couple of dates. For him to just stop calling me now, without any explanation — well, that’s just rude. Frankly, it’s a sucky way to treat someone. Par for the course, though. He acted like a cad at the Phoenix, and he’s acting like a cad again.

Anyway, having nothing to do tonight, and being unable to complete last Saturday’s New York Times crossword — the Saturday puzzles are toughest, after all — and it being Friday night and Wes still not having called me, I finally decided to take the initiative.

I still didn’t know what to say, so I opened up a spiral notebook and started to write an imaginary letter to him. I mean, it was a letter, but I had no intention of sending it. Unsent letters are a good way to get out all your angry feelings about someone so you don’t fall apart and lash out at the person when you finally talk together.

Of course, I know a certain blogger who might tell me that it’s better not to hide the anger — that it’s better to let it all out. You know who you are.

At any rate, I wrote about two paragraphs, and then I decided, screw it. I picked up the phone, even thought I knew there was a good chance he wouldn’t be home on a Friday night. I had to plan for two possibilities — one, he’d pick up the phone. Two, he wouldn’t.

He didn’t.

I got his answering machine.

There was a recording, and then: beeeeeeeeeep!

My turn.

Hi.

Talk to you later.

Click.

Cripes. I met him on August 4. I last saw him on September 7. Now it’s October 5.

I’ve known him for two months, and yet during that second month — even though we’ve talked on the phone several times — I haven’t seen him at all.

Being gay totally sucks sometimes. No wonder I stayed in the closet for so long.

How Do I Get Myself Into These Things?

I’m moving! I signed a lease on a new apartment this afternoon. This weekend I looked at a great apartment for rent several blocks away from where I’m living now. And out of the several people who saw the apartment, the landlord picked me! Compared to my current place, the rent will be lower (by 250 bucks), the street will be quieter (and the people above me will be a married librarian couple), and the apartment has more charm (the building was built around 1860 and the apartment has pine floors). It even has a washer and dryer. I’ll also be one block away from a nice park. I think I’ll be quite happy with the place. I move on November 1.

I’d thought about Manhattan, but I couldn’t have found an apartment like this — at this rent — in the areas of Manhattan in which I’d want to live. And anyway, I live so close to Manhattan right now, and I never have a problem getting there, and it doesn’t seem to have hindered my social life much in the past year. Also, Jersey City has gradually been turning into Chelsea West in the last couple of years — there are so many gay people here. The gays always move into the neighborhoods that need to be spruced up, you know?

Manhattan will happen eventually. For now, I’m looking forward to moving.

So, here’s how close I live to Manhattan: at 2:08 yesterday afternoon, I was lying in bed. One hour later, I was sitting in the Ambassador Theater after buying a last-minute reduced-price ticket to see “Hedda Gabler” on Broadway. (I enjoyed the play. Kate Burton — Richard Burton’s daughter — has a hell of a stage presence, even if her portrayal of Hedda was a bit too modern.)

After the show, I walked out of the theater and took out my cell phone, calling people to see if anyone was doing anything that night. I have today off for Columbus Day, and I thought maybe other people would, too, and maybe I could find someone to meet up with.

I also called my dad. He asked me if I was looking at the news zippers in Times Square. Why, I asked? Because we bombed Afghanistan this afternoon, he said.

I hadn’t known. And actually, I took the news in stride. I was surprised how unsurprised I was. After all, we’d been expecting this for so long, and it’s certainly not the first time we’ve bombed the Middle East.

I was just a block north of Times Square, so I walked back into the area and read the text of the news as it zipped along the digital display. Hardly anybody else was looking at it. Times Square was surprisingly normal — the sketch artists were sketching faces, the tourists touring, the vendors… uh… vending. The one unusual thing I noticed was a guy wearing a FEMA jacket.

From Times Square I walked south, and around 40th Street, I saw a huge mass of police officers. There must have been about 100 of them , wearing their navy blue uniforms, lined up in several rows. I don’t know if they were on alert or if they were receiving instructions or what, but it was a startling sight.

I forgot about current events for the rest of the day. I walked to the Barnes and Noble on Sixth Avenue and 21st Street, where I realized they’d rearranged everything.

After browsing for an hour, I left. It was already dark out. I was bored, and I still hadn’t heard from anyone, but I wasn’t about to go home. So I walked over to the Lesbian and Gay Community Center to see if anything interesting was going on. There wasn’t. Hardly anyone was there. I browsed through HX and Next and the Village Voice for a while, got bored again, and left.

From there I walked over to Eighth Avenue, where I settled into a couch at the Big Cup (Chelsea’s big gay coffee shop, for those of you who don’t know), pulled out the Sunday New York Times Arts & Leisure section, and alternately read and napped.

When I’d finished read everything in the paper that seemed remotely interesting, it was after 9:00, and I figured it was late enough to head to the bars. I thought about heading over to the East Village, but I wasn’t in much of an East Village mood.

Instead, I went to Barrage on 47th Street, in Hell’s Kitchen. I’d been introduced to Barrage by Charlie back in the spring, and I’d liked it — the guys were as pretty as the guys in Chelsea, but with less attitude. I’d actually been there the night before, with a friend of mine. I guess I was in a Barrage mood this weekend, because I decided to go back.

I got there around 10:00. Before I walked in the door, I pulled out my trusty cell phone and checked my messages at home. There was a message — finally — from Wes. He’d called about 10 minutes earlier, just 48 hours after I’d left that message on his answering machine. Hmph. Took him long enough.

He said something about wanting to talk with me so we could catch up.

My mood changed. I suddenly had no desire to go into Barrage. Instead I wanted to go back to Jersey City and have a conversation with him.

I walked around the block, trying to decide what to do. I called him back, but he was on the phone and I got his machine. I hung up. A few minutes later, I called again. Got the machine again. This time I left a message — I told him that I was in Manhattan, that I had Monday off and was probably going to go to a bar or something, and that maybe we could talk or get together later in the week.

Having walked all the way around the block, I was back at Barrage. I decided to go in.

It was pretty packed. I went to the bar, bought a Corona, took off my coat, and leaned against a wall, sipping my beer and trying not to look too awkward. I was wearing my glasses, and I wondered if I’d thereby attract a different type of person than if I were wearing my contacts.

After a couple of minutes I saw a guy walk by and glance at me. At least I thought he was glancing at me — I wasn’t sure. A few seconds later he walked by again, and once again he seemed to be glancing at me.

A few seconds after that, he appeared once more, leaning against a post, and he was definitely looking in my direction.

He, too, was wearing glasses.

And I did the thing that Charlie had once taught me. I did what I usually have so much trouble doing when I see a cute guy at a bar.

I smiled.

He smiled back.

I swear, I’ve been getting better at making eye contact with cute guys. First there was the guy on Lexington Avenue at 6:30 in the morning, and now this guy. It seems to have become easier, now that I know that it can happen to me.

Anyway, he walked over to me.

Yep, kinda cute. Hmm… maybe this would turn out to be a fun evening.

It turned out that he thought he knew me — he thought I was a former co-worker. I wasn’t.

We both leaned against a wall and started talking. Strangely enough, it turned out that like me, he’d gone to college at the University of Virginia. This wasn’t just strange, but exceedingly strange; the first time I’d come to Barrage, I’d met a UVa grad as well. And this was only my third time at this place.

He told me when he graduated, and I was surprised. It turns out he’s 36 years old. I could have sworn he was in his late 20s. He certainly didn’t look 36.

We wound up moving over to a couch, where we talked some more. And talked. And talked.

He’s intelligent, he’s Jewish, and he’s cute, in a goofy sort of way. We were getting along very well. I was thinking I could maybe see some potential here.

Things progressed. Eventually he told me I was cute. I told him the same. The conversation got more intimate. He lived in the neighborhood, and, in my crafty way, I subtly maneuvered the conversation into the topic of what his apartment looked like.

After describing the place, we got onto the topic I was getting at. He said that he was tempted to invite me over, but that he was finding himself liking me too much to do something like that. I pretty much hinted that I had no problem either way — that whatever happened, I still hoped to see him again.

We’d begun talking at around 10:30. Over the next three hours we progressed from talking side-by-side to talking with our arms around each other. By 2 in the morning, the bar was practically empty, and our lips were locked together.

He was a pretty amazing kisser.

You know what? I’d had so many firsts lately, and this was yet another one. Believe it or not, this was the very first time I’d met someone in a bar and made out with him there.

It was really, really nice.

He still didn’t want to invite me over just yet. That was okay, though.

Still, the conversation somehow moved into territory I wasn’t quite ready to approach. He asked me about my past relationships, so I described them. Naturally, out of politeness (and curiosity), I asked him about his, so he described his.

I think I have a problem with intimacy. Or some other problem. Whatever the problem is, I get scared when someone comes on too seriously too soon.

Anyway, we exchanged phone numbers. By this time, the lights were on in the bar, so it was time to go. We stood outside on the street and hugged, even kissed a little.

It was at this point — outside, underneath a streetlight — that I noticed his temples were starting to go gray.

Okay. I know some of you want to throw things at me now. You’re thinking that I’m way too hung up on age. You’re thinking, jeez, Jeff, you got along so well with this guy, and now you’re concerned just because his temples are starting to go gray?

I don’t know. There are lots of things I have to work through in my life when it comes to relationships.

Thing number one: my parents. See, they affect my relationship choices without my even realizing it. If my parents were dead — if all the elder people in my life were dead, in fact, including my parents, my friends’ parents, my aunt — anyone who could possibly register disapproval — then my pool of available guys would probably be larger. When I consider whether someone can be my boyfriend, I picture myself introducing him to my parents, and I imagine us all having a meal together at the dining room table. Could my 52-year-old parents deal with me dating a 36-year-old guy? Especially one who’s already going gray? Is this really something I have a problem with, or is it something I think other people — including my friends — would have a problem with? I don’t know.

Thing number two: commitment. I don’t want to jump into a relationship. I don’t even totally know if I dislike being single. I don’t have a ton of relationship experience; I don’t really know what I want and what I don’t want. So when someone starts to come on a little too strong, I panic. I feel trapped, constricted, I feel like things are moving too fast.

That’s what was happening last night. And yet I didn’t want to tell him that I like to move slowly; it would have killed the mood. But it shouldn’t even have gotten to that point in the first place, right? I didn’t steer the conversation in the dating direction. He did.

I started out thinking he’d be a cute guy to hook up with. He was probably thinking the same thing at first. But then we wound up really hitting it off, and we both started to see some greater potential. But he was moving a little too quickly for me.

Anyway, we ended the evening deciding that we’d get together sometime this week.

And, lo and behold, this afternoon there was already a message from him waiting on my voice mail.

Aw, man. I don’t know how to deal with these situations. This is just like what happened with Wes, a mere two months ago: the night we met, he started talking about dating potential. And I didn’t want to kill the mood that time, either.

You know what? I’m thinking that there must be something appealing about me. Or at any rate, I’m good at being charming and cute when the chemistry is right. And yet, when the other guy starts to see the potential for something more, I start to panic a little, and I think, I shouldn’t have acted so cute and charming. Now he’s going to think I’m always like this. What’s going to happen when he sees the real me?

At any rate, as usual, I’m thinking too much. I’m worried about hurting his feelings, I’m worried about being too nice and leading him on, I’m worried about being too reserved, I’m worried about blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Oh, screw it. I guess I should just enjoy the ride.

Closure

Closure has been achieved.

Wes and I finally talked last night. It went really well, actually. Basically, each of us had independently concluded that we’re not right for each other. He could tell that I couldn’t deal with his Type A personality. On top of that, he said, he got kind of freaked out by me that night at the Phoenix. Oh, really, I thought. You were freaked out because I was upset that you were majorly coming on to someone else when we were out on a date together? Gee. Guess I overreacted, huh.

But I didn’t say that. I figured it wasn’t worth it.

The weird thing is that each of us thought that the other guy was the one who was most interested in a relationship. I thought he wanted a relationship, and he thought I wanted a relationship. Now, it seems clear to me that he was pretty interested at one point. At several points, even. We’d get together and he’d tell me that he’d missed me. And then there was “This is kinda like what boyfriends do.” I mentioned that remark last night, and he responded that he’d said that because he was trying to feel out the situation. Yeah, whatever.

At any rate, it was a very calm, friendly, laid back conversation, and we’ve decided we still want to be friends. In theory, that sounds great. Whether it will work in practice remains to be seen.

I think I’m seeing a pattern with guys lately. The guy behaves in a way that makes me think he’s coming on too strong. That makes me want to step back. Then it usually turns out that he’s not as interested in me as I thought he was. So what’s going on?

I think I should stop taking a guy’s words and actions at face value. Perhaps the guy doesn’t really know what he’s talking about that first time when he hints that he’s really into me. Perhaps he’s exaggerating, overcome by the moment. In other words, perhaps the guy from Barrage the other night really isn’t all over me right now. Perhaps he’s just feeling out the situation himself, just like I am, and he wants to pursue it, see where it goes, but he’s not trying to marry me.

Perhaps I want him to be more interested in me. Perhaps I want to be the one who has more power in the situation. I say that I don’t like it when a guy comes on too strong, but maybe, in some way, I really do like it.

Language is so confusing. I wish people would mean what they mean and say what they say.

Anyway, analysis, analysis, analysis. Enough of that.

Oh, the Associated Press article. I decided to compromise. I told the writer he could use my name and the name of the blog (“The Tin Man”), but not the URL. I’m not really sure if that will make a huge practical difference, but at least if people want to find the site, they’ll have to put in a little bit of effort. They’ll really have to want to find it. Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, whatever. He told me he is in fact planning to quote me, so that’s kinda cool. Once the article is written, I hope to find an online version that I can link to from here.

And now I’m off to lunch.

The Article

Okay, I don’t know what I was so worried about. Here it is. Enjoy.

Gratitude vs. Dissatisfaction

I was going to write about my weekend, but then I read TB’s comments, and I thought I’d respond.

First of all — as often happens in journalism — my quote in the AP article wasn’t placed in its proper context. My “attempt to bring some rationality to a completely irrational series of events” was actually in reference to September 11, not a statement about my blog in general. During the week following the attacks, I wrote incessantly about what I was thinking and feeling. I also provided a few links, as well as excerpts of e-mails and newspaper articles. This was my way of reminding myself — or perhaps of convincing myself — that I was still a sane human being. Unfortunately, I was quoted out of context.

Anyway, TB’s comments really have nothing to do with the quote, but they do touch on some things I’ve thought about before.

What’s the proper balance between gratitude and dissatisfaction? When should you be satisfied with what you have, and when should you strive for something better?

I don’t know. Philosophers have debated this question for years, no doubt.

Certainly, gratitude is necessary in order to survive and to gain some perspective on life. After all, I could be an Afghan refugee fleeing the Taliban. I could be starving or dying of AIDS in Africa. I could be homeless on the streets of Manhattan. I could be paralyzed like Christopher Reeve. Gratitude can make me feel better about things. After all, I have enough food to eat. I have heat in winter. I have a family. I even have a laptop computer.

Yes, gratitude is necessary. I do complain a lot here, but it’s good to remember to be grateful. Thanks, TB, for reminding me that.

And yet — I’m not just going to sit on my hands and say, “well, I guess things could be worse.” I’m not going to settle for something. You know why? Because I don’t have to. People used to think they were locked into their roles in life. You know the Elizabethan Chain of Being? Everyone had his or her place in life, and here’s what you were, and here’s what you were supposed to do, and that was that. No complaining. God Save the Queen.

But things are different today. We have more choices today — or, more accurately, certain choices are more socially acceptable today than they used to be. It used to be that you were supposed to pick a company and stay with it for your whole life. Nobody expects people to do that anymore. Thank goodness, because it’s human nature to seek out better things for ourselves.

TB, you want my job? You want my degree? Take ‘em. Also take my frustration and my boredom at work. Take my suits and my ties, which the Director wants us to wear, even though it’s 2001. Take the piles of paper that are going to multiply in my office like rabbits. Actually, take my entire windowless office, and its fluorescent lighting, too. Take the monitoring of my Web usage. Take the judges who are going to berate me for not knowing what I’m doing. Take the clients. And take my inherent sense of nonconformity, since it doesn’t seem to jibe with the vast government bureaucracy I’ve joined. Oh, and while you’re at it, don’t forget to repay my law school loans. Thanks so much; it’s very kind of you to take on my burdens for me.

I’m not going to squelch my dreams just because I should be darn grateful that I’m not starving. I’m not going to settle for “not starving.”

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

- Nelson Mandela

You know what? Based on my talents and desires and abilities — based on the particular qualities of the light that shines within me — I think I could do much more good in this world as a therapist than as a lawyer.

My suffering doesn’t help anyone at all.

(That’s something I’m still learning.)

By the way, I strongly dispute the notion that I’m unwilling to find joy or happiness in anything. That’s quite a generalization — one that doesn’t hold up if you read through my blog.

TB, who appointed you my critic? Perhaps you meant well, but your comments were really obnoxious. Do you even understand the purpose of an online journal? It’s a medium of self-expression. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for me. You don’t want to read it, don’t read it. You want to be critical, send me an e-mail, don’t flog me publicly. I’m an adult human being, for goodness’ sake. I’m not your child or your pet.

What you think of me is none of my business.

The Weekend

Now that I’ve written that tirade, I can get on with talking about my weekend.

Note: this is going to start out negative, but it will turn positive.

Friday afternoon

I was relieved to reach the end of the week. Friday was the last day of our orientation in Trenton. The afternoon session sucked. For an hour and a half we had to sit and listen to Computer Guy tell us all about the Internet usage policy and take us step by step through our department’s intranet. He took us through it page by page. The whole thing. It was all stuff we could have discovered on our own, and therefore, it was a huge waste of time, especially at 3:00 on a Friday afternoon.

But what really pissed me off was the Internet usage policy. Basically, we’re not allowed to use the Web for anything that’s not work-related. Our Web use is monitored — they keep a log of every website we visit. If it’s discovered that we’re doing too much non-work-related Web surfing, we can get disciplined. After all, Internet access is a privilege.

Are you telling me you’re going to place this device on our desks that gives us access to the entire world, and you’re going to expect us to resist the temptation to use it? I’m an Web addict. A question will pop into my mind and I’ll go online to try to find the answer. I want to check the news. I want to look for apartments. I want to check the weather. I want to access my Yahoo! e-mail account. I want to get directions to the restaurant I’m going to tonight. I want to know how old Bob Hope is. Whatever. You really expect me not to take advantage of any of this? You expect me to resist that temptation? Are you crazy? It’s like leaving a kid alone in a chocolate factory.

And anyway, get real! Do you think monitoring my Web usage is going to prevent me from slacking off? If I’m unable to concentrate on my work, I’m unable to concentrate on my work, and that’s that. It doesn’t matter whether I have Internet access or not. If I can’t surf the Web, I’ll wind up staring off into space. Monitoring my Web access isn’t going to affect my productivity too much. On top of that, it makes me feel like a child.

And even worse, the policy is hypocritical. Our intranet site has links to several non-work-related things. Information about current events, for instance. And a message board, if you want to sell extra tickets to something, for example. And so on. So basically, you’re telling me I can’t go online for non-work-related things unless they happen to be on our intranet? That makes no sense.

I was sitting there listening to all this and I panicked. I can’t get through the day without Internet access. I need to follow the news. I need to be in touch with people. Without Internet access I feel closed off, isolated. It makes me really uncomfortable to be without it.

And I wish I’d known my Web access was monitored before spending several hours online in the last couple of weeks. Great. I wonder if I’ll receive a disciplinary notice or something. I especially wish I’d known about this before clicking on this very website a few times. Now “www.tinmanic.com” is going to show up in the logs, and some person’s going to click on it and read all about how much I dislike my job. Terrific.

And those are just my frustrations with the Internet policy.

It’s also hitting me what a big bureaucracy I’ve joined. We get evaluated once a year. And if you do something unprofessional, you can get disciplined. And if you need to get blah blah blah set up, you have to talk to Jane Doe in Blah Blah Blah, while if you want to get blah blah blah set up, you have to talk to John Doe in Blah Blah Blah Blah.

I hate bureaucracy. I fucking hate it. I feel like I’ve walked into a Dilbert nightmare.

Maybe it would be redeeming if I enjoyed the work at all. But I don’t. I find it completely meaningless and valueless and life-draining.

What… was… I… thinking?

So I sat there listening to this computer lecture on Friday. And I started to develop visible signs of frustration on my face. I grimaced. And then I started squirming in my seat like a restless ten-year-old kid. I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. I started bouncing my leg up and down. I looked around the room. I exhaled my breath in frustration. Anger was coursing through me. I didn’t even care if people saw me acting this way. In fact, I wanted people to see me acting this way. I wanted everyone else to act this way, too. I wanted everyone to protest, to start lecturing the Computer Guy about how absurd this all was, instead of just sitting there like polite helpless sheep afraid of being disciplined. It really pissed me off.

I guess this means I don’t belong in a bureaucracy.

I’m not very good at hiding my feelings, am I.

It all reminded me of the time I stormed out of my Civil Procedure class during my first semester of law school because I was so angry and frustrated and didn’t want to be there.

Anyway…

Friday night

On Friday night I decided to go Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, New York’s gay and lesbian synagogue. I had been there only once, back in January, and for some reason I felt like going back on Friday. Maybe I wanted to feel connected to people in light of everything that’s been going on in the city lately. So I went on Friday night.

It was okay, not great. I don’t think it’s for me. Their services are a bit too folky and touchy-feely. There’s a piano. And I don’t know many of the tunes. And I don’t know many of the people. And in the back of my mind, I kept thinking that I was in a perfect venue for a terrorist attack. I’m in Manhattan, at a service with a big group of people who are both Jewish and gay. Yeah, the Islamic fundamentalists are gonna love this!

Afterwards, I had planned to go out with someone, but he cancelled. So I went to Barracuda in Chelsea, stood against a wall for a while and drank a beer, and then came home.

Saturday

Yesterday was really nice. See? I told you I can be positive here.

In the afternoon I met up with the guy from Barrage. It was actually our second date — we went out to dinner together on Thursday night and also hung out at his place for a while afterwards. He has a great apartment in Hell’s Kitchen — spacious and modern with a funky layout. He owns the apartment. And he has a piano. Very very nice.

So we hung out again yesterday. He had an extra ticket for a movie at the New York Film Festival. We saw a 14-minute French film followed by the main feature, an Italian movie, the name of which I can’t remember. We held hands during the movie. It was sweet.

I’d never been to a film festival before. It was at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center, which is much larger than a movie theater. And the print of the film was of excellent quality, which makes sense, since it hadn’t been shown over and over and over again. And at the end of each film, the audience applauded. It was quite nice. I think I’d like to attend another screening at a film festival. There was something very New Yorkish about the whole thing.

The movie was relevant to my current job dreams. The main character was a psychotherapist. I got to watch him go about his job — he’d sit there, listening to patient after patient, for the most part unable to express what he truly felt about them. It made me realize that perhaps there’s a downside to the job. Perhaps I wouldn’t like being a therapist as much as I think I would. Or it could just be that everything in life has a downside, and as long as you basically enjoy what you’re doing and you feel that you’re fulfilling your mission in life, you can tolerate the downs. I don’t know. I need to continue thinking about this, gather more information, while also beginning to take steps along the path toward the goal of switching careers.

As for my date — and what do I call the guy? I need a nickname for him. Anyway, I had a really nice time with him. After the movie, we went to Starbucks and bought some sandwiches, and then we walked back to Lincoln Center and ate them while sitting on a bench together. He was going to attend two more screenings that day, but there were no more extra tickets.

I’m definitely feeling some potential with him. We really seem to click with each other. He’s intelligent, and he’s sweet, and he’s cultured yet unpretentious, and he’s slightly neurotic, and he’s cute. He plays the piano, and he sings, and he likes theater and movies. There’s a Woody Allenish quality about his personality. I feel so comfortable around him. I feel like I don’t have to change who I am — I feel like I can be myself with him.

And he feels potential, too. It’s definitely promising.

And on a second look, there’s barely any gray in his sideburns after all.

Unfortunately, he left for a vacation today. He flew to London, where he’s spending the next two weeks. But we exchanged e-mail addresses, so we can keep in touch while he’s away. He was a bit worried about flying on an airplane between the two nations that are leading the fight against the Taliban, but I told him there was most likely nothing to worry about. By now, he has arrived safely in London, and there’s been nothing on the news about plane hijackings or explosions.

I haven’t done much for the rest of the weekend. I went out with a couple of people last night for a rather low-key evening. Today I’ve done nothing at all but read the Sunday New York Times as I count the days until I move. One of my friends from last night, Arch, doesn’t understand why I decided to stay in Jersey City instead of moving to Manhattan. And my friend Nick, with whom I talked on the phone today, said it’s too bad I decided to stay here instead of moving to Brooklyn, where he lives. Meanwhile, back when I was talking about moving to Manhattan, my friend Tall Red-Haired Guy, who lives here in Jersey City, wondered why I wanted to move to Manhattan instead of staying in Jersey City. Jeez, sometimes it seems that I can’t please anyone.

I’m not sure what I’ll do for the rest of the day. Maybe I’ll go into the city and see a movie. Maybe I’ll veg out and do the crossword. Maybe I’ll take a nap. Maybe I’ll continue to read Wishcraft and plot my career change. I don’t know. At any rate, it’s nice to be able to relax.

Undergrads

Tonight I got to travel into the past. My old college a cappella group, the Academical Village People (AVP), was in town for Fall Break. They performed tonight at the Virginia Club, which is housed in the Yale Club, near Grand Central Station.

I’ve always had a special place in my heart for these guys. Recently I wrote about that night, long ago, when I got into the group. The last time I saw them was way back in April 2000, so this was going to be a treat. I figured I’d probably see a few of my fellow NYC-area alums, too.

The night began with some weirdness, though.

I walked from my apartment to the PATH station, and when I got to the platform, I saw Wes, who was also waiting for the train. It was the first time I’d seen him in more than five weeks — that rotten night at the Phoenix — and it was the first interaction I’d had with him since our phone conversation last week.

I went up to him and said hi.

He was on his way into Manhattan to return an item of clothing to Brooks Brothers.

He looked so good. Blue-gray eyes, blond hair, completely clear skin, shiny teeth… nice neck, nice broad shoulders…

Suddenly I just wanted to get away from him. It felt mildly painful to see him. And I felt totally awkward. I had no idea what to talk about. I think he felt the same way.

But we made small talk.

Fortunately we didn’t have to wait very long for the train.

We continued to make small talk throughout most of the 15-minute trip. There were a couple of awkward silences, each of them ended by a conversational nugget that popped mercifully into one of our heads and then thankfully out of one of our mouths.

When we finally got to 33rd Street, we both got off, said goodbye, and parted ways.

And that was that.

Hm.

Anyway, I soon got to the Yale/UVA Club, where I ran into three of my fellow AVP alumni. We took seats in the front row — there were probably about 60-70 people in the audience in total.

There were actually three a cappella groups performing in this show: in addition to AVP, the UVA Hullabahoos (a men’s group, also in town for Fall Break) and the Columbia University Metrotones (a women’s group) performed.

I hadn’t seen a college a cappella group perform in a year and a half. It was so nice to sit back, watch them sing, and let the mellifluous music and funky vocal percussion wash over me. It had been ages. Wow, I used to do that, I thought.

It was particularly nice to watch the two men’s groups perform. Particularly the Hullabahoos. My gosh… seventeen college guys, all between the ages of 18 to 21, and almost all of them were gorgeous. I mean, Christ, look at them!

The guys in AVP weren’t half bad either, and I suppose I should have been more partial to them, since I used to be in the group. But in the category of looks, the B’hoos had them beat.

You know how you can see a bunch of guys (or a bunch of women, depending on your predilection) who are all attractive? But they’re each attractive in a different way? But they’re still all attractive? You’ve got yourself a cornucopia of gorgeousness. Well, some of them are gorgeous, while some are cute and some are adorable and some are hot, but really, it’s all the same thing. For instance, you’ve got the short cute dark-haired guy. You’ve got the tall, gorgeous, slightly grunge-looking blond guy. You’ve got the guy with perfect teeth. You’ve got the other guy with perfect teeth. Whether with blond hair or brown hair, wavy hair or crew cut, tall or short or medium in height, whether ethnically Scandinavian or ethnically Italian or descended from an FFV (a First Family of Virginia, i.e. WASPy old money), whether clean-cut or slightly edgy-looking — they were all just so frickin’ wonderful to look at.

Or maybe it had just been a long time since I’d been around so many younger guys. So fresh-faced, so energetic, so wholesome-looking… my god, have I become old? I’m only 27. I’m not old, am I? No. But I sure feel old around college students.

I turned out I knew one of the Hullabahoos, actually. He was the roommate of a guy I’d dated for two months back in the spring of my last year of law school. I’d been 25, and my boyfriend had been 18. (We’d decided that we were boyfriends — yeah, it only lasted for two months, but I’d been out for less than a year at that point, and what did I know?). He’d been a first-year college student — quite a drastic age difference, at that age at least. I always felt like I was robbing the cradle. In fact, between the two of us, I was the only one who was worried about the age difference; he didn’t care at all.

Anyway, the roommate — the one who was there tonight — had also been gay. They’d been randomly placed together as first-year roommates, and they’d both turned out to be gay. It was nice, because when the boyfriend and I were dating, the three of us used to hang out together a lot.

After the show tonight, I went over to him and we gave each other a big hug. He was happy to see me. It had been more than two years. He’s in his last year of college now. He rarely sees my ex anymore — they were roommates for two years and then wound up moving in separate directions. So I didn’t get much of an update on the ex. But it was still nice to see this guy.

Later on, we four old and decrepit AVP alumni were standing around outside talking when the current AVP guys showed up. I was talking with one of them — a guy with whom I’d sung in the Glee Club back when I was in law school — when another of them came up to us. It turned out he knew my name. He’s currently singing in the Glee Club as well as in AVP, and apparently, he’d heard stories about me.

You mean there are stories about me that are running around the Glee Club?? Oh my god. I started wondering what kind of stories there could be. Perhaps there was a story about my incessantly long farewell speech to the group before my last Finals Concert, the last concert of the year, the night before graduation. Perhaps it had to do with my being gay — I had been very out during my last year at UVA. Perhaps it had to do with living in the Glee Club house — I’d lived there during that final year. Or perhaps people just remembered me more because I was one of the few graduate students in the group or because I’d been a member for so long (five years in total). I really have no idea.

But since I’m a gay male, and sice I was standing here confronted by a relatively attractive 21-year-old guy, wishful thinking set in immediately. Okay, so let’s see. Maybe he’s gay and he’s heard stories about me, since I was one of the few openly gay people in the Glee Club, and so he’s intrigued about me. Maybe that’s what it is. Hmm… is he gay? I can’t tell. He doesn’t *seem* gay. But then again, neither do I. Well, maybe he’s just one of those enthusiastic Virginia Glee Club overachievers who’s enthralled at the idea of meeting any past Glee Club members. There sure were some people like that when *I* was in the group.

Then he told me that he thought he’d called me last year during the Glee Club Phone-a-Thon. And I realized that he had indeed called me. Every year the Glee Club members call all their alumni to try and raise money. I recognized his name, and I realized that he’d been the one who’d called me. That was an entire year ago. And he still remembered me?

Well, I guess if you’re in two different singing groups, and you realize that there’s a guy who’s an alumnus of both of those groups, you’re bound to remember his name. It probably has nothing to do with being gay at all. He probably doesn’t even know I’m gay.

You know, sometimes wishful thinking can really fuck with your gaydar.

Afterward, on my way home, I tried to imagine how he saw me — how any of the current AVP guys saw me. When I was an undergrad at UVA, I would have thought that any alumnus in his mid-to-late-20s was living a foreign lifestyle. Working a full-time job? Living in a big city? Wearing the modern professional outfit, a nice button-down shirt and nice pants? And with a bag slung across his chest? And carrying around a cellphone?

And now I’m that guy. Wow.

How did I get here? Just yesterday I was thinking to myself that even though it’s been more than two years since I left Charlottesville, it still feels like yesterday. In the back of my mind I feel like I’m still living a post-UVA life — sort of like how after the Cold War ended, we still referred to the world as “post-Cold-War” until the mid-1990s. Life was lived in reference to a previous event, not in reference to itself. It took a while for the new era to gain definition on its own terms.

Now, I don’t totally live in reference to the past. For the most part I’ve been living in the present (and sometimes in the worrisome future). But every so often I think back to UVA, and it really does feel like I’ve just left. And yet, in other ways, I’ve moved so far away from there in only 26 months.

Occasionally it would be really nice to go back and live that kind of life again, though.

Ahh… life in school.

Life among the fresh — and young — and exciting — and, especially, cute — undergrads.

Sigh.

And I’m Linda Wertheimer

(Note: I’d be watching “The West Wing” right now, but I can’t pick it up. I don’t have cable, and ever since the World Trade Center collapsed, my over-the-air reception has sucked. Dammit. I’m a “West Wing” junkie. I’m getting cable when I move.)

Yesterday my dad sent me an e-mail that said, in part: “Have you written anything lately? I think that you may get inspiration from current events.”

Grammatically a little awkward, yes, but it made me wonder once again if my parents know about this site. I’ve blogged from my parents’ house a few times in the past, and I’m sure I’ve somehow forgotten to delete all traces of the URL. On top of that, they could very well have come across the AP article through Google or elsewhere. Dad, if you’re reading this, I know you can be kind of crafty, so you’re probably going to put me in a position in which I must either tell you I have the site or lie to you about it and feel guilty. You’re not going to come right out and tell me you know about it. You’re testing me. You’re taunting me. Ugh. If you do know about the site (which, if you’re reading this, you do), that’s okay. If you don’t know about the site (in which case you’re not reading this), maybe I’ll tell you at some point. I guess it wouldn’t be a big deal either way.

Anyway.

I talked on the phone with my former therapist this evening in order to get some information about the practice of psychotherapy. It seems that if I decide I want to do this, I should get a Master’s in Social Work (M.S.W.), a two-year program. Before I do that, I should probably do some sort of volunteering — work for a hotline or something. I think I’ll look into that.

And yet I’m not totally sure I want to be a therapist anymore. I’ve been souring a tiny bit on the idea lately, but I tend to do that. Barbara Sher, in her book I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was, at one point discusses the idea of “divers” versus “scanners.” Divers are people who like to delve deep into one particular subject, immerse themselves in it, find out everything about it, specialize. Scanners, on the other hand, love life’s inherent variety. They are perfectly happy flitting around from topic to topic — playing the violin, learning about gardening, exploring medicine, whatever. I’m pretty sure I’m a scanner. I’ve never in my life been able to settle on one thing. American history, classical and choral music, writing, computers, soap operas, comic books… on and on. I’ve wanted to be a journalist, a therapist, a history professor, a choral conductor, a writer. I was pre-med for a year and a half and found biology and organic chemistry very interesting (well, I liked the lectures; I hated the labs). I went to law school. And so on.

But last night while in therapy I had this revelation. I have a latent fantasy. So latent I didn’t really acknowledge it until last night, because it seemed too frivolous. I don’t know if it’s just a passing fancy or not, but it would be so great to work for NPR or a local NPR affiliate such as WNYC. If I could live my fantasy, I’d be like Robert Siegel or Noah Adams of All Things Considered or Ira Glass of This American Life — covering important news stories, interviewing interesting people, dealing with Important Things and Quirky Things. Or I could do weekly commentaries. I don’t know — it’s just a vague idea right now. Seems like a good career for a scanner like me, though. Plus I used to act, and sometimes I miss performing.

Radio doesn’t pay very well, I don’t think, and I’ve never touched a piece of radio equipment in my life. But I’ve always been fascinated by radio. I remember an Ernest Hemingway story where a wounded soldier is lying in a hospital bed and he flips around the radio dial, picking up stations from faraway cities. There’s a scene in Michael Chabon’s recent novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay in which a character is in Antartica and passes his time listening to radio broadcasts from all over the world. It’s always seemed so romantic to me. And a radio show is so pure — you use only one sense to process it.

I’ve always been a fan of the “Today” show, too. For some reason I’ve never really been interested in “Good Morning America” (on ABC) or the various incarnations of CBS’s morning program, but “Today” has always really done it for me, even though I don’t have time to watch it in the morning. I don’t know why it has my loyalty, though. Perhaps it’s the chemistry they all have. Perhaps it’s Katie. Perhaps it’s Matt. But even when it was Jane and Bryant I used to be a fan. I used to fantasize about being a national TV anchor, like Bryant Gumbel or Tom Brokaw or whoever, getting to travel all over the world and report on earthshaking events or do a special week of “Today” broadcasts from Africa or whatever.

Except I wouldn’t really want to be in Tom Brokaw’s shoes these days.

Oh, that reminds me. A choice quote from an article in Sunday’s New York Times:

[Two Manhttan post office workers] said some customers caused them additional anxiety by cracking distasteful jokes. “They’ll say something like, ‘Here comes anthrax!’ and put a letter in front of you,” Ms. Thomas said. “They really shouldn’t do that.”

No, they shouldn’t.

Anyway, I think I’m going to look into volunteering at a radio station.

On a final note, I’d just like to remind y’all that negative comments and destructive criticisms are not welcome here. Comments are for encouragement, support, helpful suggestions, intelligent remarks, and so on. I didn’t set up this website so people could tell me what they think is wrong with me or give me a public dressing-down. You have a gripe — you wanna give me a lecture — e-mail me privately.

By the way, Verdezza, you rock.

Kthxbye!

This Metropolitan Life

Wow, it’s been ages since I’ve updated. I guess there wasn’t much to write about on Thursday night, and I’ve been busy most of the weekend.

Friday

Friday night was nice. I had dinner with my parents in our hometown. We went to a quiet Middle Eastern restaurant and I filled up on Greek salad and Middle Eastern sausage and a big plate of three different kinds of grilled meats, plus a grilled onion, a grilled tomato and a grilled green pepper. It was exactly the kind of low-key Friday night I’d wanted. Also, my bank account balance was below zero, and although I’d deposited a paycheck, it wouldn’t come through until after midnight, so I couldn’t really spend any money.

After dinner we went home, I played with the puppy, and we gathered together on the couch for a nice, heartwarming, family-values-inducing evening of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. Yup, the show with Ice-T. More importantly, the show with that hot guy from Oz, the guy with the hawk-like nose and the close-set deep-blue eyes. I’d look up his name, but my computer is too slow, and it would be a hassle.

It’s always nice to spend time in my pretty suburban hometown. I could see myself moving back there someday — when I have enough money, when I’m ready to settle down with someone, when I have no more need to be in the thick of urbanity. If that ever happens. And anyway, the town is just 30 minutes from Manhattan by car. Who knows.

Saturday

Since I’ve been thinking about radio lately, I think I’ll recount my Saturday This-American-Life Style.

Act One. Saturday morning. I wake up in my brother’s old bedroom. I go downstairs and look through the newspaper. My mom decides to make pancakes with bananas in them. I haven’t had pancakes in months. Mmmmm… pancakes.

Act Two. After taking the bus and the PATH train home to Jersey City, I have an afternoon of Sparkiness. We meet up in Williamsburg (Brooklyn, not the colonial one in Virginia) and have the best burgers in Brooklyn. It would have been cute if they’d been called Williamsburgers, but they weren’t. Still, they were delicious. Good call, Sparky!

After lunch and conversation, we wandered down to a small park by the East River and looked out at the Manhattan skyline with the Hasidic Jews. (Um, they weren’t part of the skyline. I mean they were sitting in the park.) Then we made our way over to a mini-mall and read some free newspapers while Sparky nursed his congestion with what he claimed to be very bitter tea. He didn’t seem to like it too much.

We walked down to the platform at the Bedford Avenue Station on the L train and parted, thus beginning:

Act Three. I wandered around the Village for a couple of hours, including a 90-minute stint at the Chelsea Barnes and Noble.

Act Four. I went to the Chelsea Clearview Cinema by myself and saw Mulholland Drive, David Lynch’s new film.

Whoa.

It was great, great, great, until maybe the last 25 minutes. Then it got weird, weird, weird.

Like most of David Lynch’s work, the movie was very anticonfluential, as David Foster Wallace might say. (And that sentence was very pretentious, as some of you might say.) But it had some highly entertaining set pieces. I’d go see it — he’s a terrific filmmaker. Just don’t expect any plot resolution. “Twin Peaks,” anyone?

(By the way, I can tell how embedded The Simpsons has become in our culture. Whenever I think of “Twin Peaks,” I picture Lisa Simpson dancing around a room inside Chief Wiggum’s head, chanting, “Burns’s suit! Burns’s suit!”)

Act Five. Act Five was kind of lame. I met a friend and his friend at XL in Chelsea. XL is very shiny and sterile and filled with a strange mix of people. They’re all dressed like Chelsea-types, but for some reason, collectively they’re not as good-looking as the guys at the other Chelsea bars. I’m not sure why.

Anyway, I got home around 1 in the morning, fiddled around on the computer, and eventually went to bed. It was a day of variety, of juxtapositions — pancakes and David Lynch; Williamsburg and Chelsea and the suburbs; Sparky and XL.

I may see another movie today. Movies are one of the best solitary activities, I think.

This entry feels kind of lame for some reason. No big dramatic existential questions. I basically had a pretty darn good day.

That makes for boring writing, but enjoyable living.

Wow, that sentence says a mouthful, doesn’t it.

Another Entry Without an Overriding Theme

I’ve begun to read books again. Since September 11, I’ve read almost nothing but the newspaper. In fact, a few days after the attacks I finally decided to stop reading the New York Times online and finally subscribe to the damn thing and start reading it on paper. I used to read it online every day at work, but I figured that once I started my new job I wouldn’t have that luxury anymore.

The only problem is that now I pick up the paper on my way out of my apartment building and I wind up reading the news on the train to work. Besides the fact that the paper is big and unwieldy and comes in eight million sections, by the time I get to work my head is filled with horrible scary unnerving things.

So this morning I started reading books on the train again. I’ve begun reading Hornito, by Mike Albo, which I picked up from the new paperbacks table at Barnes & Noble a few weeks ago and which is pretty darn funny. The protagonist is a neurotic, sex-obsessed 28-year-old gay guy who lives in New York. Hmm, I wonder why I like the book…?

Last night was pretty depressing. Sundays are sometimes like that, but I felt utterly slothlike yesterday. I spent most of the day indoors, wasting my time chatting away on the Internet. There were two aborted attempts at sex. The first was with a 44-year-old guy who had a nice picture, in a rugged sort of way. Neither is usually my thing, but I decided, what the hell.

I was supposed to meet him at a nearby park. I got there, I saw him, I was totally turned off. I quickly left before he saw me.

About an hour later I found another guy online. We decided to meet up at a nearby location. I went to the location and waited about 15 minutes. He never showed up. I went home.

What goes around comes around, I guess.

(I should interrupt here to point out that I’m still really psyched about Barrage Boy. The only reason I haven’t mentioned him lately is because he’s away, in the middle of a two-week vacation.)

(Why is it that whenever I meet a guy, he winds up going on vacation?)

Anyway, eventually it got dark — earlier than I expected — and I realized how fast the weekend had flown by. Here it was, Sunday evening, and I had to go back to work the next morning. It seemed like I’d just been with my parents, having dinner on an optimistic Friday night. And now I was feeling kinda down and lonely.

Fortunately, an instant message from a guardian angel and semi-kindred spirit appeared and cheered me up. After chatting with him for a while, and then talking on the phone with CanadaGirl, I suddenly felt motivated to go grocery shopping and then come home and do some cooking. I hadn’t cooked in ages, except for boiling pasta, which doesn’t really count. So I decided to go to the supermarket. It worked; as soon as I walked out the door, I felt better — a man with a mission.

I wound up buying the ingredients for chili and came home and made a big batch of it. I also made a salad (except I forgot to buy lettuce) and had some cheese and crackers while the chili cooked. By the time I ate the chili it was after 10:00 at night. I had two bowls, so I had no room left to eat one of the Entenmann’s donuts from the variety pack I’d bought.

Hey, folks: next Sunday’s the end. No more Daylight Savings Time. Ugh. In exactly one week, it’ll be dark when I get home from work. I’m not looking forward to that. I used to love winter… I used to like being indoors, all cozy and warm. I hated the summer because I didn’t like being outside. I was more of an indoor-introvert type of guy. But these days, I much prefer warm weather. I think I began to grow more comfortable with warm weather around the time I began to grow comfortable with my sexuality. Interesting.

Several days after we return to Standard Time, I move. I’m moving on Halloween Night, in fact.

Yeah.

See, my lease starts on November 1, but that’s a Thursday. I’m not paying for a moving company, so I need some friends to help me move, but they won’t be able to take Thursday off from work, so I’ve rented a U-Haul for the night of the 31st and I’m getting my friends to help me move all the furniture (which isn’t much anyway) that night. That’s nuts. Who ever thought of moving on Halloween? That’s gotta be the strangest day of the year to move. Maybe we can dress up in costumes and move my stuff.

And what will people think? Remember when you were a kid? All those rumors about the creepy guy who’d drive around in a U-Haul on Halloween Night, kidnapping little children?

Oh, wait. He didn’t drive a U-Haul. He drove a black van.

Anyway.

Time for some links. It’s been a while.

First off, we’ll miss you. Yeah, you’ve left… but entries like this make me glad that your blog’s still around.

Second, I’ve been meaning to link to a college friend of mine, a brilliant and creative guy who’s currently in grad school at MIT. He found my blog through that Associated Press article. (As far as I know, he’s the only person who’s found my blog that way. Newsweek hasn’t called, and neither has the New Yorker. So much for fame and glory.) Anyway, check him out.

Also read Art Spiegelman on his recent, instantly classic New Yorker cover.

Finally, be careful when buying Broadway tickets! Wow.

Protect me

I’m going to acknowledge something and move on, because I don’t want to dwell on it. Current Events have had me scared shitless since yesterday afternoon, when I read an old New Yorker article online. I’m fucking scared that the disease that the World Health Organization officially declared “eradicated” in 1979 or 1980 is going to return in weapons form. I read a description of its effects, effects that began occurring when the virus first entered the human race approximately 12,000 years ago and that have not been seen since the virus was “eradicated” 20 years ago. As described, the effects are absolutely awful. If, God forbid, I ever get this virus, I hope someone will flood my body with anesthesia and put me out of my misery. Last night I had unsettling dreams, and I woke up this morning totally anxious, and I felt that way throughout most of today, interrupted only by lunch at a Greek restaurant with some coworkers.

Sometimes, when I get a thought that really troubles me, I find myself unable to stop thinking about it. I can’t control the anxiety, and this makes me feel like I don’t control my own mind.

I used to be scared of getting HIV until a very nice testing counselor calmed my fears back in March and reminded me that HIV is not a form of punishment for gay sex or even for promiscuity, and that if you are always safe then you should have little to worry about. So in March, even before my test results came back a very thankful negative, my fears had gone away, and from March through September 11 I was feeling pretty good. And then the world changed, and now I’m afraid of getting a horrible disease that is completely out of my control. Okay, so it’s completely out of my control, so why bother worrying about it? I wish I could stop. I wish I could turn my brain off.

You could die at any time, though. You could get hit by a car, you could get struck by lightning, whatever. My parents’ friends’ 19-year-old daughter just died of leukemia last week. Anything can happen. This is something that TV commercials never tell you: someday you will die. Most definitely. The reason they don’t tell you is because they want you to think that if you buy things, you will live forever. But you won’t. You will die. Even if you buy a Toyota. You don’t know when it will happen, though, so all you can do is maximize your daily happiness, find something to enjoy every day.

I know that if I should happen to die suddenly, I will leave behind this body of writing. It’s what I’ve always wanted to leave behind — my words. Through words, writers achieve immortality. Shakespeare lives today. So does Plato. So does Mary Chesnut. So does someone’s random deceased grandfather whose diary is stored in his grandson’s attic.

There was once an episode of “The X-Files” in which a woman hoped to achieve immortality by uploading her soul onto the Internet. I didn’t quite understand it, plot-wise. But anyway, her action wasn’t necessary. All you have to do to achieve immortality is create something. Keep a diary. Write music. Make people happy. Give people fond memories. Aggressively promote your humanity.

And hey — if you happen to keep a blog, then you really have uploaded your soul onto the Internet.

In other news, tonight my mom and I saw Neil Simon’s newest play, 45 Seconds From Broadway, which is still in previews. We sat in the very front row. The play wasn’t great, but it made us laugh, and that’s important. There were a couple of dead-on portrayals of middle-aged Matinee Ladies, and Marian Seldes (whom I last saw in “The Play About the Baby”) was comical as usual. The play didn’t really stick together and the plot was minimal and unengaging. I think that Neil Simon today just cranks out a play a year without trying very hard. I mean, it’s not like he has to put in any effort anyway; his name is enough to get a play produced, no matter how so-so it is. But these days you go to a Neil Simon play for laughs, and that’s what we got, and I was very grateful for it.

It was also nice to spend an evening with my mom.

After the show, outside the theater, I gave her a big hug and we parted ways. I felt a pang of sadness. I wanted to go home with her, take the bus back home, back to my parents’ house, and sleep there, sleep in my old room even though it’s now a guest room, stay there, forever, protected from this big, awful, horrible world.
—–

Coming Out Again

I came out today!

Huh? I thought you were already out. Well, not to my coworkers. Until today.

In the month that I’ve been at my new job, I’ve bonded with some other new people. There are several of us who have just started working there, all in our 20s. Six of us eat lunch together every day — four women, two guys. Today at lunch we wound up in this really animated conversation about relationships and the women started bitching about how it’s so hard to find a guy. I sat there, nodding, laughing, contributing to the conversation, but not in a first-person way.

Finally, one of them asked, “What about the guys? Do you guys mind being asked out, or do you like to do the asking?”

I didn’t say anything. Instead I let the other guy go on about what he likes in women. He was humorous. Everyone laughed. Okay, maybe they’ll forget about me, I thought.

“What about you, Jeff?”

“Yeah, you haven’t answered.”

Oh, what the hell, I said to myself.

“Well actually, I’m usually looking for guys,” I began.

I’m not sure how the “usually” got in there. I think I threw it in as a buffer.

Anyway, they just nodded, smiled, took it as no big deal, like, “Hey, cool.” It was much easier than I’d expected. And I’m proud of myself for just tossing it out there like that — not making a big deal out of it, not being proud of it or apologetic. Just another fact about myself. I like Frosted Mini-Wheats. “The West Wing” is a great show. Well actually, I’m usually looking for guys.

A few minutes later, one of the women looked at me with a smile on her face, nodded at me knowingly, and said, “I know plenty of people I can introduce you to.”

That’s kinda cool…

In the meantime, I’m still waiting for the Piano Man to get back from his two-week vacation. I don’t really know what to call him, but I think Brendan suggested The Piano Man because he has a piano in his apartment. I’d call him Barrage Boy, but he’s not a boy, and anyway that sounds too generic. I’ll think of a name for him eventually.

Whatever his nickname is, I’m looking forward to seeing him when he gets back. We hung out three times over the course of a week, and then he went away for two weeks. He’ll finally be back on Monday, but next week I’ll be busy moving, so I might not see him until next weekend. I can’t wait to see him again. He’s such a sweet, intelligent, slightly neurotic, Jewish, theater-and-movie-loving, piano-playing, UVa-graduated cute guy.

After work, our little work gang went out to a bar for Happy Hour. It was a straight bar. I reminded myself not to cruise anyone.

I had one beer, just one beer, and even some chicken fingers, and my head’s still swimming a little. That’s what you get when you weigh just 125 pounds.

So hey, I had a good day with my coworkers, and, uh, I’m out of the closet! Again! Who knew?

Imaginarium

I think I have psychosomatic urethritis.

My urinary tract has been bothering me a tiny bit these last couple of days, but I can’t tell if there’s really something going on down there or if it’s just my imagination. It’s not painful, just a little tingly. Does anthrax cause bladder infections? No. Well, not yet, at any rate. But I’m sure someone’s working on it.

To be honest, I didn’t start feeling weird down there until I began reading about Choire’s minor Q-Tip episode. So I suspect this is completely psychosomatic. I mean, I get dizzy and short of breath and start squirming in my seat when I watch a drug scene in a movie, because I’m afraid I’m going to get contaminated merely by watching it happen on celluloid. (Parts of Traffic made me cringe.)

I sometimes worry that my mind has strange powers over me. Sometimes I wonder if I will cause my own death merely by thinking about it too much. I mean, human beings are such fragile, remarkable creatures. We’re completely organic. What the fuck keeps us alive for so long?

I do know that I can bring myself to the brink of insanity merely by forcing myself to think hard about what would exist if there were no universe.

So, anyway, this could be totally psychosomatic. Psychosomatic illness can be caused by anxiety. So I’m wondering, is there anything that’s made me anxious lately? Hmm… other than the slow disintegration of the American way of life and a recurring fear of death when riding the subway or opening my mail, nothing, really.

Oh, that reminds me — I meant to link to this yesterday (sent to me by Choire). I think you have to be in a certain frame of mind to find it funny. Me, I practically snorted milk out of my nose.

Anyway, back to my bladder. I’m pretty sure I don’t have an STD, because I’m not having any sort of discharge down there and there’s no swelling or discoloration, and besides, on the rare occasions that I have intercourse, I use a condom. Always.

I have been eating a lot of spicy chili this week, though. I made a big batch of chili on Sunday night, and I’ve had it for dinner every night this week. Maybe that has something to do with it.

Anyway! I have the keys to my new apartment, and the former tenants have moved out, and so I’m about to go over and take measurements and reacquaint myself with the place. The floors are going to be redone — they were going to start doing it on Monday, but it turns out they may start tomorrow, in which case I can move in on Monday. That would be swell.

Later tonight I’m probably going out with some people. And this weekend I’m going to buy boxes and pack up most of my belongings.

Gosh, if not for all my books, moving would be so easy.

I think I’ll just give up reading anything at all — books, newspapers, street signs — and hire a mime.

Boxes

Packing is going wonderfully. The books are a pain — well, they’re not a pain to pack, but the boxes that they’re in are going to be a pain to lift. Bend at the knees… and lift with the knees, not with the back. That’s right. As for the other stuff, I’m going to have an odds-n-ends box in which I’ll put remote controls and random little things. I already have a dishes box, and not many dishes, so that will be okay. Other things don’t need to be boxed — microwave, et cetera. It’s going to be exhausting to move, but it will be over and done with soon.

I went over to the place last night and refreshed my memory about the layout. I’m so happy! I can’t wait. And it’s quiet. I mean, while I was in the apartment I heard the phone ring in the apartment upstairs, but maybe that’s just apartment life. I’ve pretty much become used to sleeping with the fan on anyway. Oh, that washer and dryer… and the nice floors… and the mantel in the living room… and the little storage room off the living room… and cable TV (finally)… and the quiet streetscape when I look out the front windows, instead of an ugly noisy street. There are these nice recessed houses across the street with porches that make me think of New Orleans. And there’s this trendy lunch/coffeeshop around the corner. And there’s this trendy little bar/restaurant a couple of blocks away. And I’m even closer to the big Shop-Rite supermarket and the mall than I was before.

I stood there, imagining a nice quiet Friday night alone in my apartment, able to chill out on the couch and watch TV because 1) it won’t be noisy outside and 2) I’ll have good reception, even cable. And when the Piano Man gets back, maybe he can join me. Or I can join him. Or whatever. It’s gonna be swell.

Monday night will be my first night there. Yippee!

Today I went through my clothes closet. I must have bagged half the clothes for donations. I rarely throw out clothes, but I decided I finally needed to do it. So I’d take out a pair of pants and think, “Hmm, these basically still fit. I could still wear them.” And then I’d remember that I hadn’t worn them in at least two years, and I’d toss them into a bag. I stuffed five shopping bags full of shirts and pants and a ratty tuxedo I wore for seven years in university choruses and rarely washed. Into the bag. White Oxford shirts with indelible collar stains? Into the bag. Carpenter pants that I never wore? The green jeans I never wore? The baggy blue jeans I bought when I first came out of the closet? All into the bag.

Then my friend Tall Red-Haired Guy came by. We loaded his car with the bags and then dropped them off in these big black bins in the supermarket parking lot. The bins are specifically for old clothes and toys. Toys? That’s kind of weird. I imagined someone tossing a Fisher-Price A-Frame House with all the Little People into this big dark scary bin. Interesting.

Then we went to Mailboxes Etc. I’d planned to buy 20 boxes, but they were $4.75 each. So I decided to screw that idea. Instead I bought six smaller boxes, and then we went to the supermarket, where we got tons of boxes for free. If you ever need boxes, go to the supermarket. They’re practically giving them away!

Well, they are giving them away, really.

Anyway, I’ve packed up most of my books and all of my CDs, bagged my old newspapers, gotten rid of my old clothes, got commitments from three or four people to help me move. And it will be over and done by Monday night.

I might not have my new phone service hooked up until Wednesday, though, so it’s possible I won’t be blogging for a couple of days — I’m sure not going to blog from work anymore. But maybe the phone people will be nice and hook up my phone service a couple days early. We’ll see.

I’ve been eating crappily lately. Not enough fruits or whole grains, and too much red meat and sugar. Today I had a scrambled egg sandwich for breakfast, a piece of pecan pie for lunch, cheese and crackers for a late snack, a chocolate donut for a later snack. I don’t really have much food in the apartment now, either, so dinner will probably be a sandwich from Subway. Thank god for high metabolism. I hope I’m always this svelte.

And hey, my urethra’s doing great, thanks!

Moving the Belongings

Tonight’s my last night in my old apartment. Assuming everything goes well, I should be moved into my new place tomorrow night. Of course, various worries are travelling the well-worn pathway in my brain. What if they don’t have a U-Haul for me? What if when I double-park I block someone in? What if it gets towed while I’m waiting for my friends to show up? What if the floors aren’t really finished and it turns out I can’t move in tomorrow night after all? What if something breaks? What if Tall Red-Haired Guy and Wes both help me move and they wind up hitting it off together? (Well, that I shouldn’t care about.)

None of those things is going to happen, so there’s no point worrying about any of it. It’s what I do, though. But really, the move’s going to go fine.

Today I took myself to the movies. Twice. In the afternoon I saw “Waking Life” and in the evening I saw “Trembling Before G-d,” a documentary about gay and lesbian Orthodox Jews. So I had a Present Participle Movie Day. There are so many Present Participle Movies, aren’t there? Educating Rita. Eating Raoul. Boxing Helena. Breaking Away. Kicking and Screaming (ooh, a double). Leaving Las Vegas. Waiting to Exhale. Saving Private Ryan. Riding in Cars With Boys. Being John Malkovich.

Can you think of any others?

In between the two movies I had Thai food at Lemongrass, on 12th and University. I read “Hornito” while I ate. I had a table by the front window. Two tables away there were a man and a woman eating together. The woman had the loudest voice. I guess it was the type of situation where the man fell in love with the woman before he realized how loud she was, but by the time he realized her volume problem, it was too late — he’d already fallen hopeleslly in love with her. He had no choice but to accept this flaw.

Maybe that’s how we imperfect people wind up in couples.

Well, that’s one way, anyway.

So it was a day of aloneness. Not loneliness, but aloneness. (There’s a difference.) Really, most of the weekend was like that, except for hanging out with a gay couple on Friday night and going box-hunting with Tall Red-Haired Guy yesterday afternoon. I thought of going to Andy’s 4th Annual 30th Birthday Party last night, and I was almost going to go. But I was just way too tired, so I wound up staying in. Sorry, Andy. I’m sure it was a great party, though.

My social life really needs a kick in the pants to get moving.

Speaking of moving, I should be moved out of here in 24 hours. Oh, please let everything go okay. Please please please.

Didn’t moving rank as one of the most stressful life events, according to some stress-related survey a few years ago?

Anyway, I might not be able to blog until Wednesday, since I’m moving two days earlier than expected and my new phone service isn’t supposed to be connected until Wednesday. (Maybe I’ll look into a cable modem, like Bonibaru suggested.)

So have fun, everyone. Think of Present Participle Movies while I’m gone.

Success! and Inner Paranoia

Okay. Remember when I said I wasn’t going to blog for a few days? I lied. After successfully moving this evening, I’ve walked back to my — can I say it? I can say it! — my FORMER apartment, laptop in tow, so I can hook up to a working phone line, check my e-mail, and, most importantly, blog.

I’m sitting on the floor of my old bedroom, typing away. It’s empty now. I moved into this place a year ago — Monday, October 30, 2000. Oh, what a year it’s been. Oh, the memories. Haw.

There really aren’t many exciting memories about this place, or even many good ones. But a few things stick out. I remember waking up in the middle of the night after living here just a week, an insomniac, doing a jigsaw puzzle at 3:30 in the morning, and then turning on the TV to be confronted by the strange news, four days before the presidential election, that Texas Governor George W. Bush had been arrested for drunk driving back in the late ’70s. Huh? Was I really awake? Is this for real?

Then there was that crazy night, a few nights later — Tuesday, November 7, 2000. I sat on a chair in my barely unpacked apartment, glued to the TV, switching news channels like crazy until 5:00 in the morning, mesmerized as surreal, crazy, unforgettable Election Night 2000 unfolded. And then folded. And then unfolded again.

What other memories do I have of this place? Not many. Mostly having sex with people. Or blogging. Or sitting on the couch on Wednesday night watching “Dawson’s Creek” and “The West Wing.” Or coming home late on a weekend night after carousing in Manhattan. Or staying home from work one day in early spring, sitting up in bed in my sweatpants reading “Battle Cry of Freedom” and eating fried egg sandwiches.

That’s about it. Not much drama happened here, but there was some living. Plain, ordinary, unexciting living.

As for the move tonight — it couldn’t have gone more smoothly! There was no problem picking up the U-Haul. There was a scary moment this morning when I realized that the location of the U-Haul place was inaccurate on the map, meaning it was not within walking distance, and I had no way of getting there. So I wound up switching to a different U-Haul dealer and getting a smaller truck — for ten bucks cheaper, by the way.

There were five of us moving my stuff. Five motivated, energetic people: two of my coworkers, females, and two of my gay Jersey City friends, males. Those two males, by the way, were Tall Red-Haired Guy and Wes. If you’ve been reading, you know all about my history with Wes. And if you’re good at remembering things, you will recall that Tall Red-Haired Guy is my friend and occasional make-out partner. (And he helped me get boxes on Saturday.) Neither of the two had met before, and it was weird seeing them in the same place, moving my furniture together.

The move went great. We needed to make two trips with the U-Haul, but the new place is only eight blocks from the old place, so that was no problem. We began moving at about 6:15 tonight and we finished before 9:00. I had everything boxed and bagged, ready to go, and there were so many of us, so it was so quick and smooth. It was like clockwork.

Afterwards, my two coworkers went home, and Tall Red-Haired Guy, Wes and I had dinner. First I had to return the U-Haul, so they followed me in Wes’s car. I felt sort of envious that the two of them were riding together. Why should I care, right? I mean, I’m not interested in dating either of them; I know both of them find me attractive, because I’ve fooled around with each of them several times was seeing Wes for a bit. And in fact, I have my own guy on the horizon now. So, again, why should I care?

It’s an ego thing, a self-esteem thing. Part of me is bothered by the possibility of them getting together, even though I know that a) it’s none of my business and b) it doesn’t reflect badly on me if it does happen. Yet it still makes me a tad uneasy, deep down. Perhaps some of you can identify with me on this? Have any of you felt this way before?

Let me emphasize that I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I know that if I had more self-worth as a person, this wouldn’t bother me at all. So I don’t need a lecture from anyone telling me that this is a stupid thing to feel. I already know it’s stupid.

I’ve often felt awkward in groups of three, though — groups of three guys, anyway. Doesn’t matter whether they’re gay or straight — The Number Three makes me uncomfortable. Two is easy. Four isn’t bad. But three is so rough, because I’m so afraid I’ll become the third wheel.

After we dropped off the U-Haul, the three of us went to this little indoor cafeé for dinner. They both talked about their jobs and financial-type stuff — they had some common ground.

I kept looking at Wes.

God dammit, Wes is so fucking cute.

God DAMN he’s hot. Blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, a fucking gorgeous smile, skin that is tan and clear as cream. And his body is smooth, tanned, and hard.

It makes me feel good that Wes, someone who is so physically attractive, used to stare deep into my eyes and tell me that I’m adorable. “Ya kill me,” he said to me once, staring at me, a smile on his face, shaking his head in wonderment. He thought I was cute as hell. Me! Someone like him liking me. Wow.

The dinner conversation continued. They talked, and I basically just listened and nodded and laughed at all the appropriate moments and interjected a comment when possible. They weren’t shutting me out at all — but I was still paranoid that I’d get shut out on my own, that I’d get lost, that they were speaking this secret language with each other that I wasn’t in on.

There is something deeply wrong with me.

It turns out they both work out. Wes works out in the morning at a gym in Jersey City. Tall Red-Haired Guy works out in the afternoon or evening in Manhattan. But TRHG said that he himself should start working out in the morning. So he asked Wes if he works out with anyone, and he asked if Wes needs a spotter or anything in the mornings, and he said it would be cool to work out together. So Wes said he’d be happy to get him a guest membership.

Great. These two guys with wonderful smooth hard bodies (though of different sizes — Wes is 5’7″ and TRHG is over 6′ tall) will start working out together, and they’ll wear sleeveless t-shirts or whatever and watch each other’s muscles flex and sweat, and they’ll make sexual lustful eye contact, and finally they’ll wind up going back to one of their apartments and make out like crazy, and they’ll say to each other, “Wow, you’re so much better than Jeff.”

Yeah, I know, that last part won’t happen. (For one thing, because it’s not true. To be totally honest here, they both have great bodies, but neither of them is very good in bed.)

But it’s still my fear. My totally, totally irrational fear. Even if the truth is that they won’t be thinking about me at all. But isn’t that really the basis of the fear? Not being thought about? Being pre-empted by thoughts of someone else?

Anyway.

After dinner, we went our separate ways. Wes drove home, and I walked TRHG to his car. But first I put my arms around Wes and hugged him, and he hugged me in return, his arm moving across my back, and he told me we should hang out again sometime.

He’s so fucking cute.

We’re not dating, but I’d still like to sleep with him again.

And then TRHG and Wes said they should hang out sometime and Wes said he’ll get TRHG a guest membership at his gym and TRHG gave Wes his card. I watched their eyes closely to see what kind of eye contact was going on. There wasn’t much.

As TRHG and I walked, he said to me, “Wes is cute. What’s his story?”

I’d told him the story about Wes before — how we’d seen each other for a month, how we’d had a bad night together at the Phoenix. But he hadn’t realized this was the same guy. So I connected the dots.

Anyway, whatever, right? I shouldn’t care about any of this. And I don’t, really. There’s the Piano Man, this wonderful guy with whom I connect in a way that I haven’t connected with anyone in a really long time. He really could be the one. He doesn’t have a great body and he doesn’t have movie star looks, but he’s cute in his own way, and he’s intelligent, and interesting to talk with, and cultural, and we have so much in common, and I can be myself around him, and he’s a fucking incredible kisser. He’s the one I should think about. Him. Not the other guys. Him. Someone who can potentially make me really happy.

Please forgive my inner drama. Forgive my writing about these stupid feelings. But that’s what this place is for. This blog is a place where I can detail my emotions — even if they’re stupid emotions, emotions grounded in a lack of self-esteem. I have to tell the truth here.

Remember the Piano Man. The Piano Man. The wonderful, wonderful Piano Man.

And hey! I’VE MOVED! I have a new apartment! I can sleep there tonight, and it will be quiet, and it’s a great place. I have so much unpacking and organizing to do, and I have to step over boxes in order to get from one corner of the apartment to another, but it’s wonderful. We even unrolled the oriental rug that used to be in my parents’ dining room and we set up the sectional couch. One of the window blinds in the bedroom fell off the window, so I might be woken up by the sun tomorrow, but I’ll fix that. There are little things to repair in most new apartments. It could be a lot worse.

Wow, my life has changed in the last couple of months. A new apartment, a new job, a new guy. Things are possibly going really, really well.

Amen to that.

Good night.

Treats

For some reason, my new phone line is already working, so I’m able to tool around on the Internet tonight.

Also, inexplicably, I have cable TV, even though the cable isn’t supposed to be turned on until Saturday. This is glorious. For one thing, it’s the first time that this particular TV set has been hooked up to cable since June 1998. For another thing, this is the first time I’ve both had cable TV and lived alone since May 1997. It’s been four years since I’ve been able to watch cable TV in the privacy of my own home! Amazing! Did you know you can watch the news 24 hours a day? And you can watch movies? And there’s this show with these four foul-mouthed kids made out of construction paper?

Tonight I sat and ate a microwave dinner and watched “The West Wing” with such great clarity of picture. In my old apartment I didn’t have cable and I got rotten reception for the TV channels I did have. And as I watched tonight, you know what I heard from the street? Nothing! And my windows were open so I wouldn’t inhale paint fumes! It was wonderful.

Last night I had dinner with the Piano Man. He just got back from vacation on Monday night, so this was our first time seeing each other in two weeks. We went to a Ukranian diner on 2nd Avenue called Vasilka or something like that. I’m sure you East Villagey people know where it is and how it’s really spelled. Me, I’m having a rare moment of orthographic distress. (Which has nothing to do with birds.)

We had a really nice time. I’d forgotten about his sense of humor. It’s very dry and deadpan, and I like it. We sat down to eat, and the first thing he did was pick up the enormous menu and open it, intentionally blocking out his entire face. Trust me, it was funny. I guess you had to be there.

And, even though I’m Jewish, last night’s dinner was only my first borscht experience.

Anyway, it was a nice evening. And I’m seeing him again on Saturday night.

I’m trying to pace it here. I can’t tell whether I’m worried about him moving too quickly or me moving too quickly. A little bit of both, I think. I mean, my life is kind of nice right now, being able to go online or go to a bar and meet people and have sloppy sex with them. I wonder if I want to lose that.

But anyway, I’m going to move slowly, and I’m going to do what feels natural. Even if those goals are contradictory.

In other news, I was thinking about the other night — my paranoia about Wes and TRHG possibly getting together. After I wrote Monday’s night’s entry, I thought to myself, maybe I did something good. I mean, in a way I threw a little party. And what’s the thrill inherent in hosting a party? Bringing disparate people together. Being responsible for their meeting each other. You have Power. You are The Host. You Bring People Closer. So if Wes and TRHG wind up having a night of sloppy sex, or several nights of sloppy sex, or if they wind up becoming friends — then it will have been my doing. I will have been responsible for bringing some more happiness into the world. I will have increased humanity’s collective happiness quotient. And that’s a good thing. See, the happiness pie isn’t finite. One person’s happiness (or two people’s happiness) doesn’t take away from another person’s happiness. Rather, if one person become happier, we all become happier.

Unless your idea of happiness is sending anthrax through the mail. Then we’re all very unhappy.

Tonight I’ve continued to set up my apartment. I’ve found the right place for my bookshelves, I’ve cleaned most of the kitchen, all the boxes are in the appropriate rooms and just need to be unpacked (mostly books and CDs). And right now I have some underwear in the dryer. Isn’t that fascinating? I know, my life’s a thrill. Unfortunately, the dryer is really, really slow. I’ve been trying to get those undershirts dry for at least two hours now. At this rate, my laundry will be done by Thanksgiving.

Oh yeah, it’s Halloween tonight, isn’t it.

On Halloween 1985, I won first prize in my fifth grade class for my costume. I went as the King of Diamonds. Yeah, the card. My mom made this costume for me out of two pieces of sandwich board. She drew the whole thing in painstaking detail. It was pretty amazing. It was a pain to wear, though, because whenever I walked, my knees would bang against the front of the card. Plus it was hard to carry that stupid plastic pumpkin full of candy.

If I seem like I’m rambling tonight, it’s because I’m trying to get in the habit of verbal diarrhea. See, I have to write a 50,000-word novel during the month of November. That’s about 2,000 words a day, and that’s assuming I’m going to take very few days off. We’ll see if I can do it. Choire is doing it, too, as are some other people.

I know there seems to be a lot of Choire-love going on here lately, but I can just say how amazed I am at the man’s capacity to link? Where do you find these things? I’m envious. I miss the days when I could surf all over the crashing waves of the Web at work and find interesting blogs and links. I feel like I’ve been really derelict in reaching out to the blogging community lately; I feel like I’ve retreated into my own blog instead of surfing around and exploring other people’s sites. It would be nice to get back into that.

Anyway, I’m going to go check on my underwear again. Happy Hunting.