You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June, 2008.
The house is in turmoil. The bathroom is torn up as the tile-men (who look about 10 years old) are laying down the new tile. Our toilet is sitting in the closet, which is gutted and waiting carpeting then new shelves. The contents of the closet are scattered around the house. It is all rather disheveled.
For my father’s birthday we four sons purchased a device that converts photo slides into computer for CD storage. It looks like a tiny Easy-Bake Oven; you slide in the slide on one side, it pops out the other. He has 70 carousels to convert. He can now separate ‘freighters from family’; We have a bet on the ratio (everyone of us believes freighters > family).
Speaking of birthdays, mine is coming up in next week. What I want for my birthday is an old recording of Sea Chanteys. The all male chorus sings such classics as “What to do with a drunken sailor?”
One of the lines is “Shave him with a rusty razor” so you can imagine.
We long to get a puppy. But the ugly fact is we are both away from house over 12 hours at a time. And we travel a lot. We can’t care for one properly.
My latest body evaluation says I have 14% body fat. Apparently that is good for a 45 soon to be 46 year old man. But mine is all in the stomach. Grrrrrr.
The personal trainer has me doing all sorts of sadomasochistic exercises, most of them with East European names. When he demonstrates the moves he remains a heart warming spectacle.
For 20 years I have heard about the legendary GAYCARD.
Usually the GAYCARD is mentioned when Somebody (no relation to Someone) says their GAYCARD is going to be revoked because they are not doing, have, or know something that is required by the GAYCARD.
I thought only two activities would be on the GAYCARD (No, I won’t spell them out, lest my family is reading this).
Apparently it is not that simple. I’ve heard hints what may be on the GAYCARD. For example, Someone wants to revoke my GAYCARD because I don’t like Judy Garland.
Listening to They-are-going-to-revoke- my-GAYCARD statements from so many people makes me guess some of the other items are:
Knowledge of Broadway musicals.
An ability to cook.
Regular TV viewing of The Golden Girls or Project Runway.
Your nipples are an erogenous zone.
The ability to quote lines from “The Women” and “Mame”
(Rosalind Russell)
Firm buttocks.
You don’t think immediately of cheese stuffed jalapeños when someone mentions ‘poppers’.
Cher and Madonna CDs.
Shoes and belt that match at all times.
You watch the Golden Globe Awards – to see the dresses.
Brunch on Sundays.
You shop at IKEA.
What the hell is on the GAYCARD?
Does anybody have any ideas?
Sometimes….
I want to contact ex-patients to find out how they are doing.
I have the urge to throw everything away to have the fewest possessions possible.
I get cheap and wash/iron my shirts rather than sending them to the cleaners.
I want to spend a day drinking (this has never happened by the way).
Doing chores feels like a quiet satisfaction.
Doing chores feels like a drudge.
My emotions get the best of me and I want to crawl into a hole and not interact with anybody lest they turn into salt.
Pasta is the only thing I want to eat.
I want to go bezerk and eat some manner of food that I ought not to eat, like potato chips with lots of onion dip.
I reread old diaries and realize how little I have changed.
The notion of growing old doesn’t sound worth it.
Tea causes headache and nausea when I drink it on an empty stomach.
I can remember how to spell ‘occasionally’.
I have new spectacles.
The first time I got glasses my mother took me to an optometrist she knew from church. In the spirit of Protestantism, he seemed to run his place on the dogma ‘Pay no heed to what ye shall wear’. He had rows of frames – bulbous liver coloured monstrosities of a uniform ugliness although no two were quite alike. I was supposed to pick one of these and put it on my face? I was already a nerd; putting on any of these would elevate my nerd status to stardom. (Perhaps my gay gene for fashion was beginning to kick in. I wasn’t conscious of designer glasses but some part of me was already calling for them).
I had to be reminded to don these awful bug eyes. I hated them.
My last spectacles were so out they were in. Plastic and pink-purple, with bits of darker hue, I think they were supposed to convey a mock tortoise shell. They were on sale (for clearance – no surprise). When I put them on my first thought was “Dame Edna! What are you doing in the mirror?” The sales lady was too polite to contradict my positive emotions. She would not come out and say “I don’t think you look good in those”. She waffled until I threatened if you don’t see me these glasses I am going to recommend her shop to the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.
Now I have something that sounds like it came from IKEA. My Oga specs (with an umlaut) are stylish but apt for a middle aged man.
Elton John I am not.
I wrote this while sitting on the porch of our Starlight Pines Bed & Breakfast in Flagstaff, Arizona. We were in the midst of some forestland.
Being near the woods makes me feel thoughtful. Thanks to two fine fellows at Mutual Causality and Gossamer Tapestry, being near the woods also makes me think of fires, but that is not my point today.
The Forest is an ancient Archetype symbolizing going into the mind and the soul. Deep in the woods lurk the monsters and witches but also the secret castle with the treasure and the Maiden in need of rescue. There is much to encounter in the Forest, as Mr. Sondheim captured beautifully in his musical ‘Into the Woods”.
I like the forest. I have fantasized all my life about living in the woods. Seeing photos at Scuff Productions, Rodger Dodger, and Designerblog sets off a desire to drop everything and find a cabin in the woods. When I am in the Pacific Northwest rain forests, I feel alive. I like to be in touch with The Woodsman or Green Man or Hermit. Perhaps in the woods I will find a Lumberjack (different fantasy). In the woods I too may romp with Titania and Oberon and other fairy folk.
Western Mankind has been ambivalent about the woods since man wondered into Europe. We long for it; we fear it. The Mythos of Bigfoot captures this intrigue and fear of the Woods.
Nowadays I doubt we can’t appreciate the splendor and fear our ancestors had to encounter endless woods.
It is ironic that I live in the desert. There aren’t any trees let alone woods (I don’t count nasty mesquite trees, which hold no archetypal energy for me).
I miss the woods. 
So when we travel I try to locate some forest and go into the woods.
Our closet is completely empty, shelves and all. When the water pipe in the wall burst, we tore out the closet dry wall to get to the leak. We took the opportunity to re-do the walk in closet.
Designing a closet is exciting. We couldn’t get too wild in customization given the hypothesis that someday we will sell the house. Most buyers won’t be interested in a mini-shelf for bowties, no place for dresses, or a heavy beam on which to hang the leather goods.
Until this project is completed, the clothes are scattered over two rooms. It is a frightful mess and most days I can’t find anything. When it all returns to the new closet, I want to put back only the items I actually use.
Things to give to charity –
Any shirt whose sleeves have shrunk from washing.
All those now useless sweaters.
Suits, trousers, and Bermuda shorts in which I no longer fit because I am a fat pig.
Worn out shoes I never seem to get around to discarding.
I am not a “clothes person”. I tend to wear the same things – khaki pants and a dress shirt for work (sometimes with bowtie); khaki pants on the weekends with a loud (usually handmade) Hawaiian shirt.
Survey time!
A) How many pairs of shoes do you own?
B) What is your favorite piece of clothing?
C) What white elephant item won’t you discard?
My responses;
A) 12
B) The tattered terry bathrobe with my initials on it.
C) A Sweeny Todd T-shirt I purchased in the late 70s during my first trip to NYC to see my first Broadway show. It is too small to wear.
“I feel trapped.”
This statement is a common ‘chief complaint’ given by a new patient.
There is a famous experiment done with monkeys. The monkey is placed in an impossible situation and is ‘punished’ no matter what move it makes. Eventually it stops trying and crawls into a ball. Its blood chemistry resembles that found in people with depression or PTSD.
There are other experiments from nature to suggest animals ‘shut down’ when the situation has no way out for them.
People don’t need a psychiatrist to tell them they are unhappy.
They know why they are unhappy –
They are doing a job that erodes the soul.
They are in a relationship that is killing them.
They can’t get hold of a job, healthcare, or other resources.
They are unhappy living where they do.
Their hopes were invested in “X” and now that “X” is here, it is a disappointment with no back-up plan.
Leaving the job, getting out of the marriage, moving etc. are the remedies. But the usual response is ‘I can’t. I’m trapped.”
What I try to get people to see they are not that trapped. Hell is often locked from within, not from without. In the Tarot Deck “The Devil” has people enslaved in chains – but if you look closely these chains could easily come off if people only paid attention.
When we think of leaving a trap, we run the notion by our fears, not by our faith. I quickly hear about the fears why a person can’t change -
There is a mortgage.
I have no money.
I have no where to go.
What will they think of me?
Getting out of a trap usually means going into the unknown. It is hardly ever safe or easy. Leaving a trap means being scared of the uncertain and going towards something that may not exist. Scary.
Nevertheless, it is can preferable to staying.
Nothing in life of any worth comes without some sort of price.
Of course, many people don’t leave their traps.
I acknowledge there are legitimate traps. Robertson Davies wrote everyone needs to recognize the traps they are in and make peace with them.
But please make sure your traps are genuine, and staying truly outweighs going.
Volunteering at Flagstaff’s Pride weekend was a bit rough. It didn’t seem as organized compared to previous years. Apparently there were fewer volunteers this year. Someone and I were transferred from the main beer tent to the ‘annex’. We manned the post by our two selves for four hours.
It reminded me of the “I Love Lucy” episode in the chocolate factory. Someone poured beer; I took the tickets/served the customers. The faster we worked, the quicker came the customers. It was hot work.
I did encounter a few interesting people. One fellow was the spitting image of Michael at Temporary Trouble Spots; with the exception this fellow was wearing devil horns and a kilt. When I asked him what he wanted, he would reply “your phone number”. He kept coming back each time asking for my number – and for more beer, keeping his old cups to make a ‘tower’ or used cups, not unlike the rings of a tree. A stupid plan; he was the one person the cops asked me to no longer serve him. (And, he didn’t get my telephone number after all).
Two young women of Philippine origin were regular customers. They were dressed as strippers or prostitutes; if so they were working the wrong crowd.
The only trouble customers were two lesbians. One wanted to pour her own bottle (we were not allowed to hand out bottles, but would pour the order into a plastic glass). Another womyn was annoyed when I accidentally sloshed a few sips out of her drink when I set down the glass. She demanded I open another to fill in what was spilled. (Neither request was granted).
Otherwise people were cool and I accumulated a lot of tips, probably from basic good manners and eye contact.
All the same, Mr. Maddog can keep this sort of work. I am pooped.
I bought two T-shirts.
One says “God Bless The Whole World. No Exceptions”
And the other – “ This is what a FEMINIST looks like”
This weekend we have our annual trek to Flagstaff, Arizona.
We volunteer at their Pridefest. This will be our 3rd year.
As is the wont, we will serve drinks at the ‘beer tent’. This makes us glorified serving wenches. It is jolly good fun. It is a great way to flirt to see everyone. Better yet, everyone comes to us for once.
Last year I was partnered with a young woman with several piercings whose hair was the colour of Froot-loops. She was pleasant person whose presence attracted all the lesbians to our line. I didn’t get to flirt get to serve too many gentleman callers.
“I want a beer” said the female customers “No! I want her to get it for me.”
We stay at Pride in the Pines Bed and Breakfast. It is a very pleasant place run by marvelous hosts. Their place reminds me of my grandparent’s house so it evokes warm fuzzy emotions to stay there. I love reading on their wooden porch.
Northern Arizona is quite a different cup of tea compared to the southern half. It is common for Flagstaff to have temperatures 40 degrees cooler than Phoenix. I must remember bring a jacket this weekend.
So long farewell auf widersehen goodbye.
“And what can I get you, sir?”
Spo-fans may recall that we are in the middle of house repairs, precipitated by a leaking pipe in the wall. We need to replace the pipe, the dry wall, the carpeting, and repaint. I’ve lost track of all the costs.
We are looking on the bright side. It gives us the opportunity to decorate. We’ve been in this house for 3 years without any makeover.
We are getting new carpeting for the bedroom.
We are replacing the damaged carpet in the bathroom with tile. The shower will be tiled.
The walk-in closet is gutted, painted, and ready for California Closets to bring us our new shelves.
The drywall in the garage is repaired and repainted. We used this time to clean out the garage. Most people in Phoenix have no basement and very little storage; they store things in the garage. We threw out the snow shovels and salt. Out of whimsy we installed the old snow measuring stick. Back in Michigan this told me know how many inches of snow had fallen. It is up between the cacti. We’ll see how it works here in Phoenix.
And we’ll have lots of repairmen parading through the house.
From the ashes of disaster grow the roses of success.
