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.