Musings for a Saturday Morning.

My very dear friend Kyle laid on my doorstep the posession of a sense of ethics and character. It was the best compliment I've ever been paid.

And so I must admit that I cannot be bought. I will tell you and everyone what I perceive is the Truth. This is not to say that I can't be mistaken or co-opted like everyone else. I just have a very strong bullshit detector and have values and beliefs that I will not sacrifice for anyone come Hell or high water. And I thank my parents for these.

So, that having been said, let's turn to other matters.

With everything going on, I very seriously worry about my community. I refer not to the neighbourhood to which I belong, but rather to the queer community that seems to be in such need of a gadfly. So I'm going to take the opportunity to function as such. As it is, I'm part of it, but only marginally.

I've made that realization lately. At first, I was depressed and then I stepped back and took a very good look at what I'm missing. Some folks may accuse me of being bitter and hateful because I'm not a part of it all. I hate to break it to them, but that doesn't wash for several reasons that I'll get into momentarily. And shame on you for using such a blatant Karl Rove type of thinking.

So, what am I missing?

As I see it, most of my community is comprised of people who are as devoid of thought as an M. Night SomeDamnedSillyLastName movie. It was during my stint amongst the smog-choked byways of Los Angeles, that I began to realize that the vast majority of gay men (I've very few lesbian friends so I won't even presume to try to comment on them) rarely think of much beyond what the wear and where they're going to go out and will Butch, Buck, or Billy be there tonight? Perhaps I'm doing a disservice and over-generalizing but I doubt very much if many of the guys rubbing the sleep from their eyes this morning and wondering if they should make this dude in bed breakfast or just hustle 'em out the door really will give a rip that scientists have seemingly discovered a tenth planet. Although, I wonder what it'll do to their irrational little brains as all those dreadfully insipid astrology books and the silly damned newspaper horoscopes are quickly proven to be flummery. Hell, I put it to you that they won't even open a bloody NEWSPAPER to read their horoscope. God forbid that they should worry their widdle bwains with the ghastliness in Iraq or the machinations of Karl Rove, that direct lineal descendant of Joseph Goebbels, and trouble themselves to get angry enough to start asking questions, those critical questions that our Fearless Leader and his cabal of crepuscular advisors don't want us to ask, and raising a duece of a stink. How many of these guys can even explain intelligently WHY what Karl Rove did ought to be enough to make us all rise up and defenestrate the fat, pasty sonofabitch. But I digress.

Apparently, I'm also missing a whale of a good time being sexually irresponsible and sleeping with any guy who answers my ad on Craigslist or Gay.com or who staggers up to undulate serpently at me at a bar. Now, let me head off the feeps in the back row who are going to start screaming that I'm repressed. Forget it already. I've sown my oats, I've just grown up and come to the realization that sex has its own meaning and for me that doesn't include fucking everyone who enters my ken. But what really startles me is that guys in this day and age are being so irresponsible and idiotic as to advertise for unprotected sex and engage in the same regularly with no more thought to their health or their partners than Mary Cheney had for us when she allowed herself to be prostituted by Georgie-Porgie and her cadaverous father, Dickhead Cheney for political purposes. I take this as further evincing the lack of grey matter. What otherwise sane and rational individual would knowingly court HIV not to mention the endless varieties of STDs? If we keep this up, we'll fuck our way to the grave and cause Santorum and his ilk to do a jig of glee. Wake up already, you moronic stoats, before tertiary syphilis rots what is left of your brain.

Vaunted gay taste seems to be another thing that I'm missing out on. Since I rarely concern myself with which designers are currently in and which are definitely not and I haven't shelves and shelves of unguents, creams, and other messes from the merchant designed to combat the ravages of age, gin, and cigarettes, I am something of an oddity. Mind you, I don't go out looking like something the cat just dragged in from the garden, but I manage to dress myself before going out without having to cycle through my contacts on my mobile to reach a consensus on what I am to wear. Nor am I afraid of growing older. It's a part of the natural progression of life. I frequently see men who are of a certain age who are in quite good shape (be it through their own efforts or the skill of the surgeon, that is another matter) but are trying so desperately to cling to their late teens and early twenties that it is painful to see. I counted thirty-two silver hairs amongst the raven tresses this morning and I'm leaving them in.

While I'm on the subject of taste, what the hell is up with the music in the clubs? As I write this, I recall noise of such a ghastly sort that it pains me. Shrieking pseudo-divas (I hate you MTV and VH1) and noise, noise, noise... as people look on and clutch their drinks in desperation or flail their bodies around in an approximation of St. Vitus' Dance while trying not to too obviously stare at themselves in the assorted mirrors present on the walls.

And then there is the... Oh, hell, what does it matter? I can sit here and shout that the sky is falling and that the emperor ain't gots no clothes and all that'd do is drive me hoarse. So I'll sit here and shake my head and keep a weather-eye on things, point out folly, and do my part (and yours, asshead, you know who you are) to keep the likes of Santorum at bay so that you can enjoy your overpriced cocktails and "dance" the night away. Let me point out a bit of lunacy and folly.

F'rinstance, what the fuck was with the theme for Pride this year? Pride Explosion? How long did it take the lackwits who organize Pride to come up with that one? By all accounts, however, it was much, much better than last year's. When we're being assailed on all sides and those precious gains we've made in the fight for equal rights are being eroded by elected assholes like Santorum (who, by the way, is a sick fuck and the last person who should be getting up on his hind legs and spouting off about the depravity of homosexuals - but that's a whole 'nother blog), the best they can come up with is "Pride Explosion"? What the hell is that? Were they expecting people to start exploding the moment yet another drag queen staggered by drunkenly? Rather than challenge us in our complacency and risk offending some, the organizers went for insipid rather than inspiring. In a year when much is/was at stake in Washington State (like the right to marry, morons), our brilliant Pride organizers give us dreck.

So as I reflect on this, any sadness at not being really one with my community is overwhelmed by relief.

Have an angry day.

Stuff and Nonsense! Continued

Where were we? Ah, yes... Pride Weekend.

So, the poor dear George was in a bit of a stew because he really wanted to go out but had "nothing" to wear. Mind you, he has more clothes than Imelda Marcos had shoes, they're just unorganized. Additionally, he was still moving in so some were at his old place and some here. At any rate, we were also short on booze so he couldn't pre-funk prior to going out. What a drag, eh?

I, on the other hand, was quite content to lurk at home and avoid the nonsense and the drunk and drugged out homos rolling around the Hill. Kissing someone in a drunken moment and getting a contact high for a week isn't my idea of fun, thank you very much.

Anyway, Holly popped up to bum a smoke and then discovered George's pitiable state and quite decently rallied round with encouraging words and a stiffish Cuba Libra.

She and Drew are both really fabulous people and we were saddened to learn that they'd bought a house in West Seattle and are moving in a month.

Lemme see, what else is going on...

Oh, I smashed out a kitchen window quite by accident immediately after I'd finished cleaning the kitchen. It was one of those moments where you can do nothing but stare silently and then go about cleaning it up.


We've yet to get a dinner table and that's beginning to annoy me as is the distinct lack of shelves. I've boxes and boxes of books that need a home and soon before I go insane.

Anyway, I think this is it for now.

Good night, and remember to turn the light out when you go to bed.

Stuff and Nonsense!

Right, then.

First, my apologies for having disappeared and become seemingly incommunicado. It was not intentional, however, circumstances dictated that I focus on other things for a short space and now I have time to devote to this space once more.

So, what has your humble blogger been up to of late?

In short, on the third of June, I bade my co-workers farewell, cleaned out my desk and went home to pack. That evening, the inestimable Brandy, aka Chicken Dinner Woman, now Helpmeet and Partner to the Lovely Dougie, rallied round to give my mane a much needed cropping. By early morning on the fourth, I'd loaded my assorted belongings onto my father's truck and a rented trailer thingamajig and was on the road with my parents to Seattle. We arrived in the early afternoon and were met by my housemate, George, and we hurriedly unloaded my assorted objects. After making a quick call to find out where my folks could return the trailer, I waved good-bye to them as they roared off in a cloud of diesel fumes and sat down on the porch of my new home to have a smoke and wonder what the hell I'd gotten myself into. By a strange co-incidence, dear Quincy and the Brentling were in Seattle that weekend and helped assuage the transitional sadness I was feeling.

That weekend was a relaxed, yet somewhat busy one as I had seemingly endless loads of laundry, dishes, and unpacking to do in between adventures out with the Q and B team. George was still living at his old pied-à-terre. That Monday, I began the soul-searing task of looking for work. I had applied for several positions within the telecommunications company for whom I'd worked while living in Coeur d'Alene and trusted to the assistance of various kind and wonderful people who'd said they'd be willing to help - more on that later. I had an interview at a local placement agency that day.

For what it is worth, placement agencies tend to love me. They do a species of snake dance when I send them my résumé and come in for the wearisome tests designed to measure my office skills. (Confidential to any recruiters who are reading this: No matter *what* you say about your specific tests being more difficult or different from another agency's, you're full of shit. I took the same damned tests at about six different recruiters and scored within one to two points of my previous scores. Towards the end, I was getting consistently perfect scores because I had memorized the damned answers. Just an FYI.) At any rate, most of the recruiters start salivating at my experience and abilities, promise great things by the end of the next day, and then promptly disappear.

After a few weeks of desultory job hunting (in the third sense), I was finally offered a position with a company in the SODO (South of Downtown) district. While not as glamorous as working in on the forty-third floor of a massive glass tower, I like my job and my co-workers very much.

Shortly after moving over, Sina buzzed round for a few days visit to the city prior to winging off to Deutschland. It was a nice visit. She recently returned and buzzed through for a day and a half before legging it back to Coeur d'Alene, unfortunately, I didn't get much of an opportunity to spend time with her as our plans just never became more than discussion.

Doug and Brandy came over a few weeks ago for a spot of fun in the city and it was good seeing them again. They got into town at 8ish that Saturday and we went for brekkers at The Hurricane and drinks at Bleu on Broadway while Brandy was getting a new piercing. Later, we went to dinner at Nijo with his mum and several assorted friends of his from way back when. So after stuffing dear Brandy and Doug with tasty morsels of Seattle's finest sushi, we beetled up to Queen Anne in search of some karaoke for Dougie. Unfortunately, the place we hit on was like an upscale Mik-n-Mac's. Filled to the brim with white hats and bimbos with the merest veneer of class and taste, it was impossible to sit and getting drinks was even more of a nightmare. So I sat and chain smoked and commiserated with Brandy as she grew increasingly tired and (or so it seemed) annoyed with the general mayhem of the place and the jackassery of the individual running karaoke. While the word gentleman is an elastic term, I am hesitant to use it to describe this person nor will I be so bold as to use host as it is not an elastic term in the slightest. It implies a certain amount of courtesy and manner that this jimook did not demonstrate in the slightest. Further, deponent saith not.

My house is a bijou little dwelling I'm going to wrangle Brad into bringing round his digital camera so I can post new and better photos of Chez Nous on my blog.

Our neighbours downstairs - Drew and Holly - are fantastic. It was Holly who gave me the tip regarding the Leschi Market and its absolutely amazing selection of vins. I swear they have everything under the sun from decent plonks - I'm quite fond of two whose names escape me at present, thus I shall borrow a page from Mortimer and refer to them as Château Lake Washington Boulevard and the other as Château Leschi Marina. In addition to reasonable plonks, they also have more expensive offerings for discriminating palates. Moreover, they've nice chipolatas.

Back on Pride Weekend (this year named 'Pride Explosion' and even more of a snooze than normal. Nevermind the fact that it was as empty of social conscience as Phyllis Schafly - more on that later), George was in the throes of misery because he was unable to go out that evening. Or so he thought...

To Be Continued