Sweet Anodyne Bliss!

O Joyous Color!
O Analeptic Light!

I come to you, humbled.
My Subfusc Soul
Dithered, withered. Whither?

Your firmament dun
but heavens chromatical.

Sweet Succor speaks to my thirst.
Beautiful fonts align to my needs.

Calumniating masses blather
Besmirching idiots living in ignorance
95% dun.

I fear I sully your grand displays
and remake them in my own blogful image.

Fantasizing reality with you, beyond me.
Your importunity is a blessing to all, save my wallet.

Save my wallet!

Images of loved ones, dear ones ,
friends and friends and friends
Must be seen on cubit-sized LCDs

Oops, did i close those windows afterwards?

Apple Store!
O Hoary Bane!
O Lenitive Light!

Lead me into Thy Graces.
Take my money, Please.




Usta be bad sound
and bad seats without headrests
Usta be flat floors.

Now, Zow! Stadium
seats! And Dolby Digital!
Screens you fall into.

Less needed at Metreon.
Still magical, though.

Six-dollar sodas
And “Golden Flavored” popcorn
Goobers, anyone?

I LOVE the movies,
Gleeful escapes in the dark.
Sugar rush, woo hoo!

Scott and Crash share this
with me. We three need to go
to see a chick flick.

We’ll laugh and we’ll cry.
It’ll become a part of us!
We’ll even hug, brothers.

Still alive and well in film.
and in us as well.

Duel Summer

Since Soonae and Jong have been so good to me, such good friends for so long, it’s nice to be able to do a significant (to them) favor in return. To that end, I am sitting at the Il Piccolo Cafe on Broadway in Burlingame, a town about 20 miles south of the City.

They needed to take their car to the Saab dealer down here for a service appointment, so I drove it down, dropped it off, and walked about a mile and a half up California Drive to this cafe, because I found out that it also had surfandsip.com, my regular cafe internet provider. Woo hoo! (Do you think I’m addicted to internet connectivity? naaah.)

My observational faculties are akin to a lint brush. Things that I see just stick to my memory. I don’t know if it’s exactly a photographic memory….maybe eidetic is a better word. Things fly at me in great detail, and the walk up here, past shops, apartment buildings, homes, an almost-precious downtown area, was no exception. I thought of a lot of things, largely contrasts to San Francisco. I may live in San Francisco, but it inhabits me.

Objects, smells, tastes often evoke memories, comparisons…a yard gate, the kelly green snakecoils of a garden hose, brown leaves fallen on a gravel driveway. Ancient garage doors. Dilapidated carriage house on top of those garages.

Lumbering beasts of large cars in driveways or better, those leviathan creatures sitting quiescent in a garage. The word B O N N E V I L L E in individual metal letters riveted to the rear left quarter panel of my aunt’s 1965 Pontiac Convertible. Midnight blue. White top, white vinyl interior. The high-beams indicator was the silhouette of an indian (now “Native American”) brave in glowy blue. The chubby labored look of a whitewall tire pressed against the concrete slabs of my Uncle George & Aunt Ann’s driveway next to their chocolate-brown ranch house in a subdivision of Piscataway, NJ.

Further back, to the selfsame Bonneville parked on the macadam in front of Nanny & Giggi’s garage on Vaughn Street in Luzerne, PA. My great-grandfather still alive, but very old and unable to make the stairs to bed, so I always saw him sitting on the edge of the sofa in the middle room. A sofabed like they used to make sofabeds, where you ratcheted up the bench and the whole middle tilted back until it clicked, you returned the bench to its original position, and you had a flat surface approximately the size of a full mattress.

My very first memory, as i recall it now, is that old man hunched forward at the edge of that sofa, which always remained in its “bed” configuration. The man died in 1967, when I was three years old.

So. Having hit the absolute beginning of my vast storehouse of memory, I head back to the present, picking up speed along the way, like the flurry of clips in the title of the last WB episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (“The Gift”).

I’m back in the present, or more specifically, in the Now, just in time to be standing in front of HighwayOne Auto, where sits a white-on-white 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood. I laughed out loud. The lumbering leviathan had nothing to say.

Keep in mind, here, now, that I’m not talking here about memory associations, I’m talking more about a waking dream, where your conscious mind is drawn almost completely apart from what your senses report, an internal safari that is beyond reason, beyond rationality. An existence which does not exist.

I have no defense against such episodes, just as Adam Hoskins has no defense.

I’m not sure I want one.

Happy Birthday to Her

I wish to make a wish.

I wish a very Happy Birthday to one of my oldest, dearest companions in all the world, Marti Lawrence.

She and I have lost touch, almost completely over the past 8 years or so, and I find myself wishing also to replace the regret with action, starting now. Starting here.

I dreamt two nights ago that I answered my senior HS year homeroom class door (she and i graduated together, were class officers together), and Marti was standing there. I was not shocked in the least, even though even in my dream I knew it had been a very long time since I saw her in the flesh. She was not surprised, either. I was not alone, but I do not remember who was with me. I think it was someone from my present.

I smiled at her, and hugged her. I told her I was on my way out, though. That I could not stay and talk. I remember assuming I’d see her later in the day. She said, “Okay.” And then she reminded me that it was her birthday coming up soon.

Well, that day is today.

Marti has always been a strong person; strength in people like her, strength like that, is something to be reckoned with. If Marti said she’d get to the bottom of something, you better pray you’re not the one at the bottom of that something.

I have always had strong women as friends. Always. I have never had a fag hag. I count all other configurations of gender and sexuality as friends, too, but it’s the strong women…Soonae, Lisa Y-Z, Judy, Felicia, Jeanome , Lisa J., Lisa C., that I feel most companionable with.

I miss Marti. I miss her in ways that might require dozens of pages to describe, but in a way that you would instantly understand if you saw me with her.

She and I shared a love of Billy Joel, and there was no more beautiful a sight than looking over at her in my convertible, the wind blowing her blond hair about, and no more beautiful a sound than the happy joy we always managed to find and express.

There’s magic in a wish. I do not wish lightly; I do not wish with frequency. But she deserves all the magic on her birthday. And every day.

Grease. Word.

  • • At the beginning of the film, John Travolta actually says, “No, it’s just the beginning.”
  • • John Travolta is all about the hips. ALL about the hips. NO ONE moves like him.
  • • My first notion that I wasn’t into girls was when I didn’t have a reaction to ONJ with ratted hair.
  • • Apparently, “shit” and “tit” aren’t permitted on broadcast TV, but “pussy wagon” is.
  • • Stockard Channing is !@#$# INSANE in rollers in Beauty School Dropout.
  • • I used to be Patti Simcox, but I got over it.
  • • I have lied about how much I liked Grease 2.
  • • I will probably go see Grease 3 when it comes out.
  • • I think every relationship should have a private funhouse and every home should have a Shake Shack.
  • • I have owned the soundtrack on 8-Track, Vinyl, CD. I now own the movie on DVD.
  • • Every time I see Frenchy, I just see Didi Conn singing You Light Up My Life.
  • • ONJ’s hairdo in the last scene is just a curly version of her hairstyle at Thunder Road.
  • • I still get huffy when ONJ doesn’t get to win the dance contest.
  • • Grease was the first movie I ever saw in the theater more than once. I saw it twice.
  • • Grease 2 was the second movie I ever saw in the theater more than once. I saw it five times.
  • • The second time I saw Grease was in the old Kingston theater, which had a stage, and during Sandy, John Travolta looks like he’s actually ON the stage, sitting on the swing.
  • • The hotdog jumping into the open bun on the drive-in screen makes me feel funny-in-the-tummy.
  • • Nostagia is a weapon.

The Moon is in Ca-Ca

Firewire ports on my G4 Cube dead. Big TV dead. Clothes dryer near-dead. Got a flat tire on Vespa South of Market last night. Spent this morning pushing it 5 blocks to the scooter shop. On a good note, even though I had left it in a restricted zone, it was not towed nor was it ticketed. I did that with my mind. Swear to God (of Biscuits), I did. But just in case, praise Jesus.

Family Valued

I have written before about the nasty funnel of rage who is soon to be not anything-in-law to me. And my opinions on her behavior still hold. And I still cross all available appendages (don’t snicker at me) in hopes that the clear culling of her from my family happens as soon as possible.

But I have yet to comment fully on the positive side of the experience, and the new angles of vision afforded to me by the legal, familial and now geographical separations.

My weekend in Seattle, at the NX4 gathering, was a lesson in positivity. 150 or so men who were all lovely to one another, friendly, warm, convivial; who said hello rather than looked away or down as they passed; who took chances on other people returning kindnesses; who, as a group prioritized good will above selfishness, meanness, coldness, insecurity.

And the thought struck me just yesterday that I’ve experienced this in abundance, all my life, from one set of people who have always been there for me, and in whom I have faith will always be there for me. As I will be for them: my family.

My mother once gave me a sweatshirt that said read “family is a group of people who love each other.” Simple as that.

As gay men, we take that to mean we have license to define family however we see fit. And we do. And this is a good thing.

But do we spend so much time in defining our own families by the friendships they contain?

I think of my father sometimes as a friend with whom I can talk about cars and movies and architecture with, whose encyclopedic knowledge of those things astounds me.

I think of my mother sometimes as a confidante for those things only someone who has known me for 39 years would understand.

I think of my older brother, the one whose life has been inverted, up-ended, imploded, exploded as a friend who challenges my opinions, for better or worse, but who I know will never let argument create distance.

And my younger brother, Sam. He was my first friend in the entire world. We have always been as close as twins, even though now he stands a good half-foot taller than I. We used to be able to wear the same clothes growing up. Once he knocked a front babytooth of mine out with a whiffle bat. We talk often, still, and in many ways he is the most regularly familiar one to me of anyone. We don’t talk about the closeness too often, because it’s a given.

With him and with all my family, the trust that we’ll each “be there” for the others runs so deep that we take it for granted. That sounds like we don’t appreciate what we have. On the contrary, the assumption, the trust, the faith of it is so comprehensive and so fundamental that to make it conscious would only cheapen it.

I have a large family here in San Francisco, comprised of good and talented and funny and lovely friends. That much is obvious to anyone who gets to know me.

But more people should know that I have a small circle of friends, mostly back in Pennsylvania, comprised of good and talented and funny and lovely family.

Blogs and OS X

I have been doing some investigating into blogging backends, and have spent a lot of time talking to GeekSlut about things (he’s quite the insightful—and inciteful :)—smarty), I decided to just jump in with some stuff in the development of a Mac OS X blogging client.

I’ve gotten MT installed locally on my iBook—imagine an eensy, glossy-white laptop that just happens to have perl, apache and mysql available—and I just today figured out how to talk to MoveableType from Objective-C.

I know this is waaaay nerdy for most of you, but here’s the gist of it: all you Mac folks out there who are blogging, especially the ones who have tried something like iBlog and “get” the Macintosh-y goodness of it, and especially the ones who are already using MoveableType on the server side of things, PLEASE EMAIL ME!

I would like to know what kinds of things you like and don’t like about your current blogging pattern.

Keep in mind that this will be ONLY for Mac OS X, for Jaguar and later. No Windows thing planned, no OS 9 support. In fact, likely by the time this gets done, it will be Panther only.

Ostensibly I can generate mailing lists on my email host, and may end up doing that, but I’d SERIOUSLY love to get feedback (and eventual beta-testers, but that is quite a while in the future).

Mac bloggers unite!


There is nothing quite so sublime, really, as knowing your emotional place in the world. Of knowng that you can have powerful attractions to one man but still always remember that there is The One who holds a monopoly on your emotional future.

You walk around, in a drunken stupor, on a horse ranch, in rural Washington State, and you notice that sex that is happening all around you, and there’a a man next to you—right next to you—who’s so attractive to you that you beiieve for that moment that you’re not attached, that he’s not attached, and that the world is only about Right Now and the Universe Says So and That’s That.

You find that real life, of the Accident feelings and urges and wonts cannot ever add up to the essential need to be with that other Essential Someone.

Easy sex, readily available on a singular weekend such as this, doesn’t enter the picture plausibly, even when The One is a few hundred miles away.

And it’s not about promises and it’s not about commitment and it’s not about expediency or sexual devotion, it’s about where the heart decides that the body must obey.

It’s about remaining a Gestalt, a whole where desire and devotion remain interdependent, where liking is driven to loving and the physical can do nothing but follow.

It’s about totality. It’s about synchronicity. It’s about the singular compass-heading that leads you to the one you believe you simply belong with, you believe will join you in strengths instead of weaknesses.

The One who will make you whole when you are already whole, complete when you are already complete.

The One who will show you a better you and who, by fiat, helps you make the Universe make better sense.

It’s about knowing you are significantly more With, and diminished Without, and appreciating that the difference is too great to ignore.

It’s about knowing the rightness of your path and discovering you are unable to deviate from the path.

I know there’s a word for this.