I Got A Name

I've met people online so committed to the anonymity of screen names that even after months of chatting back and forth, a comfort level seemingly in place, they still refused to divulge basic facts like a first name, or location.

This of course, drives me bonkers. I'm always offering up my proper name, or a variation of, because calling someone  "Hog-eye" , can seem foolish when discussing politics or the weather.

Or, some sort of bizarro adult 'Little Rascals' comedy, with characters called 'Spank-me', 'Buckweed' and 'Super Butch'. Having a name like "Topman" apparently implies I'm ready to fuck at a moment's notice. While that is often the case, it's not the rule. I like a little foreplay. Some people I meet act as if sex was akin to the stops on the subway: the Local 'N'.

Here's an example of the types of greetings I get: in this case I don't even rank as 'Topman' but 'Buddy':

"hi buddy hows it hanging love to suck and feel you seed my ass over and over"

"hey hotman, you hard and horny today?"

"hey stud you naked?'

"hey buddy, fuck me man, fuck me fuck me"

What's the old line: 'When they STOP calling I'll be worried?'

I guess it's hard for me to separate flirting from genuine interest and to no get so uptight when encountering the less polished, 'caveman' types.

Plotting My Own Plot Against Me

A glitch in my Blogger program has been hindering some posts. This is caused by:
 
A) I'm so fried, I'm only thinking I'm writing.
B) I'm not fried enough to mind meld with my desktop and solve the problem
B)The not-so-secret government plot against me. (don't worry, they'll get to you in due course)
C) Global Warming/Misc Ecological quirks as foretold by the Mayan Mutual of Omaha Desk Calendar
D)Gremlins from the Kremlin


I'd forgotten how hilarious those old cartoons were. Watch that while I go under the hood for a bit.

An Early Christmas

I had shook my head in amazement when I got an email from Mr. Big Woods of Wisconsin. I should have known the minute I began to reenter the world of the living something like this would happen.


The letter was friendly, with no 'old business' from the past being dragged out. I had last spoken to him July 4th Weekend, when he called and I lay on my big couch and cried after we hung up.
I was feeling so very lonesome, the roommate hunt was not going anywhere, a job negotiation had just fallen through. I went on a three day binge: not leaving the apartment, not eating, just staring at the walls.

This email found him in good spirits and mentioned a possible West Coast trip before Christmas.

We marked out calendars and things promptly unraveled. It started as an inability to coordinate face time via Skype. Then he announced he was running late to pick up his date for a monthly dinner club event, but oddly, and this was a good sign, I didn't wall up in tears when he said he had to go .

And that surprise trip to the Coast didn't happen--- which was no surprise to me.

December came, and with it,his birthday. He called me on mine, but could I stand the thought of having to talk to him, but neither did I want to blow him off. I sent an email, and in my own way began quietly closing the books on Woodman "Woodsy" McCarthy of Milwaukee, and this silly drain of energy known as party and play.
I could have gone to Madrid last year. He would gracefully fade into my past.

I received a rather ardent plea that we 'must' talk, and was told when and where to receive this call. (No 'Taming of the Shrew' jokes either, folks)

What could I do? I thanked Woodsy for making my day, as I was feeling mighty low, and for an hour plus enjoyed the most civilized conversation, with questions
"On the last night of my visit to Milwaukee, why DID you take me to the Supper Club where your father proposed to your mother?"
His reply: " It was?"
Laughter (I still call his old boyfriend 'Winston' which is the name of my cat. It's not deliberate. I'm still referred to as "That Man", which is.) Woodsy has a non-steady steady, and his description prompted me to quip: "He sounds like my twin'.
The reply: "He's a plumber; you're a writer." Ouch.

For once, I looked no further than the moment, turned off the sophisticated comedy repartee(might as well speak in Urdu), and just looked at him...he had fallen asleep on cam.

When I told Woodman  with my extended troubles I feared becoming Ava Gardner at the end of Show Boat, he asked 'Why not Howard Keel?'
I admit, I wasn't prepared for that one.

It's make believe in reality perhaps, but that call was the most marvelous Christmas present I've ever received.

The Boy Who Came Back: Part 2

I blogged previously about the cute younger guy who, when I first met him, was convinced I was none other than Satan's right hand (or would that be left hand?) man.  After I cleared up THAT confusion, he contacted me. Even commented on a post I had in a previous incarnation of this blog. Roll credits: all's well that end's well. Or so I thought.

When I saw he'd dropped me as a Skype contact, then didn't respond to my sincere birthday wishes, I became concerned. Why in blazes would I be concerned? He's a grown up, has family, friends, seemed to have dealt with whatever paranoia or pronoia or pro-choice issues that dogged him.

Boy, was I fucking WRONG.

No good deed goes unpunished, and yes, because I thought he was cute, and sane, I emailed him. Well, that last sentence should have ended with cute. When I saw on he'd put something about 'being possessed' I knew it was time to stick my nose, foot and hand into trouble. So, I emailed my Little Lost Luke Cloudwalker to inquire. I should have just asked what size he wore in a strait-jacket and ordered one.

This resulted in a response to my email and subsequent two to three hour text-fest that basically consisted of:

-was I using meth?
-why was I sticking my nose into his business?
-was I using meth?
-what a rude, self-centered, egotistical, nosy son-of-a-bitch bastard I was
-and was I using meth? Because if I was, he couldn't talk to me.

The best way to not get an answer out of me, is to demonstrate that you have, have, have, have, to know.

To say when I finally had enough, and with a heavy heart told him I was ending communication, was one of the hardest goodbyes I have ever uh...typed. His comments to me were so cruel, misdirected nd downright mean, I can only wonder what issues he had been 'told' were the cause of his drug use, but I had to question what drugs he was taking that would create such a different person than the cheerful guy I thought I knew.

And then, I had a theory what the problem was. And, being the SOB I am (he wasn't totally off the mark on some of his observations) I asked him straight out-and just like you see in the movies where the main character has this terrifying revelation: I knew the answer:

He was IN rehab (again) and that was why he was so fucked up. And why most likely he couldn't talk.

He denied it, but was I using meth?

This game...or whatever the fuck caring for someone genuinely and getting your head handed back to you in that style,  lost its charm right then and there.

News at 11: Lost Post Lost No Mo

And so, 11-11-11 came....and about the only unusual occurrence that impacted my corner of cyberspace was this particular entry, which didn't post. And I am quite certain the problem wasn't related to energy fields, government meddling or even Lisbeth Salander. The problem was ye olde operator error. If I had enough time on my hands and an all access pass to the Nixon Library I bet I could locate the 18 1/2 minutes missing on those tapes. By the way punsters, the machine the President used is called a 'Dictabelt'.

World of One-der 
First, some hysterical historical trivia: 
How many days difference there were between the Gregorian Calendar and its predecessor, the Julian?
(Julian as in Julius Caesar, he of the salad; hold the anchovies)

And what do you suppose the difference in minutes was between the Julian and the Solar calendar (within a half minute, for you purists)

Do you know the name of the Greek mountain/peninsula where the Julian Calendar is still used? An easiest-to-access-by-ferry peninsula where only males* over the age of 18 are allowed?

*you ed-ray e-thay art-pay about-ay monastic ife-lay, ight-ray?

I'm not sure what I was expecting to happen with all those 1's. For one, I'm open enough to the idea that sure, there are much greater forces in the universe than I could begin to conceive. And, while I'm perpetually running late to appointments, I don't expect other dimensions/worlds/time bands to be all on variations of Greenwich Mean Time, by no means.

I'm saying 'I' versus 'we' because I am only of one opinion. I wonder why I feel let down that the day would pass as most any day does. And I wasn't expecting disaster, being the type who looks for the silver lining in every cloud.

I mean, back in 1911, Oklahoma City's temperature went from 83 F in the morning to 17F that night, and they had a dust storm. This was part of a 'Great Blue Norther' with similar strange temperature drops, tornadoes and/or blizzards in Illinois, Indiana, Kansas, Missouri, Michigan, Ohio and...Wisconsin. There's that pesky state again. Has to be a coincidence.

I also learned a new word: Apophenia. I'll let you research the meaning yourselves but it's sort of the wet blanket answer to Synchronicity.  To me, it sounds like a town in Appalachia.

And that's the way it was, and is, and most likely will continue to be. In talks with my friends, many of us continue experiencing the same feelings: curiosity, uncertainty, but also validation and intuition that right now is where we are supposed to be. And that is ongoing. Thus, singling out an attractive looking date on a Gregorian calendar becomes a signpost in the journey forward.

King of No Media But His Own

I sometimes wonder what the fuck people are thinking (I realize I'm expecting a lot by expecting mental agility) when they broadcast their knock-off of Howard Stern shock-jockery to the world. It's one thing to fall asleep on cam, another to turn on the waterworks (been there myself) and still another to have four hot & horny men together on cam yet all absorbed in their individual iPads.

On this Black Friday night, I was a'roaming cyberspace and stumbled upon this studly looking, rather hirsute and seemingly white-as-oxford cloth-white man..whose cam subtitle stated he was in his 'crip'.

That's right:  'crip'.

Living in Los Angeles, I admit I'm square footage spoiled. But being rather oxford-cloth white myself, I'm proud to say I do know some slang, and call me crazy, I think he might have meant his 'crib'.
Given the price of real estate in the "three block radius' of Penn Station, maybe 'crip' is to a 'crib'  what a ''bachelor' apartment is to...the Palace at Versailles. Homeboy's in Manhattan after all. I won't pass on the address he gave out, I've a conscience.

His decorating choices of ferns and Judy Garland posters conjured up Quiche Lorraine & Mimosa brunches rather than soul food and Spike Lee movies. I forgave that: for in 10 minutes or less I learned the popularity, availability and current street value of the Wall Street and MOMA crowd's drugs o'choice. He told us that he likes going out and hauling heroin addicts back nto his crip and watching them. Watching them 'what' I never was quite clear on.

I'm not big on frank and foolish monologues from naked guys on cam about how the drug industry is run by 'idiots and Mongolians'. Mongolia? Wait til Colombia gets wind of that. Genghis Khan is back. No wonder there are those Mongolian joints in so many mall food courts now. Clearly a front.
Then again, I could have clicked off the editorial, and I did. Fifteen minutes later, I was right back where I started. Now, he was deep into getting a hook up, fingers working his iPhone at full throttle.  but announced how he feared being killed in his apartment. At least I think it was a fear. When I asked if he'd been watching Looking for Mr. Goodbar, he replied with something about being out of candy. Sigh.

It was clear that my mouthy dud of a stud was a prep schooled bachelor of a certain age. He'd elevate himself in my eyes if he dumped the arrogance and the use of Ebonics. Oh, and the cigarettes.  I still wouldn't be impressed, but then again, if I was so appalled at his schtick, why the heck was I watching him? 

Hopelessly Devoted to You...and you...and you

Fine. I'll admit it. Right here, in print: I am a silly romantic. I fall in love all the time. To be more specific: I fall in love with the 'concept' of love all the time. I'll try and clarify this.

Being someone who grew up with movies as a counterbalance to a rather strange home life, I guess I decided that the conflict between two people laid the groundwork for some hot fireworks in the sack later on. Not such a guarantee in reality. Yet hopelessly devoted to the concept.

I can trace this back to high school, and the boyfriend who broke my heart. I didn't help the situation either.

I look back now at the men I've fallen for while in the party circuit; Southern gentleman Ashley committed to another guy who loved him enough to leave the West Coast for the Deep South, yet Ashley wouldn't answer me when I asked if his love was as deep.

The drama with Mr. Big-Woods I've re-hashed here more often than there have been performances of South Pacific.  Those are the main two...and I broke my own heart in both cases and I have apologized for such childishness.

But, I continue on , determined not to lose hope. Because if I do: I'm a dead man.

A Stroke at Midnight with Prince Charmless

Having worked my way through most of Orange County, it was inevitable I'd find myself trending and trundling through another Southern California region, and with statistics just in, it's the coastal area roughly north of Malibu all the way north to the Hearst Castle.

I was on cam4.com watching another of the incredible looking men that gather there like wolves at a Shari Lewis convention ,when I got a private message. "Hot Profile! Where in LA are you?"
Now, that's nothing to get upset about, since for a period it was 'yo! wass up?' However, I recognized the screen name. It's often a curse having a photographic memory...and bitterness.. I replied:
"Biff, I've had this screen name for ever. You've hit me up off and on for over 3 years, always claiming you want to hook up, but either cancel or leave me in limbo every damn time."

Woe to those who catch me in a bad mood.

Biff, to his credit, apologized (sometimes that's all it takes) and suggested we segue to Skype to talk this out. I did, and once I'd cleared my chest of this old news, I was fine. Unlike my ex and a former assistant, I'd don't carry a Day by Day Guide to Transgressions Against Me that I can flip open and recite time, place, and grievance.

So, when Biff offered up his driving down to Hollywood for the weekend, I had no problem. Except that I had plans for Saturday, but they weren't set in stone. My cousin could find a hotel somewhere and I could see him another time. So what if he'd flown in to see me? Disneyland is 45 minutes away by car; my cousin could have much more fun by himself there.

My lack of immediate commitment though didn't set right with my well mannered cam pal. He expressed a wish that we could be together right then. No pro-blay-mo, I fired back. I'd hop in my car , cruise up the coastline and I'd see him in ninety minutes or less.

But he replied, he had to work the next day. And, what exactly was I going to do to him when he came down on Amtrak Saturday?
I should mention that Biff has a master's degree in masturbation. In my wildest dreams did I ever think a rendezvous would be more than a frat house style weenie roast.

Biff's lower half was off cam, but I know a steady hand when I see it moving. And I know the key words to fuel some jackass's jack off too.
"Oh, when you go to work, I'll just leave. I have other friends I can visit. And as for what will I do to you, I've no agenda, no menu and no clue what we'll do until we're together."


Biff started to squirm, and it took me a couple of minutes to figure out where this session was going. Then, he accused me of being hostile, secretive, weird, and......frightening.

Uh-huh. At least it was looking like I wouldn't be tapping my toes Saturday at Union Station wondering why he wasn't on the train that just arrived. But 'frightening'? That was a little lame. Perhaps because I wasn't feeling anything, including buying into his act was what unnerved him.

I suggested that, since it was late, we were both tired (sick and tired in my case) to sleep on it and touch base in a day or two.  Not one to let me get away with being pleasant , Biff continued his Sorry Wrong Number monologue until I waved at him, announced I was hanging up, and made good on that promise.

Marching towards Friday

Previously I was in a high cryptic mood.....11/11/11 is this Friday. Since my pondering, several amazing things happened in succession:

*A tenant for my long empty guest room materialized and moved in.
*My out of print novel is finally going into production as a December 2011 release....exactly 4 years after my original publisher merged and closed the fiction lines.
*I encountered online some of the nicest men I've met in a long time, and a few of the old jerks.
 *I meditated on the topic of service and feel at least I  have a hand drawn map to start with.
*Gosh, I may be moving forward!

Not so fast:
I still would rather party on cam with friends than risk being disappointed.

All of my friends seem to feel the same: the party scene is filled with many bad apples. Sadly, no one need resort to deception, lies or mayhem. As was once heard round the globe from Rodney King:

"Can't we all just get along?"

No, we can't I guess.

But the week ain't over yet.

No Trick: Treats Just Got Higher

Dr. Pepper, anyone?

Just popping up on my desktop is news from CNN that a major bust has gone down in Arizona, with 70 arrested with suspected ties to the Sinaloa cartel. Read it here

Pandora's Box?

Don't open if paranoiac!
This is as good a time as any to remind you of the Global Incident Map. It's a constantly updating track to everything from Human Trafficking to Food & Medicine Incidents. The only thing missing are Elvis sightings and UFO landings.

One One One One One One

This Halloween morning, I'm all mystical, mysterious and most new age-y

11-1-11 is 1 day away
11-11-11 is 11 days away. 


I'm not sure what I think about this set of numbers.


Everyone in my wide network of party goers is feeling more or less like this: We are in some sort of alternate universe, and can't seem to get back up the rabbit hole. We're bored with the cyber party scene, feel lost, adrift and powerless. We aren't upset to the point of drastic measures...but riding the waves and going with, not against the current.

1-1-11
All I remember about New Years 2011 was that I was stood up by my date. That's nothing more than what it is, a memory, pretty much forgotten.

1-11-11
I don't have anything noted as unusual about this day either. Again, this suggests a specific sequence.

Signs, signs.....and that old black magic

I wonder....
What's coming down the pike. I don't feel doomsday-ish. I'm feeling optimistic. If anything I hope that 'we', my beloved brothers in arms, are on an express to greater insight, less frustration, deeper understanding and that this will allow us to help others.

It's really about the Power of One, isn't it? 

I guess we'll discuss this in 11 days, how's that?

Move along, Prince Charming

What do you do when a guy who sounds right out of a Harlequin Romance wants to come over, have dinner, and then get wild and crazy?
If you're me, you cancel the date two hours out.
THE BACKSTORY
I haven't been having time of my life lately. I'd been catching up online with a friend who was heartbroken. He'd visited from back east (without letting me know he was in town) as the guest of a dreamy. Robert F. Kennedy looking guy, who proceeded to ignore him all weekend and screw everyone else in the greater Santa Barbara to San Simeon region. Gosh, maybe he was a Kennedy. Granted, I only got one side of the story, but that's not where I'm headed. I had met 'Bobby' as we'll call him a few years ago myself, or at least I think I did. As it happens, I crossed paths with him, but sworn to secrecy by my corn-fed-friend, I couldn't do much but flirt, and get asked on a date.
BEYOND PERFECT...
Bobby, had the lean body of a surfer/tennis/croquet/badminton player, just enough body hair and those Kennedy teeth which flashed at me every few seconds. In less time than you could strip the kernels off a cob, we made plans to get together Saturday.
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
Saturday did not begin with all the planets aligning. My cat was ill and I raced over to the vet. I had some houseguest upheaval. I kind of hoped Bobby would call and reschedule, after all he was driving down from Paso Robles, which isn't exactly a trip across Los Angeles (though probably the same amount of time given traffic). When we spoke on the phone, he fed my imagination with better prose than I could ever hope to write.
"I helped out a friend at his ranch today. I have two bushels of oranges to make fresh juice, and also ripe avocados to make guacamole. And, he gave me some red wine from his vineyard. I got my hair cut and I'm looking to be down at your place by 6pm."
BE STILL MY FOOLISH HEART
This was the kind of dialogue I'd been waiting to hear for years!
So why the hell did I call him an hour later, and cancel what could have been a lovely (and filling) night?
SOMETHING'S OUT OF WHACK
I just couldn't risk being disappointed again. Even though I'm comfortable with 'one night only', enjoy 'now' for 'now' is all we h ave, I'd be second guessing and looking for the shoe to drop the entire time. And if he'd suggesting inviting his former fraternity brothers, Knights of Columbus or Shriners, I'd have dissolved into mush. 
He texted me back, very disappointed, and that was that. I've spent the rest of the weekend as a shut in, which is very bad indeed.

A Good Samaritan Butts In

 Originally posted 2/11/2011 on another site and in a different format


I'd been flying high with my online friends and toggling chat rooms doing my best to keep up with everyone.  Yet despite my best intentions, trouble follows me: I don't go looking ... but damn if I don't put my foot into it every time.

I was spelunking through ICU2‘s many subterranean caverns (I go there for the conversation, you know).  I focused on an image all too common at 3AM: one prompting the age-old question, "Is he dead or just passed out?   An icy blond like in a Hitchcock film...if said blond were male, lay naked and sprawled across a chaise looking a bit too icy. With him was a harnessed gentleman quizzically staring at the cam like he'd never seen one.  He had a Euro-stud ethnicity so I pegged him as a foreign diplomat or someone who'd missed out on technology. People were typing questions yet he was unable to communicate back.
Enter Topman: wireless keyboard in hand and wanting merely to help. Or for those who track my blunders: Mistake #4823

Feeling cavalier and not at all compassionate, I suggested that he throw the bright green blanket over the body, and look for Blondie's wallet, valuables, and any financial institution passwords or safe deposit box keys.  I'd hustle down from Hollywood in the meantime and take him out for supper along the beach: if he could find his trousers.   I got a vague stare back. What the fuck had these two been using?  NyQuil PM? Wait! He was blind!
Images of me as Louis Braille flashed before in my mind. Turns out he wasn't blind, for when someone typed that he kiss his Sleeping Beauty, who looked much better now covered,  he readily obeyed, then disappeared off-cam.

I'll be damned if that kiss didn't raise the dead.  As I watched, the blond began to flinch and writhe...like a seizure but in reverse. He must have made plenty of noise, for EuroStud came back: and he and Lazarus turned to the monitor. No longer Mr. Helpful: I was a Crazed Sociopath with typed communication to use as evidence.
I was kidding, really, about stealing anything but that hot man and I grinned sheepishly but the cat was out of the bag. Blondie embraced her man while shooting daggers at me the likes of which I hadn't seen in years. "Thank you so much for helping us in your own little way!" his raspy voice cackled. Smoking?  Whiskey? A relative of Demi Moore?

With that, the cam went off. Another unhappy couple made happy by seeing me as an alternative. I'd never see them again or so, I thought.

A Birthday, An Anniversary, and Gratitude

I'm not sure where this year has gone, but we're in the home stretch. My 49th birthday was this week, and this week marks one full year since I began this blog.  Formerly housed on www.nastykinkpigs.com, the entire blog is now located here.
Another Year, Not My Own
'49' alternately conjures for me 'Gold Miners', San Francisco football, 'My Darling Clementine' and the end of the first half of my life. My mother died at age 47...and how I sweated out that period. I've accomplished so much, and I didn't plan to be here this long. Not because of my health which has been great, but because I thought it was chic to check out at 26 or 27. A few weeks back, I toyed with the idea of ending it, but I couldn't do it. I have two cats that need me, a few dear friends that might miss me, and I have so much writing to do.
Sweet and Low
My birthday was nice and low key. I spent the alone, reflecting.  A friend came by and we had a late supper and he then presented me with an oversized cupcake that I devoured. The following night it was Mexican food with old friends, who I shocked with tales of bachelorhood. Then I went on a binge. These have lasted 2 days max...twice weekly at the most. But they have to stop. It's boredom manifesting as fun...and it will kill me.
Blogging the Blues Away
I began this blog a year ago as a reaction to my own self-broken heart and trying to make logic of all this. How could so many bright, handsome, charming men with excess testosterone and Type A personalities wind up slamming, snorting, huffing, smoking, bumping or eating drugs? And thus, I began to write. And while I have many paths to choose, I don't know which to follow.
Gratitude
I dove into this blog wanting to tell you my thoughts, my experiences, some harmonious, some horrific, and my hope. My hope is that we as a tribe of fractious fraternity, foster bonds with each other to stay strong. I have been so very humbled that only praise and support have come back to me. I thank each and every one of you for your kind words, critiques, support, and quiet grace when I've felt so lost.

Again, I thank you.

Room 4 Rent: but You Can't Afford This Utility

Design for Living
Back when two of my friends and I were all facing unemployment, I proposed this idea to the fourth of our little tribe: "I think we should combine resources. Since Walt and Lou own a 4 bedroom house,  but aren't a couple, Jack and I could move in, pay rent, and set an example for modern economic depression living.
4's Company
Walt and Lou, you see, had a big place with no furniture and a strong demand for a housekeeper. I had the furniture and liked to clean. Jack was adept at fixing anything. We all got along more or less. Walt resented Lou for not being independent, and Walt was always bemoaning the loss of community. I wasn't proposing this be a permanent arrangement, and I was all for legal rental agreements, etc.
Or So I Thought
You'd have thought I'd suggested we 4 share a 1 room cell in a Medieval monastery. Although I actually never got Lou or Jack's reaction. Walt, as defacto head of our circle, refused to even consider it, feeling he had 'one jobless burden on his hands, why triple it?' I suppose personalities also had a bit to do with it. "The only hit that comes out of a Helen Lawson show is Helen Lawson." Walt was very much a Helen Lawson. And despite what you may be thinking, I can blend well into ensemble pieces.
Sharing isn't easy
Flashing forward: Walt, Jack and Lou are part of my past. I didn't need increasingly crabby Walter to nix my idea. I suspect he was more peeved I didn't take the first menial job I could find, but to take time off and write. Skipping ahead, my previous roommate moved out in March and after a great summer doing some needed work around my place and living alone, I began seeking someone to sublet the other room and bath in June: but have yet to find the right fit. This baffles me.  I've tried higher rents, lower rents, furnished, unfurnished, you name it. With one exception.
Amenities abound, save one
Sex with me is not part of the lease. I don't advertise as Wild and Woolly Topman either, but that didn't stop the avalanche of sexually themed inquiries. At first I thought it was a bit odd that I'd get these calls or emails with 'and oh, you'd be free to have sex with me as much as you'd like." But after say, the 30th repeat of this idea, I was tired. One or two even felt they'd be so perfect for me, they could live here free...as my sex slave. Did I likey?
All bills paid
I don't likey. I likey rent money. This is about sharing living expenses in an increasingly unrealistic city to live in. I don't need a best friend, man Friday or wacky sidekick. Why should such a basic need become a 3 month process?
Neither Mr. Lonely Nor Mr. Perfect
So, knowing that it was going to turn into sex on my dining room table, I played along with one of these faux renters. He was charmed by the place, found our conversation stimulating and.....I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't heard it; 'scintillating'.
Well, that type of flattery led us to being naked, he atop the table and me doing what I do best, which isn't carving the turkey. Alas, his mind was elsewhere: like most bottoms one top is never enough, he was dreaming of 9 more like me, that is if the others were black and prone to violence. Turned off, I stopped, left him watching porn for an hour alone, and returned only to signal that it was time he left. "You know," he purred, "When you have your next sex party, I'd be glad to serve as a monitor." I bet that looks good on an application.
Single White Male Still Seeks...Sane or a clever actor for Share
My ex had a Tupperware party to raise money for charity once, but despite my bachelorhood, sex parties just aren't congruent with my grandmother's wing back chairs, the wall of books, my uncle's silver service or my friendly yet attention demanding cats. So, the search continues.

Stepping Out Suddenly Got Easier

As I have often stated, I spent 44 years of my life figuring out who 'I' was, to no success. Now, having had most all the support network removed, withdrawn or shattered, I am coming to some not so attractive conclusions about myself. At least now I can address them.

Hypocritical Critic
I very much have a double standard. I can trick around, but that's just horniness not love. YET, I would not want my partner or wife to do the same. I like women to be strong minded, but also feminine and demure, not slutty or tacky. I like men to be masculine but above all a sense of fun and some smarts.

For Couples Only
I have learned that each couple has their own standards (or should) have regarding tricking, affairs, opposite sex attractions.
I tend to get many halves of a couple gracing my door, but I no longer have a lecture ready. It's your relationship, you can muck it up or make it work however you see fit.
In some cases, an association with me has gotten couples BACK together. I truly am a miracle worker.

The Camino: One for my baby, and one for the road

Meanwhile, things grew stranger: 

I'm backlogged on posting.Time keeps moving faster. And just a lot of weirdness has permeated the air. My blog is now up and running on Blogger.
Blogger is very user friendly and easy to format. The blog program here combined with my Firefox browser, hindered me in many ways. The social networking classes and seminars I attended over the summer were united in one aspect: WordPress was by far the most recommended.

Let me put it this way: WordPress was rammed down my throat, but for what I'm doing, which is telling stories about me, I don't need much sophistication to blog . I need an EZ-in EZ-post venue. I'm not making any head way on full time work.

Listening to me bemoan the lack of good jobs, a Skype friend...suggested I become a janitor. Stunned at this idea, I recited from a movie trivia book: "Even when she playing a waif, everything about Audrey Hepburn breathed money." My friend threw his hands in the air and logged off.

I may not 'breathe' money, but I know I burn through it more quickly than most. Audrey didn't play a janitor and neither will I. But Audrey didn't have to consider the possibility that home is a refrigerator box under the 101 Freeway. I wonder at times, how it all was coming down to this.

So, its getting spooky around here...Armed robberies are way up in the hood. Why? Because we live in lousy economic times with no clear picture that its getting better. The dozen or so clubs in Hollywood close at 2AM when drunk, high or emotional patrons flood the streets and thieves are following the clubgoers. The crime index for Hollywood is triple digits higher than the city average.

And, just when I thought I was done with 'endings', the large apartment building behind me has been vacated entirely. Not only was my stalker gone, but the guy on the top floor who'd been there 20 years. That building, and almost all the others like it around the block, are under new ownership. They'e being gutted and remodeled.

I had recommeded to my ex reading Shirley MacLaine's The Camino. This was about her journey along the mystical magical pathway that crosses Spain. I was planning to see the actual Camino, as part of a journey to Madrid, but chose Milwaukee instead.

The Camino was due back to the Hollywood branch library soon, and my ex couldn't stand the book. However, I kind of liked it, but for some odd reason, well, the reason was to save time, I began skimming backward in my reading.
That's right, about halfway along the Camino, I jumped to the end and worked backwards. And: I felt a whole number of coincidentals seemingly fall in to place.

According to Shirley, before Atlantis, there was Lemuria, a land of harmony, united souls and collective bargaining...make that collective thinking. They used crystals for healing, and many other good things.
And then Atlantis evolved, I suppose, and united souls were now male and female, no longer connected and growing self centered. And ultimately that became the selfish ego that would cost the Atlanteans their advanced world.

Wasn't this also the plot of Forbidden Planet? Monsters from the Id.
And this all about change. Resistance to , resigning oneself to , embracing.
....and I continued my rationalizations. And in my bookbag I had an eclectic combination of titles:

The Camino by Shirley MacLaine, Ask Your Guides, by Sonia Choquette, Eckhart Tolle, and my spiral notebook.

Could the mysterious world of Lemuria which gave way to Atlantis, find its dependence upon crystal energies were causing a different reaction than historically had happened. These events migh destroy the culture of Atlantis, and it would take a thousand plus years to have found a synthetic replacement for crystal: once used- changed, subverted, altered.

What did it all mean? Did it mean anything?

Appearance So Deceptive

I suppose after 4 years of this nonsense called addiction, I'd be a little more savvy when it comes to 'reading' people. I must say my intuitive skills have sharpened, maybe because so many of us go through the same stuff at different times but eventually we all wind up there.
All of us who consider ourselves talented administrators have no longer been able to hit ourselves with precision. My remedy for my banged up arms?  Rest, water, Neosporin, Vitamin E oils and TLC.

Thus again, I found myself chattering away with a talented younger man down in Orange County. That alone should have stopped me. With few exceptions, and very few, I have not had much luck with OC hookups. Once more  that theory was proven as this 28 year old, who pursued me to no end merely wanted to fulfill some stupid wanking fantasy.
As is the case, he was deleted, unfriended and I sent him a letter. 'Don't take it so personal,' I'm told, but I'm not leaving without telling the person what they did wrong.
And for those of you reading this: Don't ever fake interest in someone just to get your rocks off. We can handle rejection but I for one don't do well with liars.

More on the Simple Life

There are few things that will cause a Type A controlling obsessive perfectionist with a ridiculously high Stanford Binet number to almost kick a wall, door...my first choice would be to punch someone...something...but I can't type with a broken hand. Besides, I've just repaired my fucked up Internet Connection/IP conflict/which was one part faulty driver had to be uninstalled, another part antivirus program gone rabid, and a large part I created in my attempt to clear out old files.

Hey! At least I fuck up my own computers....I'd never lay a tweaked thumb upon someone else's PC. It was last about this time last year that I had a meltdown when my desktop melted down, and help came from my supposed 'arch-rival' in the Windy City.
Yes, ye olde Love Triangle...its creation and fuel driven by The Man we both were fighting over....which we weren't.  There's a reason soap operas were always set in the Midwest. One year later, my hard drive is hard as it can be, my Tech Angel I understand, has come west to pursue artistic endeavors....and that Big Ox we both weren't head over heels about....he's enjoying the alone time he so very much wanted I suppose. 
Well, maybe I was a bit light in my loafers. If he wanted to be alone....I live in Hollywood..I should get the Garbo dialogue....I would have gladly taken the younger boy (not by much was he younger either) out for a screening of 'Les Diaboliques'...the original: where the wife and the mistress combine forces and dispose of their ox 8 feet under. 

It was my most recent triangle that REALLY burned my bundt cake. I had one half of a couple (yes, the other half was clueless as to the amateur Chemist in his life. This was the start of my internet problems, and we couldn't coordinate a cam session...thus making Louis Pasteur IV a tad miffed. Which made me get really grumpy, and I remarked I'd rather have conversation with a clueless chump vs another performance as the Ham Who Slams...Shazzam!
My ill-fated cyber dartist replied...."I'm used to the fact that guys who use meth are just losers who can't do anything social but party."  (I have ordered a full length mirror with magnifier for this deluded soul to re-acquaint himself),
Not one to just end the call, I advised him that dismissing everyone based on a shared hobby/addiction/character flaw was harsh, that I value the friendships (and some of the clashes) I've found here and putting a negative label, just starts the old spin cycle of demonizing. Nope. Not buying today.
I apparently knocked some sense into him...although his next comment made me groan: "If you lived here, I'd date you!". I'm in love with the idea of love, but I like(in theory) for my men and I to disagree....vehemently....disliking each other immensely on sight....not knowing of course this is indeed true love.

How's that for supercalifuckedupthinkingespeciallysinceItoldyou? Yet, I think it's an key element of my charm.

Simple is Simpler said Slamming Simpson

I took a number of social networking and personal branding seminars during the spring. Personal branding....that's why I keep dragging this Topman name with me. There may be other tops...but a Top who Blogs as much as he bangs?
The key lesson in all these classes is that anyone who's blogging, Facebook friendly, tweeting or posting videos on You Tube, X Tube or TubeSteakTuba needs to be 'authentic'...meaning as honest as you can without sounding like you live in a Planter's Mixed Nuts can. And that means ease of operations. Word Press was a bit deluxe, and I'm a snob...being from pretentious Big D and living in Hollywood for ever. But I'm not a literary snob. Give me a good story, without rubbing my nose in how clever the author uses his writer's toolbox.

So, with that intro, expect to see concurrent posts from NKP for the time being.  And thanks for following me.

Drama Queens

Sure,, he could slam a full gram, but call him Percy and he'd burst into tears.

Or as it happened to me, I'd barely sipped my double margarita, when I noticed my dinner companion had guzzled his. The result: he got loud, belligerent, and brought up my long dead mother.

And I told him to shut the fuck up. 
Now highly offended, he marched out of the restaurant. I enjoyed my meal in peace.
Then, in getting in the car to drive home, I noticed my cell phone was gone.

Return of A Jedi or The Boy* Who Came Back

*by no means a 'boy' but grant me artistic (and marketing) license.

About 3 months ago, on a website far far away, I stumbled across the cam of a very cute looking guy, a few years younger than me....well, eighteen years younger if you must know.  Donning my wolf-in-worsted-wool-style I sent salutations, and asked him to join me on Oo-voo, or AIM, or ICQ...it didn't matter...he agreed. I'm not one for groveling...I mean... seducing attractive younger men in chat rooms with two hundred strangers eavesdropping really cramps my style.

NO, I ONLY PLAY A WARLOCK ON CAM...oh gosh, we are on a cam, ahem.
Thank goodness I sensed this guy was knee deep in a tweak or I'd probably said, "Warlock? You confuse me with Carlos Estevez...aka Charlie Sheen. I am greater than that!"(I encountered CS in Vegas years ago, plastered, as we shared an elevator ride in the Golden Nugget Hotel). But it didn't matter, my new pal from the Midwest, had cast me as the leader of an all powerful organization intent on doing him no good. Being a man shaped by movies, I merged the Stepford Men's Association with those loveable old coots who shared the Dakota Apts with Rosemary and her baby-to-be...then realized it's no compliment being compared with Sidney Blackmer, Maurice Evans or even Ruth Gordon. I know my voice is a bit nasal but..really!

NOT SO FAST, FURIOUS OR FUNNY
I make light of this, but Andy, an otherwise intelligent, grounded guy was in bad straits. And there was no charming smile, no witty repartee, nothing I could do to calm his fears. I'd encountered this before...with guys of all shapes and sizesbut I usually could talk them out of their trees. And for the first time, I wondered if my on screen 'persona', which isn't too far from 'me' but certainly ratched up, was working against me. And, perhaps for the first time, I consciously saw what staying too long at the party could invite. We've all watched as someone who clearly needs to call it a night continues on. Sometimes we egg them on. (and sometimes, that totally fucked up person is playing us...meaning he's sober as a judge). Actions have consequences, lest we forget.

GONE IN 60 SECONDS
I managed to get Andy's email before he logged off and blocked me. I even took some time to research the macabre meanderings in his midwest village (thank God it wasn't Wisconsin). Time went by, and to my utmost pleasure, I got an email last week from him and we caught up. He's backed off chemistry class and opted for philosophy. He's far braver than I, but we expect that of subsequent generations. And I'm proud as any papa could be, not because of what I did, but what I didn't do.

The Blogger Who Came Back

(this is a re-post of a blog from a prior site. New readers to this blog can 'catch up' on the narrative and go back into the previous entries, now entirely included here..)

BROTHER CAN YOU SPARE A LINE?
It's after 2AM on the West Coast....or maybe it's later. California's economy...last to go into recession,always the very last to come out, is so very lousy I expect Daylight Savings Time has lost value.
I HAVE NOT RETURNED WITH TABLETS FROM CEDARS-SINAI...ERR MOUNT SINAI.
That's a Ten Commandments reference...not a pharmaceutical one. I enjoyed my sabbatical(though anyone can always find me a Skypeing). I didn't return with long grey hair and saffron robes or really any revelation. So much for Shangri-La.
I wasn't on top of Old Smokey nor on Top of the World, but I did have some mighty fine playtime on top of some mighty sexy men: and more than a few were actual human beings! (Make of that what you will)
I was outdoors, indoors, in a tent, incognito, and inflagrante delicto. And I even got to spout movie dialog.
ON TO THE BAD NEWS
While I've been interviewing, networking and brainstorming my entreprenuerial ass off, no jobs have manifested themselves. And, baffling, no roommate for my extra bedroom (see classifieds). And the weekend of Carmageddon, I learned what its like to be a hockey puck with Hollywood Boulevard as the rink, and a Silver Jeep Cherokee as the mighty stick who rammed in the side of my car, and sped away. I wasn't injured but my yellow car was.
So, as of now I seem to be about 5G's short. And I don't have either a Rhett Butler, Daddy Warbucks or reliable Ouija board to help me out.
SITUATION WANTED
Yes, I have a plan of action, sort of. I remember someone cautioning me about 'trading down', which is a matter of opinion. Living high on the hog is a bit pretentious in this decade. The best defense is still a good offense. But never have I felt so very much like the orphan I am.  I am not alone: everyone is feeling a python-like squeeze of tough times, uncertainty and apathy, and I understand that.
A BOWL OF DOLLY PARTON
She gave a terrific performance at the Hollywood Bowl, but also shared her thoughts on her life in some very frank words. She decided she was going to be rich, and she acknowledged that she'd often paid dearly for that choice. I look around at my own life, and realize that while not financially set, I made choices; make choices, and it would be easy to reflect and drive myself bonkers with regret. I have no regrets. We can't change our past, we don't know what tomorrow brings, but we can affect NOW.
JUST SAY NO? NO.
You think getting high (or getting sober) is the quick fix. No such luck.  Hell, my closest friends and I can't even admin ourselves correctly these days. And when partying becomes borng, you know that as addictive a personality you might have, that blaming the drugs is bogus, like blaming your problems today on your parents for not paying for ballet lessons at age 5(NO, not me!) or blaming Bozo the clown, and thus, all clowns for not showing up at the Chrysler dealer by Love Field in 1972(ok, that was me).
LIVING IS THE BEST REVENGE
My point? Look in the mirror. It begins and ends with you. No knight in shining armor, no golden ticket in a Wonka Bar. No waking up and having dead Bobby Ewing pop out of the shower. I have to figure it out, and damn it I will. I'm not going to be a victim.  I have to figure it out, however long it takes and at whatever price. I have to grow up. That really burns my creme brulee.
My grandmother would have nipped my whining in two shakes of a lamb's tail and kicked my narrow ass for good measure. "Always remember, you were born in the briar patch'. And with that, I'm heading to sleep and pick up where I left off in a few hours.

Tamam Shud? or Shudn't

(this was originally posted on July 1, 2011, on another site as the Season Finale
Translation-I took a month off from blogging, and relaunched this blog on Blogger.

There was the Door to which I found no Key
There was the Veil through which I might not see
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee There was-
and then no more of Thee and Me

Quatrains anyone? They’re divine with honey, I'm told. The above is a quatrain, and has nothing to do with Amtrak.
 

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, from where the above quatrain appears, was translated by Edward FitzGerald. Had he been named Edmund FitzGerald, you would heard my screams all the way to Genesee Depot, WI.  It’s about 2AM there right now and Ten Chimneys must be dark and still, but the historic farmhouse and grounds are in order and ready for arriving guests: earthly or not. The house is a portal to somewhere or a inescapable vortex: trust me.

If you find yourself in the Milwaukee area and have a passion for historic homes, forgotten Broadway legends, and possess the slightest bit of childlike wonder....
...Ten Chimneys, the summer home of acting greats Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, is a mystical Mecca for we metaphysical types. (If you are just 'regular folks' you won't notice anything unusual.)

I lost my heart to that enchanted farmhouse: and i tried giving my heart also to the person who took me there. He refused my ardent advances, stating he just wasn't into a romantic 'anything' with me.
Months later, I tried to explain how this could have been handled more diplomatically,  but I failed.  

I’ve broken my own heart only twice over someone else. I take the responsibility. The situations were exactly 30 years apart. I realized it was happening, and I couldn’t change the script, but I could change the ending. I had carried a torch for my high school boyfriend for almost 30 years. Now, I could eep mooning over Wisconsin's favorite son, or walk away and remain friends. I chose the latter.

Described once as ‘the most lavish single copy’ of The Rubaiyat,  due to the hand-crafted binding which took two years to complete. Published in 1860, the rather plain interior pages were bound in Moroccan leather, and embroidered with gold leaf, It was decorated with 1020 precious gems: amethysts, diamonds, ivories, rubies, olivine, pearls, topazes and turquoises (what no emeralds?). The front cover featured three peacocks: the back cover a type of lute and the inside back cover-- a skull.
This spectacular item was last sold at a March 1912 auction in London to an American bookseller, Gabriel Wells, for $2025 USD (equal to $57,000 in 2011) Sotheby's packed the book for shipping and arranged its transportation to New York and delivery it to Wells' office.

Today, of course, Mr. Wells copy would be worth much, much more. Assuming it survives intact(quite possibly), then found and successfully retrieved--from the floor of the Atlantic. This incredible and valuable artifact is but one among the millions of fragments of artifacts of the RMS TITANIC.

I’m not quite in the same sinking fast position as TITANIC, but I find I must have some money, so I am taking a break from blogging. Time to rededicate myself to avoid the financial and emotional iceberg I'm heading into. I thank all of you for your many kind emails and posts of support.

In what seems like a lifetime ago, my NKP profile had this cryptic quote:
"To become what you must, you must give up who you are."

 
Let's end with another Rubaiyat quatrain translated by FitzGerald: 

I sent my Soul through the Invisible
Some letter of that After-life to spell
And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answer’d "I Myself am Heav’n and Hell
 

and here’s a song for you.
Peace.