Now that I'm able to work on my laptop within coffee shops, I've decided that they are not exactly optimal for . . . well, work or thought. I can't think here. The idiotic chatter beside me, inane Christmas songs piping through the sound system which the Saint-Saens playing on my CD player is unable to drown out, the visual distractions of people coming and going… how is one to get ANYTHING done! I DID get my wireless connection working, so I CAN surf for porn, which is mindless enough for the coffee shop.

What should you do with a laptop when you want to go to the bathroom? I've often been asked to watch laptop while owners have gone to the bathroom, but that itself strikes me as perhaps more risky than just leaving it unattended. Why should the person sitting in the seat beside you be any more reliable than anyone else in the shop? And besides, you're essentially telling the person that you will be gone for several minutes, defenseless against opportunistic thieves.

This week the refrigerator at work has been especially full. Yesterday I got fed up and started tossing things into the garbage to make room for my (more important) food stuffs. It's mid-December and I found full half-gallon cartons of juice with expiration dates of May 6th! It's a cesspool of germs and bacteria! If it weren't my last week there, I'd be inclined to clean shop, so to speak, but as it is, they're on their own.

[Break of a few days. It's now Sunday, and I'm at the beginning of a two-week vacation. Change of venue: Spot Cafe.]

It's even louder at Spot. Good lord, the volumes in this place are going to make us all sign language users. I remember growing up with my step father, and the unreasonable level of the sound volume on the TV, which he kept at unreasonable levels at all times (and of course the TV was on at all times). It made me furious. Was he totally deaf? It was the beginning of my belief that the decibel levels in the U.S. are on the rise everywhere. I secretly believe this is strongly correlated to lowering intelligence, though it's probably just my personal antipathy for loud sounds. But go to the movie theater and tell me the sound is not too loud. At bars, coffee shops, music halls. In households everywhere the sound is too loud. In cars too. When you buy a stereo system, the sales person boasts of power, wattage. There's been a ratcheting up of sound over the last 20 years. Americans are lazy, loud, and crude. Everything has to be in their face (and ears). They want a direct, unmitigated sensory onslaught. They believe that's a virtue.

The other thing I dislike about Spot is their new coffee cup top design—the Traveler Plus top. Can anyone tell me how to use this stupid thing? It has knobs, slots, indentations, lips and protrusions, yet there doesn't seem to be a hole from which to actually sip the coffee. You can press things down, apparently to open slots, but you'd need a box cutter to actually open it. Well, the top is patented (it says in big capital letters "PATENTED CAUTION CONTENTS HOT"), so apparently the U.S. Patent Office understands the design. God bless them.

I had serious topics to discuss—my poor social skills, my standing in the gay community, the crappy time I had out last night, the way free time gets sucked up into other activities, the way I never seem to actually buckle down into any serious effort, blah blah blah, but I haven't the time right now (or the inclination) to discuss those now. I'm off to see Lord of the Rings.

Tonight I’m taking my new laptop on its maiden voyage to Spin Café. Truth be told, although there are legitimate reasons that justify the $1100 I spent—reasons that will remain unenumerated to protect the aura of their legitimacy—this is the real motivator…the ability to sit in a café while being productive at the keyboard. Nearly all of my goals center around activities at the computer — that and reading and studying in quiet. (I have no agenda to grind upon tonight, just the ramblings of someone giddy with There are three of us here with laptops. Mine is biggest—biggest and best. This is one of those rare moments when I can boast of size. I am not cutest, however. There’s a guy to my left in a plain blue ball cap and tight gray t-shirt who’s stunningly handsome. His laptop is too. Some idiot at the bar against the window has a headset on and is speaking to someone in the most outrageously loud cell phone voice about astronomy and various fundamental principles of astrophysics. He clearly knows what he’s talking about, but must we all be educated?

So what ARE my goals?

• I must quickly learn as much as I can about MySQL, ASP.net, and the Apache web server. The reasons are not important, but there ARE reasons. (My god, the action on this keyboard is lovely.)


• I really want/need to learn Linux well enough to be competent. It begins with me installing some version of Redhat on my spare computer, but that requires time sitting at my desk actually working, and by that I mean not chatting or surfing for porn.


• I want to study certain areas of NY law to be comfortable with the possibility of actually practicing in those areas. It seems almost insurmountable, yet I can imagine that were I to actually handle a few simple matters, my confidence and enthusiasm would grow dramatically. I just need to learn some things, and then DO a few things. I might even be a lawyer some day. The thing that appeals to me more than anything about this scenario is the fact that the law is complex, and not everyone can do it. The jobs that I’m being paid for now… I’m always thinking that they’re beneath me, that any moron can do them, and that there’s nothing for me to dig my teeth into, nothing to challenge me. The law would, at least for a while.


• I still want to learn French, though lately I’m thinking of brushing up on German, since I’m more likely to go to Germany than to France in the near future. Well, I want to learn both.


• I need to learn Oracle 10g. God, new versions keep coming. It’s hard to keep up. I also want to learn more about Oracle applications. My job now is documenting Oracle financial applications for Xerox. I’m documenting them but I haven’t any understanding of the larger picture. It’s all just buttons and LOVs so far. Really learning Oracle financial applications could quite useful.


• I want to buy a house.

I need a hair cut. I need to remember to bring a music CD with me when I take my laptop anywhere, a CD and headphones. I decided months ago that I was “supporting” Dick Gephart for the Democratic presidential nomination. I didn’t think he had a chance, though. But lately it seems he might. We’ll see. For nearly two weeks my gym has been playing classical music in the men’s locker room. Oddly, it’s raised few comments. Thursday evening seems to be gay night at Spin. It used to be at Spot. It may be mere coincidence that so many gays have shown up the last two Thursdays. I like gay men… except for that really loud flaming guy in the corner whose voice has overtaken the entire café. I don’t like him. There’s a cute gay boy at the far table who’s poking at a laptop—a new entry. We are now four. I’m ranked 3rd in the cuteness ratings now. He’s sitting with a girl who seems to be knitting a feather boa. The loud gay just made a joke about my laptop. “Question: Where did you get that tan? Answer: The glow from my laptop.”

I’ve been rather absent from the blog lately, not for lack of things to say—I’m rarely so lacking. I’ve been busy with my job, more interested in reading than in writing, preoccupied with thoughts of house shopping, fantasies on resurrecting a legal career, and starting a business venture, and of course forever chasing my wiley libido with endless porn surfing, insipid chatting with nameless gays, and looking for cute boys to play with. Several topics have come to mind the last few weeks, topics which although interesting to me, just haven’t been enough to get me to sit down and write. Here are a few—ok, just one for now.

Ann recently wrote a little piece listing her top ten most embarrassing moments. I wondered what I could come up with. My problem is that my memory of the past is conveniently sketchy. Even memories of events that ought to be seared into the brain, such as embarrassing moments, fail me. I have nothing special to offer. But let’s see—

In grade school I drafted my mother to take a day off of work to help with a school field trip to the Drake oil wells in Titusville, PA. I was so happy (I was such a mamma’s boy as a child). But when I didn’t get to be in the group of kids assigned to her, I cried. Actually, I don’t think anyone but my mother saw me.

There was a period when I was young when I became very fearful that I wasn’t eating enough before bedtime and that consequently I’d vomit. The reasoning arose out of the neurotic fears of a child which I won’t go into now. But one night I ate so much before bed that, upon walking into my room, I vomited an entire stomach’s contents of toasted bread onto the (thankfully) hardwood floor.

Of course, farting loudly when I started laughing at something someone said at a large family gathering assembled in the living room after Thanksgiving dinner. I was probably in 7th or 8th grade.

There were many moments involving me and my nearly obsessive jerk-off habit. What teenage boy doesn’t have that and the embarrassing moments to accompany it? I DO remember one occasion, though, after burying deep in the bottom of my laundry pile something I’d used to clean up with. At one point my mother and our dog entered my room and the dog immediately started digging at the laundry, smelling the ... well, dried semen. I’m not sure how I covered that up, and I’m not sure if my mother figured it out or not. And of course there are the times when my sister would walk in on me and I’d scramble to cover myself. She never got a good view of my activities, but my obvious embarrassment was itself embarrassing. She surely knew what I had been doing.

I remember once getting a special pass with Jeff Gregg to get out of study hall to play basketball in the small empty gym. What in the world was he thinking by asking me to join him? I couldn’t play basketball! I fell flat on my face at one point, my glasses falling onto the gym floor and me looking like the little twit geek that I was.

I once applied for a clerkship while in law school, and I used the word ‘reframe’ instead of ‘refrain’. I didn’t realize there was such a word as ‘refrain’. I thought everyone was saying ‘reframe’. Hehe Idiot.

Everyday after 6th period during my senior year of high school I’d emerge from class and have to walk the busy hall to my next class with a raging erection in my pants. There was no explaining it, but I swear it was like clock work. Usually I’d carry books in front of me awkwardly. One day my friend Scott saw what was going on and said with a smart-ass grin, “What are you doing there?” He knew exactly what I was doing. That was embarrassing.

I once got into a shouting argument with a Time Warner customer service agent about a bill and realized midway through that I was wrong. That’s boring, I know—scraping the bottom here—but it stuck in my mind.

Of course there are the few embarrassing sexual misadventures, which shall remain my little secret.

I was just reading Proust and came upon a little scene in which the protagonist, the narrator, enters the room of a girl he favors, Albertine. At long last he's gotten her alone. After some pleasantries, he leans in to kiss her, or, as he more pointedly describes, "flings" himself upon her to kiss her and she shouts, quite unexpectedly, "Stop it or I'll ring the bell." And she does. Of course this leads to pages of exhaustive discussion about Albertine's nature and what might have led her to do such a thing, her sense of virtue, her station in life. The thing that caught my attention, though, in the end, was the protagonist's own speculation about more immediate explanations. He says, "I came to wonder whether her violence might not have been due to some reason of vanity, a disagreeable odour, for instance, which she suspected of lingering about her person, and by which she was afraid that I might be repelled, or else of cowardice—if for instance she imagined, in her ignorance of the facts of love, that my state of nervous debility was due to something contagious, communicable to her in a kiss." hehe This is one of the things I love about Proust. He exposes all. There might be reasons of character and virtue for her behavior, but it might also simply be that she had farted and didn't know how else to conceal it. hehe

A few days ago at work I had a moment of the absurd. I was speaking to my new boss about my future there, and the state of my contract. I expressed doubt that my services would be needed any longer. He looked at me with all sincerity and said, "You're invaluable here." hehehe! Ummm . . . no, I'm not even useful there. Yesterday I spent the morning reading through the little piece of writing that I'm including below. That's what I did all morning—editing a little gay porn story. I wrote this at the Outerbanks of North Carolina about two summers ago, when I was spending a week there with my family. It's my favorite summer beach location. A week there in the summer is always a high point of the year for me. I can go there and loose myself in nothing but the concerns of the beach—sunscreen, the rough surf, the book I'm reading. I sit on the beach through the late afternoon, watching as the families gather up their kids and their chairs to return to their beach houses for dinner. I'll sit on my blanket in my sweater shirt, protecting my head from the whipping wind as I try to read and wait for the sunset. When the beach is nearly empty, perhaps a lone fisherman casting his line in and out several hundred yards down the shoreline, I'll take off my sweat shirt and hat, and walk into the rough waves and play, staying beneath the water where the wind can't chill me. It's the best time of the day. My mother always worries that, out there alone, I might come upon trouble and drown, but I don't. Anyway, here's the little story I wrote the last time I was there.

*****************************************

Jacob came with his family to the North Carolina coast, as they did each year for as long as he could remember. This year they came with two other families from his hometown—not really close friends of the family. He didn’t even know them. They were last minute replacements from his father’s work at the university—stand-ins for his aunt’s family and the Goodmans, with whom they came every year.

Each day their routine was the same. After a slow and lazy morning—early morning television for the kids, the first pot of coffee and idle chat for the adults, breakfast melding seamlessly into an early lunch—they would pack up their chairs, towels, lotions, snacks, and other simple amusements and head off toward the beach, down the road in front of the house, some a little ahead, some a little behind, but always the women forming the center of the caravan. Although there was an odd symmetry in the makeup of each of the families, each with one boy and one girl of approximately the same ages, their dispositions were not so patterned. At least the boys.

Jacob was quiet, remaining close to the inner machinations of his family’s daily life, yet willing to socialize when appropriate. He would start college in a few months at a local school. Jacob was not especially interested in school, nor was he very athletic. He preferred to read comics, watch sitcoms on Nickelodeon, and hang out with his few close friends. But this week he was expected to be friendly with the other boys—Andrew, a year older, just finished with his first year at the local college Jacob would be attending in another few months, and Aaron, a little younger, the high school freshman, already a young jock with a wide circle of friends and a brooding girlfriend. Jacob felt certain he had little in common with either of these boys, having spent two days with them at the beach already.

As the group walked along the road to the beach, carrying the day’s supplies, Jacob sung a little too loudly to himself, his headphones on and the portable CD player playing. Andrew walked well ahead of the group alone, juggling a beachball and generally ignoring the group. Occasionally he would look back with impatience, pausing to lessen the distance between them. Jacob in his characteristic fog, wondered what Andrew’s story was—who were his friends, what was his life like at college, why was he here instead of working somewhere for the summer. He had the effusive good nature and the athletic good looks to suggest popularity and general success, which to Jacob did not square with his presence here. But it was merely a passing thought—Jacob did not spend much time mulling over such things.

When Andrew reached the path through the bushes to the beach, he waited for the others, leaning against a wooden fence as the others approached and then passed on through. Jacob took no notice, walking undisturbed toward the beach until Andrew pulled at his towel and asked, “What are you up to?”

“Oh, nothing much. Why?”

“Want to go skinny dipping?”

“Skinny dipping … here? Are you crazy?”

“It’s easy. You just pretend the waves pull your suit off, and when you’re ready to go back in, you suddenly find your suit floating in the water, put it on, and no one’s the wiser.”

“You’re crazy. I’m not gonna do that.”

“Ok, chicken shit. I’ll do it alone.”

With that, Andrew smiled, turned and headed up the path behind Jacob.

The wind blew steadily, making the surf rougher than it had been in previous days. No one went into the water straightaway, preferring instead to relax and absorb the heat on their chairs. The adults ceremoniously opened their hardcover books, and the girls stretched out their towels and applied oils to their skin. Jacob switched CDs, took off his shirt, and threw it over his eyes in preparation for a late morning nap. The beach was still sparsely populated but would soon begin to fill as noon approached and vacationers wondered on after their late morning breakfasts.

Within a half hour the group was surrounded by other families on either side, and more further down. A group of girls, about 15 or 16 years old, headed down towards the water and caught Andrew’s eye. Jacob watched Andrew watching the girls until Andrew looked up at Jacob, smiled, and said, “Time to go in.” Jacob wasn’t sure what he meant, if anything, by his smile, but he intended to watch. Andrew walked slowly toward the water, approaching the girls to their left. He wore black and maroon swimming trunks that hung just below the knees. His skin was naturally dark, made even darker by the days in the sun and his own dark body hair which covered his thighs, shins, and feet, but oddly did not travel beyond his waist. Although he was no athlete, his body was trim, well-proportioned, with musculature natural to that of a 19-year-old and shocks of dark hair that surrounded his face and rested just at his shoulders. It was clear to those around him, however, that Andrew’s best feature was his good cheer and disarming smile. He joked, teased, cajoled, and schemed, but all the while his smile betrayed an attitude of carefree indifference to the outcome of his schemes.

As he neared the water and then entered to just above his ankles, he turned and waved to Jacob to join him. The girls took no notice of him. Jacob couldn’t help but smile. After hesitating for just a moment, he jumped up to join Andrew, with no intention, of course, of following him in his planned skinny dipping charade. Still, it was not to be missed. The girls pranced around the crashing waves, shouting at one another and jumping back to avoid the splashing water while simultaneously being drawn further in. Andrew walked in without hesitation to just below his waist and then sat down to roll around at the will of the water, his back to Jacob. Jacob watched at the edge of the water with a look of utter indifference, though surreptitiously casting glances in Andrew’s direction. Andrew’s swimming trunks clung tightly to his body as the water washed first up, filling the legs like clown pantaloons and then draining back into the sea to reveal the outline of his boyish form, his thighs, the slight bulge at his pelvis, the dark hairs of his legs floating upon the water’s surface. Although Jacob had not yet been overtly sexual with anyone, he was often drawn to certain boys—at a public shower, the occasional porn shared among friends. He knew this, but he had never thought to act upon it. He enjoyed watching Andrew’s body; he quietly enjoyed Andrew’s effusive happiness. But this was the extent of his interest.

Within a few minutes he could see Andrew reaching with one hand slowly and without notice into his trunks to untie the draw string, his other arm outstretched behind him. Having loosened his trunks, he jumped up and walked casually into the threshold where the waves broke, diving into the first sizable wave. Jacob knew what he was up to.

For five minutes he watched as Andrew jumped into one wave after another, ducking into and out of the surf. Occasionally he’d turn his back to the water and take the wave that way, shrugging his shoulders as the water washed over his head. Andrew always emerged with a smile, of course, and with swimming trunks pulled below his tan line, usually half cocked to show the upper part of a single pale buttock. Aware of the girls huddled together closer to shore, he was always slow to pull the trunks up, or so it seemed to Jacob.

Andrew thrashed about for several minutes, as Jacob grew less and less interested. The girls likewise showed no interest, happy enough with comparing each other’s tans and bikini fits, and privately wondering about the likelihood that they would be picked out from among the group by a passing boy. Jacob had just turned away from the water to return to his towel when Andrew called out his name. As he turned back, he saw Andrew standing hip-level in the water, the tan line above his pelvis showing when the water retreated. Somehow his trunks were floating atop the surf just near shore. He waved to Jacob with a grin, pointing at his trunks and motioning for Jacob to bring them to him. Jacob felt immediately embarrassed for him, as the girls noticed what had happened and plainly saw that he was naked. The exposed ‘v’ of his lower abdomen, formed from the creases where his legs joined his hips, was exposed, along with the top of his ass. He was not flaunting his nudity; nor was he exactly embarrassed.

Jacob instinctively moved quickly to the trunks, grabbed them, and walked against the surf toward Andrew. With his back to the shore he heard the girls tittering, “Oh, my god” and laughing. Andrew was also smiling at Jacob as if teasing, taunting him. When he was close enough, Jacob tossed the trunks at Andrew, who had to fall forward to catch them. Jacob caught a glimpse of his ass as he fell into the water—the wonderful crack of his ass, the white of his skin that suggested nakedness, sex. He felt a rush of lust. But was practiced in concealing it.

“You ass,” he said when Andrew got up.

“What? It was an accident,” protested Andrew as his face sparkled. “Besides, you needed to get in the water anyway.”

Jacob finally smiled back, relenting in his half-hearted disapproval. He tried not to watch, not to look at the nude body before him as Andrew bent over to put his trunks back on.

“Nice, isn’t it?” asked Andrew.

Jacob was thrown by the question, unsure of what he meant. His body? What was nice? “What?”

“The water, you fool!” exclaimed Andrew.

“No, I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Really? Let’s see,” said Andrew as he grabbed Jacob by the shoulder, turning him around as if to check for his ass. Jacob turned obediently, before catching himself. “Nope, I see some ass still there,” he said, grinning as always. Jacob couldn’t stop himself from smiling too.

“Shut up. I’m going back, if you think you can keep your pants on.”

“I’m all set for now. But we should do this again sometime.” Always the smart ass, Andrew knew Jacob was enjoying himself behind the protestations.

“Or maybe next time I’ll take the trunks onto the beach, ” Jacob threatened.

“Oh, you really want to see me naked, don’t you?” Andrew chuckled.

“Ok, bye, bye,” responded Jacob dismissively, turning and riding the waves zigzag onto shore.

The remainder of the day passed as all the others had, with episodes of swimming wedged between longer intervals of reading and sunbathing. The group broke for lunch during the peak of the afternoon heat, returning to enjoy the milder temperatures of the later afternoon, and the lazier winds. Jacob always grew restless, preferring to walk up and down the beach with his headphones blasting.

As sunset approached, groups of two or three began to peel away and return to the beach house to wash the saltwater from their reddened skin and prepare for dinner. Showers and hot water were too scarce at such times of the day.

Jacob was one of the first to return, always ready before everyone else. He didn’t really like the beach, but what else was he to do? (He hadn’t entered the water at all except to retrieve Andrew’s swimming trunks.) Andrew, as always, held out till the end, preferring the beach to most anything else. Besides, the last to arrive home could take the longest shower, free of worry for the water.

When Andrew returned, he could hear the sounds of dinner preparation coming from upstairs. He was hungry. Gathering soap and some clean clothes from his room, he headed down to the outdoor shower beside the pool. He preferred this shower to those indoors. Though built of old wooden panels, the shower was not entirely enclosed. Feet and shins were exposed for passersby to watch while they imagined the naked body within and listened to the fall of water, suds, and a body lathering. There was something erotic about being naked outside, something erotic and exposed. The daylight, the fresh air . . . these all contributed something new and refreshing for Andrew.

He hung his dry clothes on the hook inside and pulled his wet swimming trunks off his hips, letting the sand fall from his pelvis, back, and buttocks. The sun was just beginning to set, and a stillness seemed to blanket these moments of the evening, as if Andrew and the sounds of shower water falling on pavement were the only things in the world. He reached his hand out to feel the heat of the water and then stepped fully underneath it, embracing the luxury of its warmth.

First turning his back to the water pellets and then facing the water head-on, he turned in this manner several times until his body felt warm and ready for soap. As he faced the shower head, he watched and smiled while a steady stream of water ran off the end of his penis, as if he were urinating. Even into young adulthood this always made him happy, as though he were still a small boy first experiencing the amusement his own penis could provide.

He reached for the soap and lathered his body quickly and methodically, beginning with his face and neck, moving downward to his chest and arms, and finally to his pelvis, buttocks, legs, and feet. His mind wondered randomly, a thousand miles from the task at hand, as he squeezed a small pool of shampoo into the cup of his hand and washed his dried and salty hair.

Instinctively he reached for his towel to dry the water from his eyes when he realized he’d forgotten to get a clean towel from the house. “Shit” he cursed to himself and then paused briefly to consider his options while water dripped from him. Turning off the water, he flung his arms free of water, kicked his legs, and shook his hair. Already he was getting cold, his torso still very wet and dripping. Maybe he’d just slip his swimming suit back on, get a towel, and quickly return to shower off any sand from the suit. Just as he bent over to stick his leg through the trunks he heard someone open the sliding glass doors of the house and begin to walk down the stairs. “Hello” he called out, hoping by luck it was one of his family. Nothing . . . “Hello” he shouted louder.

“Hi?” responded a voice after some delay. “Someone say something?”

“Jacob?” Andrew called out, smiling to himself. “Are you stalking me?” he said with a tease. “Look, if you really want to see me naked, why don’t you just ask?”

“I’ve already seen you naked. The thrill is gone, dude. What do you want?”

“You were thrilled? I had no idea you felt that way about me.” He chortled. “I need a towel. Could you bring one down to me?”

Jacob sighed audibly, as if to convey the inconvenience of it all. “Yeah, just a minute,” he said as he turned to walk back up the stairs. Andrew returned to his shower to keep warm.

A moment later Andrew heard the door open again and footsteps tread down the stairs. “Hey, here’s your towel,” Jacob shouted, holding the towel up for Andrew to grab over the shower stall.

“No, it’ll get all wet. Bring it in and hang it on the hook with my clothes.”

Jacob paused for a moment, suddenly a little uncomfortable. It was a reasonable thing; no reason to think anything of it, he thought to himself, so why was he suddenly nervous? He walked around the shower to the entrance and opened the door partially, looking straight ahead for Andrew’s clothes and being careful not to look directly at Andrew. He wanted to see him, but he didn’t want to seem to want to see him. Finding the hook, he hung the towel and began to withdraw his arm from the doorway and step away when Andrew spoke. “Thanks. I don’t know why I forgot it. My mind is never on what it should be.” Jacob turned to face him, trying to maintain an appropriate nonchalance. Andrew was facing him directly. His body glistened with the soft light of dusk as the water continued to fall behind him. Jacob was struck by the sheer nakedness, the stark contrast of skin colors accentuated by tan lines. He was beautiful—Jacob felt that instantly. He was flustered and needed to leave.

“No problem,” Jacob responded nervously, his eyes darting to the floor as he again turned to leave.

“Are you mad at me for messing with you today? You know, I was just fooling around. I do that a lot. Some people don’t get it.” Jacob stopped, holding the shower door open with his foot and looking beyond Andrew to the bare wooden stall wall to his left.

“No, it’s ok. I just couldn’t believe you did that,” he said as a smile broke across his face.

Andrew smiled in return—a big, warm smile that put Jacob instantly at ease. “Yeah, I do it all the time. I think people wonder why I haven’t figured out how to tie my trunk draw string by now.” He laughed and stepped back into the stream of the shower.

Jacob wasn’t sure if he should go but asked in return, “So do you like being naked in the water or something?” They looked eye-to-eye as Andrew moved his arms around his upper body in a lathering, raising first one arm to expose his arm pit, and then the other.

“I like to be naked, period. I don’t know … I always have.” He spoke slowly, “It’s not as if I like to flash or anything, but it kind of turns me on to be naked when everyone else isn’t.”

“I’m always nervous when I’m naked. I always feel like everyone’s watching me and laughing or something. I hated taking showers at school.”

“Not me. Besides, I like to see other people naked too.”

“Even guys?” Jacob spoke even before he thought. It was a reasonable question, but immediately he wished he hadn’t asked it. He was embarrassed. Andrew smiled again but said nothing. He turned to reach for the soap again, twisting his torso in a profile pose, and freeing Jacob to look at him. Jacob was flush with desire as he watched Andrew turn his back and buttocks to him. He had a small ass; the same dark hair which covered his legs extended up and around his ass but not beyond the waist. Jacob understood why Andrew wasn’t afraid of his own nudity.

“I love to see naked guys.” He paused. His penis was beginning to stiffen with arousal. Jacob’s eyes darted downward as if beyond his control. “Are you surprised?” Andrew added.

Their eyes met. Again Jacob felt he should leave, but Andrew’s gaze held him. Andrew moved toward him and leaned forward to grab the door which Jacob still held open with one arm. He closed the door as Jacob watched, trying to be calm while quietly reveling in the intrusion of his personal space. He answered softly, “No, I don’t mind.” Andrew reached for Jacob’s wrist and drew Jacob’s hand to his shoulder. With his free hand he reached out to cradle Jacob’s jaw and then nestled his face around Jacob’s neck with surprising tenderness.

“Jacob, you’re cute,” he whispered. Andrew gently kissed his neck, just beneath the ear, as Jacob closed his eyes and leaned into him, rubbing his face against Andrew’s. He could feel Andrew’s now full erection press against his pants, and he wanted to feel his nude body with his hands.

“Can I touch you?” he whispered into Andrew’s ear. Andrew nodded silently and Jacob slowly slide his hands down the sides of Andrew’s torso, onto his hips, buttocks, and thighs, sighing heavily as his arms traveled downward. Andrew reached behind him for Jacob’s hand and, covering it with the palm of his own hand, guided it from the top of his buttocks downward between his ass cheeks and drawing Jacob’s finger over his anus. Andrew released a soft groan as Jacob followed his lead and probed deeper, reaching around with his other hand to feel Andrew’s lower abdomen and the patch of hair just behind his rigid penis.

Jacob quickly lost all inhibition, groping Andrew freely in the downpour of the shower. Stepping with one foot onto the base of the shower wall, Andrew invited Jacob’s finger deeper inside him as he stroked his stiff cock. Jacob obliged by pressing into him and then listening for the moan of pleasure he was sure would follow. His asshole was warm, thought Jacob, so warm. Andrew arched his back and thrust his ass upward towards Jacob's finger. Jacob pulled out and re-entered, cupping his other hand around the firmness of Andrew's buttocks. Andrew gasped, breathing irregularly as Jacob looked up at him to see his contorted face. Jacob probed with his finger until Andrew's asshole was loose, but Andrew had other ideas.

Reaching behind him again and taking Jacob's hand, Andrew pulled him toward his face, smiled slightly, and kissed him on the lips while holding his hand in his own. "Do you mind if I feel you?" He reached for Jacob's pelvis, wondering if he was aroused behind the space of his baggy jeans. He was, he could see, pressing his hand to the front panel of Jacob’s jeans to reveal the contours of his fully erect penis. Andrew tugged at the zipper, reaching within to pull out Jacob's erection from the fly of his boxers. In awe of any aroused penis, Andrew noticed, more than its size, color, or shape—for all of these were pretty normal, he thought—more than these, he was struck by how particularly rigid he was.

"Oh, man, you're so hard," Andrew remarked, almost without thinking. He instinctively held it with both hands delicately, kissing the length of the shaft and rubbing it against his cheek, as if in adoration. Jacob was scarcely aware of anything but the sensation of Andrew's touch, and his presence, saying and seeing nothing.

Andrew reached for the shampoo bottle with one arm and squeezed out a pool in the cup of his other hand. He rubbed it between his hands and gripped Jacob's cock near the top, pushing downward slowly and feeling the idiosyncratic ridges, veins, and curves of Jacob’s penis while Jacob thrust his pelvis ever so slightly. Andrew stroked slowly but deliberately with one hand until Jacob was noticeably close to orgasm, and then stopped, gripping his balls and pulling downward to emphasize the size of Jacob’s hard-on. Then he continued again, careful not to let Jacob get too far.

When he was satisfied that Jacob needed to come, he began to stroke with his hand again until Jacob's breath became short and excited. Andrew stopped pumping Jacob, gripping his balls and pulling downward again, but this time hard. Jacob released three powerful thrusts of his pelvis, sending four long strings of semen onto Andrew's back as Andrew pushed his face into Jacob's crotch. Heaving audibly, Jacob gasped for breath, thrusting uncontrollably for several more spasms until he slowly regained his composure.

Andrew released the grip he had on Jacob's balls and slowly stood up, semen running down his back and buttocks. He smiled into Jacob's serious face, brushing his hand over Jacob's lips. "Smile. Wasn't that fun?"

"I think you need another shower," Jacob answered, turning Andrew around as he reached for the soap to wash Andrew's back.

Why does anyone care whether Carrot Top is gay? It seems to be news this week—that Carrot Top was seen recently at a gay club wearing eyeliner. Oh, please. I read that somewhere online this week, in the gossip section of some news page, and then again it showed up tonight on Rome’s sports talk show on ESPN, a vehicle for some lame joke and an excuse for Carrot Top bashing, as if we need another excuse. But I just don’t get it. I mean, I don’t understand why it’s been deemed newsworthy. It seems to me that a large percentage of the entertainment industry might be gay. Who among us is gasping in disbelief with the news? Am I being too sensitive in suggesting that there’s a little bit of disguised gay bashing at play? We all find Carrot Top annoying, a little irritating. We’re meant to, I think. And this bit of gossip tops off our annoyance, lending some legitimacy to it, as if to say, “Oh, he’s gay. Yes, he’s annoying.” It’s subtle, and yes, I usually find such claims silly and hypersensitive when made by other groups. I’m not saying this is any different. I’m merely saying that it explains what is otherwise a completely asinine news item and a gratuitous gay outing. Carrot Top has strongly denied the “charge.” (Maybe that’s what I find so grating about this and similar stories—that it seems to be a charge.) Too bad he’s denying. I wish he’d just say, “Of course I’m gay, you loathsome twits. And you can see me at that same gay bar on a regular basis.” Perhaps he’s not gay, but he seems gay to me. I mean, he’s so damned annoying. Hehe Following the Carrot Top story, Rome made short work of the Liza Minelli divorce, and of her husband’s claim that she abused him, by saying “Get a spine.” Hehe Of course. (Mind you—I was at the gym when Rome was on. I don’t watch his show of my own volition. That must be made perfectly clear.)

There’s a woman I see regularly at the gym. She’s always working the cardio equipment diligently. She’s in her late 30s and wears black tights and a black sports bra, her long dark hair pulled back tightly. She steps through her Stairmaster workout in quick, short, measured steps, holding lightly onto the bar in front of her with both hands as if a rabbit or rodent standing upright out of its hole. She is usually carefully reading a copy of the New England Journal of Medicine. Occasionally she’ll highlight a particularly interesting passage with a pink highlighter she keeps in the magazine holder. She does the maximum 30 minutes on that machine and then moves to the bicycle—one of those compulsive cardio people who works herself into a frothing pile of sweat, as if intending to burn off the unwanted extra pounds all in a single evening. She doesn’t really speak to anyone, so I have no way of knowing what she’s like. Why then do I find her so contemptible? I do this more than I should. Someone will grate on me for no good reason, invariably someone I’ve never spoken to. I’ll focus on the person, conjuring up all that I find annoying. And then one day I’ll actually have occasion to speak to them, and I’ll find them very nice, all of my ill feelings quickly dissipating. But until then… well, I imagine her to be a nurse. She’s rather full of herself, or rather, she’s impressed with her professional standing, and much of her personal identity is wrapped up in it. She’s single, a career woman, but sometimes late at night she wishes she weren’t single. She does all that she believes she should, eating well, exercising regularly, keeping current in her profession. I imagine her life to be like a Tupperware bowl lid that you can’t quite get on all the way—you struggle frantically, chasing one little edge around and around to cover the top and complete the seal so that the contents don’t get out, but you can’t quite do it. She lives a life that’s hermetically sealed, complete in all unimportant ways, but devoid of meaning, devoid of things that matter. That’s my harsh judgment on her, and why I find her so annoying, though I’m certain I’ll like her if I ever get to know her.

Tonight someone at the gym, a nice fellow but one I have spoken to only a few times in my life, walked up behind me and said, “Hi Dan.” I turned around and said, “… hi…. “ I couldn’t remember his name until the moment had passed. And then when I arrived home I saw my neighbor. She told me her name once. It was a little odd—Kit, or Kitty. I’m not sure which. How could I risk either one? I mean, really, if you were uncertain, would you risk mistakenly calling someone ‘Kitty’?

Tonight I heard the Wham/George Michael song “Careless Whisper.” It’s a wonderful song, and my only thought is this: I don’t care, George, if you like to slut your way through the sleazy restrooms of the British Empire or suck faceless dick through glory holes at rest stops on the Jersey turnpike… God bless you for that song, and keep ‘em coming. I hope he was unmoved by all of that fuss, or at least not devastated. Who cares what gets George off? Who cares what gets any of us off. None of it matters. We should enjoy our (legal) sexual impulses, try to maintain some discretion about it all, and live our lives. Anyway, who doesn’t enjoy a little sleaze now and again…and for some of us, sucking dick.

There are moments nearly every day that make the rest of the day bearable. I always revel in them. For me they are always intensely private, solitary moments, part of my inner life which, although perhaps it’s a hallmark of my self-absorption, is the most important part of my life. (I must sometime soon write a little about my mild autistic behavior, which has recently surfaced as a topic of conversation.) Tonight I noticed such a moment, that moment after I’ve finished my workout and am walking through the parking lot on my way to my car. Perhaps it’s part of the normal post-workout high, but so often, as I walk to my car in darkness, or as the sun is beginning to set, I imagine being in a strange new place, a new city, or a different part of the world, some place unfamiliar to me. And it fills me with momentary excitement and anticipation, a feeling of newness and possibility. I imagine, as I often do when looking at the open sky, that the ocean lies just a short mile or two from me, just beyond that row of houses, perhaps. I conjure up the sound of the ocean, and wonder what new things await me at work in the morning. I imagine a secure but charmed life of good friends, quiet nights, and new challenges. I think of sharing a bottle of red wine at a friend’s San Francisco loft, one with high ceilings and hardwood floors, the controlled laughter of beautiful, soulful friends, the sort of scene one might see on a commercial for a board game—scruples, trivial pursuit or some such game. I don’t really wish I were someplace else or had different friends—I think it’s just the feeling of possibilities, that I *could* or might face new challenges and new surroundings, that they might be even better than what my current situation holds. Or maybe it’s the reassuring feeling that this, whatever this might be, is not all there is. There is more, if you care to discover it, to risk a little for it. It’s fleeting, though. By the time I reach my car, I open my car door, throw my clothes in the back seat, and turn on the same CD I’ve been listening to for days, and drive off to my dingy apartment. It’s fine, really. Routine is good too, familiarity, and the reassuring, mild contempt one feels for it.

I was racing around on Saturday morning this past weekend to leave on a road trip and wanted to quickly grab a few things from my CD collection to listen to in the car. What to listen to? Well, I thought perhaps some classical piano--Haydn or maybe Mozart. I opened my collection of Mozart piano concertos, 1 through 9 CDs in a boxed set, a very fine, and satisfying complete set, full and complete--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8!!! 9. CD # 7 is missing! Fucking missing. My complete set is ... incomplete. I'm missing fucking CD # 7! Where could it be? It troubles me. I was happy, so happy to have added that to my collection--It's a major hole filled--the Mozart piano concertos. But now a small hole has sprung up.

I have a hole that needs filled. (Now now, let's keep this a clean discussion--I'm speaking metaphorically here.) I have clothes that need washed. Ann tells me these phrases are possibly a "regionalism," which is to say "You, Jethro and the rest of the Clampetts sure do talk funny." hehe Well, no, she didn't mean that, but... She believes, and I think I remember others saying, that it's incorrect to say "I have a hole that needs filled." It's correct to say "I have a hole that needs TO BE filled." "I have clothes that need TO BE washed." What do others think? I want to know.

Incidently, I took Haydn piano sonatas instead. I can't face the whole issue of the missing Mozart. Once let loose, that demon will inhabit me and I'll be unable to function until the full set is restored. I think #7 contains concertos numbers 20 and 24. I'll never open the box set again. It's truly become my own private Pandora's box.

In honor of yellow shirt guy, here's a little pearl from Proust (Within a Budding Grove): "Each of us has a special god in attendence who hides from him or promises him the concealment of his defect from other people, just as he closes the eyes and nostrils of people who do not wash to the streaks of dirt which they carry in their ears and the smell of sweat that emanates from their armpits, and assures them that they can with impunity carry both of these about a world that will noctice nothing. And those who wear artificial pearls, or give then as presents, imagine that people will take them to be genuine."

I can't stop. "In the human race, the frequency of the virtues that are identical in us all is not more wonderful than the multiplicity of the defects that are peculiar to each one of us.... In the most distant, the most desolate corners of the earth, we marvel to see it [human kindness] blossom of its own accord, as in a remote valley a poppy like all the poppies in the rest of the world, which it has never seen as it has never known anything but the wind that occasionally stirs the folds of its lonely scarlet cloak."

I sleep so much more in the winter time. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s just a fact. I have this tendency to begin playing the piano, say around 10 PM. By, oh, 10:05 or so I begin to become a little bored with it. Heheh Soon I long to crawl upon the couch and pull my electric blanket over my head. Eventually I do this. I want nothing more than to lie there under the warmth of the blanket and space out in silence. It’s all I want. I’m not sad. I’m not anything at all really. I just enjoy the silence, the warmth, and the stillness. Of course soon enough I fall asleep in this state. I’ll awaken an hour, maybe two, later, sometimes to just find my way to bed, and other times, like tonight, I’ll awaken refreshed and ready to be productive for a little while. Honestly, this winter time trend doesn’t disturb me at all. There’s little that’s more satisfying than lying curled up and zoned out under an electric blanket, with the tv on but muted, as my kind of silent companion.

On a different topic, there’s a gathering storm at my gym, I’ve noticed, in the last week or two. The faithful, my old gym companions, the regulars… I’ve been hearing comments sporadically, whispered among friends, whispered with all the indiscretion of a gym secret, about the guy in the yellow shirt. “Jesus,” they’ll say, and laugh. And I know immediately who they’re talking about, because I’ve been noticing too. I mean, are we just being overly sensitive to what might be a mere cultural difference? He could be European after all, one wonders. Or perhaps he doesn’t notice himself. I heard this mentioned. You don’t always notice yourself, one guy said. I heard one group of guys talking quietly to a manager at the gym about the problem, and the manager mentioned that he might have to speak with him. If things got much worse the guy might be asked to leave. Honestly, though, I can’t imagine how it would get much worse. Even the manager mentioned how he already wants to wretch every time the guy walks by. With underarm odor like that, you can imagine that he doesn’t have a lot of friends. But in truth he’s quite a friendly fellow, albeit apparently friendless. He’s young, Italian looking, with dark hair and a Roman nose. One might even say he’s good-looking. Again tonight I heard the same group of guys talking about him. I enjoy this group of three guys. They’re in their late 20s, one in his thirties. They’re there at least as often as I am. They know what they’re doing, they’re strong, they’re fit (one of them has a near perfect body), they’re always laughing and enjoying their own company. I like them.

Today they were laughing about a couple of the other guys who work out together, friends of theirs. These two guys are true muscle heads. They’re hugely muscled, they’re the grunters, they’re the type who put off the less serious. They also don’t say much, even to their own friends. Today one of them walked by the group of three that I like. One of them said, “Hey Frank, how’s it going?” (Frank had been sick but had finally returned today. They were genuinely concerned and happy to see Frank.) Frank in his baggy gym pantaloons pants and bandana nodded and walked by. They asked more questions but Frank scarcely acknowledged them. One of the three of them (Steve) laughed, noting that Frank doesn’t say much. Hehe Frank works out with Dave, who’s even less chatty. They laughed and laughed about Frank and Dave, how they merely nod, motion with their hands, shake their heads, grunt to one another like cave men, etc. They wondered how a phone conversation between the two might go. Hehe Lots of time spent holding the receiver in silence, head nodding, stretches of not so awkward empty silence. What else would there be? Well, there was Frank and his reticence. And there was the guy in the yellow shirt. (As an aside, the fact that he’s known as the guy in the yellow shirt ought to be a tipoff—maybe it’s just a laundry problem.) Anyway, today the problem was soooo bad. Yellow guy had truly a zone of foulness around him that spaned perhaps 10 feet. With a crowded gym, that creates quite a stir. Yellow shirt guy is oblivious to it. But the storm is gathering. Today Steve wondered aloud if perhaps the only thing left for him to do was to change gyms. He’s out of options. Heheh He may take a whole crew with him.

I had a similar thought on a different topic later tonight. I was talking to Gerry about his plans for our Paris photos. He’s not content to throw a collection on a CD and leave it at that. It’s become an undertaking of epic proportions. There’s a video in the works, thousands of photos to cull… well, not cull so much as collect—they’re no culling. He wants my prints so he can scan them to add to the thousands of digital photos he has already from multiple sources. God bless him. He’s a better man than me. But the effort got me to thinking aloud with Gerry. Has the undertaking almost made the Paris trip not really worth it? I mean, who needs a wonderous trip to the city of lights when it means months of laborious toiling ahead? If it were me, if I were faced with this daunting task… I’d have only to conclude that the Paris trip would have to be cancelled. There’s no other way. So there are my two tales in the same night of the tail wagging the dog.

I have such enormous amounts of free time at work. It's an odd tale of corporate waste, fiefdom building, and flying under the radar, none of which I'll get into now. I try to use the time for my own enrichment, furthering personal goals and bettering myself, etc., having long ago abandoning the ideal of doing company work on company time--there IS no work, do you understand that! But such undirected, goal-less efforts are not sustainable, I've decided. There has to be a well-defined goal. So I read online news, read and write personal email, space out, walk to the restroom countless times a day, and just generally waste time. I DO have things I could do of a personal nature, like write in this blog, or work on my web page, or something else fun like that, but it seems just beyond the pale.. too much even for my highly compromised work ethic. But today I'm writing in my blog... at work. I won't post it at work, but I'm writing text which I'll post when I get home. There it is.

My life has become so removed from the world of work. I don't think about work; I don't care about work. I'm certain this will all change when there's no more work to go to every day. But for now, I don't think about work. I stand in the common lunch room, or the "learning center" as it's officially called, and I warm up my mid-day meal as I look through the sheet metal lattice work shielding the room from the hallway outside. I watch as people enter and leave the building, each presumably pursuing their day's activities with more purpose than me. And I return to my desk to eat, putting my headphones on to listen to Bartok piano music while I cast about for something to pass the next half hour.

Lately I've been amusing myself with personal ads. Well, plus email. I put an anonymous profile up on a site devoted to helping horny gay men find each other for quick, tawdry (or not so tawdry) sex. It was an idea given to me by a friend I've been corresponding with. He put up such a profile for amusement, to see what sorts of responses he'd get. So it seemed like a fun thing to do. And it has been. My headless, naked torso provocatively placed to ... well, provoke. I've gotten many inquiries. The vast majority are discarded out of hand, or out of email "in" box. It's amusing, but mostly it, together with the long stretches of unfilled time, have merely served to heighten my longing for male companionship. I want a boyfriend, I suppose, but I'd be happy enough for now with a good male friend with some physical contact. So nothing too interesting here. A horny gay guy. But what troubles me, as it often does, is how much time I waste pursuing it in some way. If I had real work to do, it wouldn't figure so prominently, and I wouldn't spend ... waste, the time. There are so many things I'd like to do, should be doing. Why am I wasting time reading lame email from middle-aged horny men? The answer is obvious... I'm a middle-aged, horny man. heheh

I’ve been going to gay volleyball on Tuesday nights. Does that pairing seem odd to you? A sport… a SPORT… requiring quick feet, coordinated hand-eye movement, athletic prowess, and skilled ball handling – that paired together with a large cross-section of gay guys. It seems an unlikely, and frankly, ill-advised coupling. But it’s been some of the most fun I’ve had in a long while. Every time I show up I have a great time.

I tend to play at the third-tier net, the overflow net. The first two nets are set up immediately, at the appointed hour, and all the regulars show up to play there. These are the serious players. As time passes, however, late comers arrive -- those irregulars who have neither the advantage of regular practice, nor, clearly, the desired level of commitment. As more of those types show up, a third net is set up. I play with them.

Oh, sure, occasionally a skilled player will fail to get a spot in the first two nets and wander over, but easily a majority of the players are mediocre at best. We’d pray for mediocre most of the time. No, typically, we get the swatters, flailing their arms about through the thin air of poorly timed effort, apologizing almost reflexively, as if a habit of genuflection borne from years of embarrassing gym class performance and childhood ridicule. They apologize to the group, mutter phrases of chastisement to themselves and look nervously around for signs that others may be loosing patience. And honestly, sometimes there is some of that, but never hostility. Sometimes someone will plead with the opposing team, “Can we interest you in a 7th player?” Or someone will ask, “Are you familiar with what the ball looks like?” “You know, you ARE encouraged to move in this game.” “Does your elbow bend?” etc. hahah Gay guys are funny. Of course that’s a generalization, but so often there will be a couple of guys in the game that just keep making the most hysterical jokes.

And watching these guys can be so funny. Imagine the guy in gym class who had the most girly throw, recall the most outrageous queeny voice, or the swing of hips as some guy runs for the ball, the frantic dash for the inbound serve and a girly swing of the arm in a hopeless effort that never had the conviction or expectation of success. These guys don’t expect to succeed and are astonished when it happens. Picture the guy who prays that the ball doesn’t come his way—that’s ever guy on my team. Well, perhaps an exaggeration, but still, you get the point. Playing with these guys is nothing but a constant stream of ‘Oh shit’s and ‘Sorry’s. Oh shit, the balls coming my way, followed by sudden movement meant more to convey the appearance of effort than to achieve real success, and then the closing “Sorry.” If it was a repeat offense, he may get a razing by the others, but otherwise maybe a “That’s ok” or “Good effort.” I love these guys.

Sometimes guys are not so timid or apologetic. Some joke about their ineptitude. Throughout one game a guy who was having lots of trouble kept shouting to the opposing team, “Brian’s moving to the back court” or “Brian’s rotating to the front,” I guess just to make clear where the weak link was. One guy kept explaining that he couldn’t get the ball in time due to the weight of his enormous cock. Heheh

The worst player is John. By all indication, John should be a decent player. He’s fit, trim, perhaps in his late 20s, dark skin, maybe of Indian decent. He’s very happy, cheery. But he has no, truly NO, athletic ability. John never wants the ball to come his way, yet he plays faithfully every week (and poorly, I might add). John IS the weakest link. He tries, but not really. He feels guilt for his ineptitude on the court, yet he’s undeterred, unmoved by it all. Well, he’s moved, dislikes his performance, but is hopeless about getting better, and honestly, not too concerned, which I like. He mutters “Oh shit” when the ball comes his way, and laughs when he misses, and he WILL miss. But he’s the sweetest guy there is. I’m always happy he shows up to play.

One time a few weeks ago there was a vendor pushing a new soft drink. They had cute young teenage girls handing out free drinks to people in the park. When they came to the volleyball nets, all of these guys swarmed around to get their free drink. They were playfully joking with the girls, tittering like young girls themselves. The girls liked it, liked the guys and their silliness. At one point a guy asked one of the girls, “Do you have a brother?” hahah The girl laughed, delighted by it all. I liked it too.

"We are all of us obliged, if we are to make reality endurable, to nurse a few little follies in ourselves." -- Proust

I don't know why I include this little quote, except that I read it tonight at the gym and liked it. I intend to include some passages from the volume of Proust that I'm reading now, as every time I sit to read Proust I think to myself, wow, that was a wonder passage. But they are longish, all of them, and I don't want to type tonight. So I offer you just that little aphorism tonight.

What I did think I'd include is a scrap of fiction I started a few years ago and recently came across on the file system of my hard drive. I think it must have been an attempt at a new "style" or something. I'm not sure where I was going with this, though I have my ideas based upon the notes to myself at the end (which I've discreetly removed). It run into trouble when it begins to read like a cheap Penthouse Forum letter, but it might be saved from that and made into something, if I were inclined, which, of course. I'm not.

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Twyla and I make a really good couple...at least that's what I think. I remember when we met, people were saying, "You two really stand out ." At first I thought they were making fun of the way Twyla dressed. My friends can be real jerks sometimes. I mean, yeah, she likes to wear lots of jewelry and stuff. So what? When James got his nipple pierced, did I say anything? James and his stupid skater mentality--all the green fatigues, bullshit, and reefers. He's 29, for christ's sake..... But then Jean said one time in one of our heart-to hearts that she thought we were good together. I think Jean likes Twyla for some reason, like they're both spiritual outcasts of the feminine world or something. Or it could just be that, like everyone else, she thinks Twyla is always secretly waving at her. I mean, Twyla is always wearing all of those damned bracelets and things. Seems like hundreds, but probably not. She's always got her wrists cocked upward to keep them from falling off. It looks like she's some sort of penguin or something. Sometimes she looks as if she's waving at you, if she turns her head to you just right..... But Twyla's not really that friendly.

One time Twyla and I were walking to a Red Apple a few blocks from my apartment. She had her hand in my back pocket, which I always liked. She was going on about something and I wasn't paying much attention. But when I looked up, I saw this guy who looked really familiar to me, pumping gas into an old green hatch-back compact of some sort. I stopped for just a second to look back at his face again and then walked inside, trying to think of how I knew him. Then it hit me--it was Russell Sorensen from my high school days. Russell was one of those shy, nerdy guys who didn't have much going for him....not a bright kid. Always wore pants that were entirely too short for him. His hair was always really greasy, and he had a disturbing fascination with guns, swastikas, and the para-military. But I liked him. I always wondered what a boy like that does as an adult. So there he was.

After Twyla paid for her wind-up bubble gum and quart of orange juice and we headed back outside as he was coming in to pay. "Hey, Russell?" I asked. He looked up and after a slight hesitation, grinned and said, "Robert Parker?" I grabbed his hand and shook it, both of us grinning like idiots. It was good to see him for some reason. But Twyla didn't even stop. She headed for the curb and sat down, as if to say "Go ahead. I'll wait here until this little thing has passed." I couldn't even introduce her properly. It pissed me off a little. That was when I realized... Twyla is not very friendly.

Yesterday I was at work talking to Jean about her plans for the holiday weekend. Jean's been with the company forever, and I love talking to her. We've been friends ever since I started. She's in her early 50s, I think--dresses in the most unflattering combinations of lycra-based pants and men's flannel shirts, even in the summer. She's got the most enormous set of monster hips you'll ever see, though barring those, she might be rather well-figured. She has one of those figures which was probably once good but has since gone terribly wrong. In her white trash, hick southern accent, which I adore, she was telling me about her camping trip last year with her daughter, Julie and some of her other family. Julie....Julie. Julie is a complete knock-out beauty. A brunette with long hair, a perfect face, and the most delicious body I've ever seen. Each time I've seen her she's been wearing some sort of a sports outfit with a sports bra showing the most gorgeous set of breasts--perfect, full, but not large, nipples poking out nicely. A girl with those breasts could command any guy. Funny thing is, I imagine that's what Jean looked like 30 years ago, before things whet so wrong. Now, besides her mega hips, she has huge udders which even the flannel can't fully contain. I don't really know much about Julie except what I've seen of her when she comes in to work to pick up Jean. But she IS pretty hot.

Jean and Julie had gone to an old campgrounds they always go to near a small lake just a short drive north. The men had gone fishing early in the morning, leaving the women to enjoy a quiet day to themselves. About noon or so Julie puts on her bikini, spreads out a lawn chair in the sun, and lays down to work on her tan. From the very outset of the story Jean is snickering, can hardly contain herself, and I can't for the life of me think what's so damned funny, but I start laughing along with her. The camp site, she continues, was pretty secluded, covered by the small trees and brush, not much foot traffic, etc. "Ok, I got the point, it was isolated," I'm thinking as Jean's talking. So Julie is lying there and the rest of the women are talking, when Julie decides to take off her top--just takes it off. She wants to tan her boobs, as Jean put it so delicately . The rest of the women just laugh at her....no harm, since there's no one around but a few voices from the closest neighboring site. A little later, though she pulls down her bottom and rolls over to tan her ass. They tell her she's crazy, but still, what's the harm. But of course there is harm. Minutes later a frisbee flies right beside Julie's chair, with a teenage boy chasing after it. Before Julie can cover herself, there's the kid....stopped dead in his tracks, staring in disbelief at what he's seeing. Julie's embarrassed to death, and everyone else is hysterical with laughter. By the time Jean finishes the story I've got a giant boner and can't get the image of a naked Julie out of my mind. Twyla....if only she were more interested in sex.

My stupid kid brother Jeremy was telling me the other day about his boner theory of love. According to him, if you don't get a boner for your girlfriend at least once a day just thinking about her, she's a waste of your time. I don't give this test a lot of credence, though. I mean, what kid Jeremy's age isn't going to get a boner thinking about any girl, any time? He admits that, by his own theory, he's been in love with every girl he's ever dated. Jeremy's current girlfriend, Kara, is a very cool girl who seems to know how to handle Jeremy.

A few days ago I was over at my parents' place. I stop in occasionally to say hello and hang out. At 24, Jeremy still lives at home. Poor bastard. He has no plan....there's no plan, or at least that's what my Mom keeps saying. I'm not sure any kid ever has a plan, though. He'll leave when the opportunity presents itself, just like every other kid with a BFA from a mediocre midwestern liberal arts school. Jeremy and Kara seem to get along great, and that's amazing mostly because Jeremy can be such a difficult person sometimes. Actually, he's a great kid, happy, intelligent, still innocent in many ways. But he's still a kid...and he still hasn't grown out of the tendency to be a know-it-all. He's been like that ever since I can remember.

Anyway, as I walked into the recreation room where Jeremy and Kara were watching television, I immediately heard them arguing, or mostly Jeremy arguing and Kara just wishing the whole thing hadn't come up. Kara, slouched on the end of the sofa with her head turned away from Jeremy, eyes rolling in disbelief, says to me as I walk in, "Jason, tell your idiot brother that flax is made from a plant, not from an animal."

"What?" I ask--a normal reaction to what seems an absurd topic for dispute.

"Jeremy insists that flax is made from an animal. He's wrong, of course; everyone knows it comes from a plant, but he won't let it go." I see Jeremy gearing up for his defense, another protracted explanation of why this issue has become the cause célèbre that will split a 24-year old kid from his beautiful young girlfriend.

I look at Jeremy: "You've got to be joking? You're arguing over flax? Flax?"

"Just tell us who's right."

"You think I know the origins of flax? No. Just look it up, if it's so important."--the obvious solution.

"I tried but I couldn't find a dictionary. You think Twyla would know?"

Did I think Twyla would know? No, I didn't. And frankly, I was stunned that Jeremy would think she did. I didn't think he had a very high opinion of her intellectual abilities. Would confirmation from Twyla about the origins of flax satisfy him? Well, yes, he was hopeless when it came to arguing--any evidence, no matter how flimsy, to advance his position, was welcome. Still, I wasn't going to call Twyla.

"Jeremy, who cares? Forget about it."

But Kara had the final word.
[finish]

[add in bit about conversation gaps]

Yesterday James called me up to ask me if I'd help him move an old entertainment center cabinet out of his living room and into the bed of his pickup truck. James is a fanatic about music. He spends all his disposable cash--sometimes even his not-so-disposable cash--on cds. Apparently now he's moving onto hi-fi equipment, speakers, cd loaders, equalizers, whatever. I'm not sure where he's getting the money for this, but I didn't ask.
"Dude, can you come over? I thought I could do this myself, but when I attempted to make an attempt at it, I nearly broke my back. No way am I doing this alone."

"James, did you just say 'Attempt an attempt?'" I ask, knowing he's completely unaware of what he says most of the time. James spouts at the mouth...he spouts--an accurate description. Words flow from his mouth like an unordered parade of seemingly unrelated ideas, but when it's all said, meaning reveals itself somehow.

"What are you, my grammar instructor? You coming over or not?"

"Yeah, I'll be there."

I have a pair of shorts which I wear around my apartment at all times. They've been designed such that you can't tell which is the front and which is the back. There's no tag, neither side is larger than the other, and the pockets seem to work either way. Damn them. Every time I put on my frickin' pants I feel like I have to solve a mystery. Surely there's a right way and a wrong way to put them on. Anyway...

I've been feeling numbness in the fingers of my left hand for the last week or two, off and on. I thought for a while it might be the start of a carpal tunnel problem, since it seemed to appear in the late evening, which I believe to be good indicia. My mother suffers from the same symptom, among others, but much worse. Well, I've been feeling it at other times during the day, so I've dismissed that diagnosis. That leaves just one other explanation... Surely it can be nothing less than .... MS. hahah Always jump to the worse scenario, of course. I'm not even sure numbness is a symptom of MS, but why let such considerations get in the way. This raises an interesting question, though--now that I have MS, what should I do? I guess it all depends upon the swiftness of its progression--can't jump to any conclusions here without doing a little homework. But taking a pessimistic view (of course) ... what to do? I think I'll leave that for another day.

I was thinking of the approaching fall--Labor Day and how it marks the end of summer in our minds if not on the calendar. Everyone says they love the fall--"It's my favorite season. blah blah blah." Please. That allegiance to autumn is always betrayed by the inevitable "But I hate to see summer end." What we love about fall is the melancholy it evokes. There is a depth of emotion in the fall that draws us inward. It's raining lightly at the moment, has been much of the day--slightly cool, very quiet. It could easily be a rain in June, but we all know it's a fall rain, and so it has the tint of melancholy to us.

It's been a quiet day, which I love. But on the quiet days I seem to wind myself up into real aggitation thinking of all the things I'd like to accomplish. I won't bore you further with the litnany of things. Despite it all, I think I just want to lie on the couch and read a little, but mostly nap until bed time. I want to nap.

This melancholy is not simply the vague, ill-defined melancholy of fall. It's supported.

Ann has predicted my sudden demise stemming from the close proximity of my toaster to the sink--my electrocution from a freak, but not entirely unpredictable, accident involving tangled toaster and can opener cords and a sink of dirty dish water. Perhaps I'm sealing my own fate by mentioning it, but it does render moot the whole MS thing. One thing I'd want to do, however, given a prognosis of MS, is to listen to all the music I have in my collection. Will my habit of toasting a raisin English muffin in the morning while washing dishes rob me of that, I wonder.

Not all melancholy is created equal. The exquisite melancholy of the Versailles gardens during grey skies and a summer rain is one thing. The melancholy of diminishing horizons and viable alternatives is another. Perhaps that is called depression. hahah Well, I don't really feel depressed. But I do have a sense of being boxed in. The doorways opening to rectangles of white light have been replaced by a patchwork of faded drapes converging upon a nondescript beige. Incandescent has replaced florescent, and I'm being jostled about inside a dusty old lamp shade. I'll come to rest in one of the slots, but one gets the feeling it doesn't much matter which one.

Gosh, this is the time of the evening when I vent my unhappiness to the great unresponsive ether out there. And unresponsive is just what I want at the moment. Please, thank you, no responses. Really, no people. There, I've renounced all humans. I feel much better. hahah Well, no.

I thought first I'd write about a dream I had a few nights ago. This is not the sort of material that thrills my vast readership, I know, but since I so rarely remember anything I dream, I thought I'd commit it to writing in some fashion, if only as a cursory mention. It'll be painless, I promise.

My dream was a morbid one. It was straight out of a horror film, or perhaps a Steven King novel, a mix of death, religious symbols and pagentry. It recalls my youth, my fascination with death and salvation, hell and damnation. I feared god as a kid, convinced of my inherent depravity before god, and my ultimate damnation in hell. I watched films in church depicting the damned suffering unspeakable horrors in hell, and I believed I would be among them. I prayed for salvation, but I had no faith that I would be saved. The pastor of my church, I believed, was a great, fearless man who knew the truths of life and death. If any of us were going to heaven, certainly he was. I was so caught up in it all, as of course I would be, considering how suceptible I was to such claims to knowledge about weighty subjects, and to tactics of fear, however well-intended they were. It was, of course, a First Baptist Church. All the stereotypes about fire and brimstone Baptist preaching were true in this case. It wasn't a good atmosphere for a child, especially me, and it's one of my family heritages which I have no hesitation in renouncing.

Anyway, the dream occurred in the church I attended as a child. I've had versions of this same dream before, incidently. I walked about the church as if invisible, just beholding the scenes but not being acknowledged by anyone. It seemed to be a funeral, perhaps of a child, perhaps of someone in my family. I couldn't be sure. I watched from the balcony of the church as the choir stood silent. The organ played quietly as people shuffled below silently. There was a large congregation, but it was disorganized. A exceedingly ornate, small casket was laid out to the front right of the church, and some people were milling around it, but it was not the center of attention. It wasn't clear what exactly was going on. I walked up and down the balcony aisles, and then out to the second floor area. The open room upstairs was sprinkled with dead children and babies in caskets. It was a mass funeral for children. I walked through this area and began peering into the rooms off of the upstairs. They were full of people--priests, nuns and other officials of the Catholic Church. Does anything or anyone beat the Catholic Church for ceremony, the imprimatur of holy access and religiosity? The priets and nuns were subdued, but they were busy writing rules, laws for I don't know what. It was solemn and serious business. I walked on and saw many similar rooms filled with religious officials engaged in other work. The lay public seemed to come and go, mostly to view and mourn the dead babies. That was the dream in short. As I said, I've had similar dreams before. They always involve my old church, a funeral, scores and scores of dead children, and a solemn scene of subdued confusion. What can it mean?

I promise next time to write something more interesting.

I stopped at the grocery store after coffee tonight, 11PM. When I left to return to my car, it had begun to rain. It's raining now, starting and stopping, fits of summer rain. What could be finer?

Answer this: Why does the grocery store block entrance to the aisles late at night, forcing shoppers to walk through the register aisle and around? What could explain this silliness? I have never been able to think through this mystery to any satisfying explanation, so every time face the situation I find myself utterly exasperated by it. Why!?

As I walked down the aisle looking for orange juice concentrate, I caught sight of myself in the reflection of the frozen foods freezer glass doors. I liked what I saw.

Java's tonight ... I overheard that it's not Java Joe's, but Java's. Ok. I sat at an outside table with two chairs before someone came pleading for the extra. At the table in front of me was Matt, talking with a boy of perhaps 18, a handsome boy. Matt likes the boys. I studied; I listened to the people around me, mostly kids, students. They're almost uniformly boring. Although I couldn't hear the conversation, I'm certain Matt's conversation with the boy was boring as well. I heard the owner explaining to someone that yes, they sell coffee and drinks, but mostly it's a place where people hang out. And it's true. That's what it is. And it's good.

The owner employs some goon to stand outside the entrance and keep order, or at least that's what I surmise. Mostly he engages customers and those passing by in unwanted and intractable conversation--ravings and monologs which need so little encouragement to sustain themselves. I imagine him loaded with topics, as if a tired juke box sitting in the corner waiting to be called into renewed service. Any interaction with him seems fraught with danger, as any innocent, passing remark may unwittingly queue up by a dormant topic, which once launched, cannot be recalled. He'll proceed through his litnany of points, repeating generously. All one can do is turn with regular frequency away from the others in your party and nod knowingly, in total agreement. "Yep, I know what you mean." Ocassionally he'll bark across the street some profanities to a panhandler, hushing the crowd. One wonders if the medicine the owner means to dispense with his goon is worse than the disease.

I didn't see or hear much of anything that intrigued me. Well, bodies, the slim bodies of young men never fail to elicit desire. But I kept remembering the impression I had earlier today while I was sitting outside of another coffee shop. I was there to study, and a good thing it was, because there was also nothing there of interest. While looking around as I do, for things of interest, my eyes locked on the red brick of the front facade, and the canopy stretched over the row of tables beneath it. Perhaps it was feeling of authenticity that sometimes comes from mortar and bricks, or the sun cast just right between the walls of this and the adjacent building as the wind moved the empty chairs beside me, but it felt for an instance like Paris, distant and exotic Paris. And that was not boring.

I could sit there on the sidewalk, rocking my chair on its rear legs as I cradle a book, reach for another sip of warm coffee, and imagine that just around the corner is the bustle of a busy St. Germaine cafe. There I might order a caraffe of wine, open my book again, but without conviction, and watch the crowd as I ease into the summer evening with the pleasant drunkenness that will soon carry me home and into early sleep.

I came out to my mother tonight, quietly and without fanfare, as I figured I'd do someday, as I could only do. It seems like a good day's work. So I think I'll leave it at that.

I have two topics to cover tonight but not enough patience to cover them both adequately, I suspect. First, I'm giddy with excitement, as if I'm in the first weeks of a new romance, but my lover is one of Rochester's oldest coffee houses, Java Joe's. It's not as if I haven't been to Java Joe's before. I have, a handful of times. Yet I guess it never caught the sparkle in my eye, or something, because until recently I never really wanted to make it one of my regular hangouts. Perhaps it was all of that live music, or what seemed, in my advancing age, to be hordes and hordes of young kids apparently overtaking it. Or was it that its location seemed out of reach, just beyond the limits of where I wanted to travel. Maybe it was because it seemed unwelcoming of outsiders, or too self-consciously hip. Whatever it was, I've overcome it. And now I love the place. There's no doubt that it's a little heavy on the ambience and a little light on product and service, but it's perfect for me, or at least for some moods and needs.

It has a greater mix of people than I originally thought. Of course it has its share of hipsters slouched against windows reading in a fog of oblivion, the tittering high school boys and girls contributing mostly to the noise levels, the earnest but unemployed pseudo intellectuals yaking on and on about deconstructionism in the modern age, the old timers, the regulars, the faithful and the drifters all gathered around the usual table wondering what happened to that record shop around the corner, and the leather-clad bikers wondering if, hope against hope, the cute blond boy approaching from across the street is not straight, even though the thin, lovely girl in attendence at his side suggests otherwise. There are all of these, to be sure, but much more. There are still the fine and proper elderly couples ducking in for coffee after the symphony, the blind daters, the nondescript graduate students studying medical texts, but Java Joe's has real diversity, or at least a greater number of those types that I do not see at other shops. Most notably, it draws the less affluent, although not the less intellectually equipped. It seems to have its own little community, but neither welcoming nor exclusionary. It's a rougher crowd, but worth the extra effort. I'll be going there a lot, I think.

I'll save the other topic for next time. I'm too restless to sit any longer.

First, a brief sidenote. I was in the locker room tonight at the gym, toweling off after a good workout. Some guy of about my age was also preparing to leave. An old Paul Simon song came on the radio... god, what is its title .... "When I was just boy (When I was just boy), my mother would call my name. She said now who do, who do you think you're fooling... Anyway, it'll come to me. But immediately as the song began the guy looked up at me with a big, wide grin and spontaneously exclaimed to me, "What a great old tune." I smiled back in appreciation. and then he turned to his friend who had just come in and said the same to him.

That's nice... to be just surprised by a wonderful song you haven't heard in a long time, and to be moved in spontaneous, well, joy, to tell a total stranger. I know what he felt. I'm often surprised in the very same way. I was especially glad that it was Paul Simon, because a few of his songs have had the same effect on me. Everytime I hear "Kodachrome" I think was a fucking good song that is. And I remember when that song was popular and being played on the radio--I hated it, thought it was stupid--what is Kodochrome, the name for a film? Well, what did I know as a stupid kid. But to my point, if there is one... I liked that he was so moved. I'm not sure why, but to me it suggests he's not vacuous, that perhaps he has something of an inner life, that he can recognize beautiful things and appreciate them with excitement. Too often I'm pessimistic about such things--I think people are only interested in hanging out with their friends, talking on their cell phones, and watching "The Bachelor." I wonder, though, if I'd taken his excitement as evidence of an inner life, if it had been an old Zepplin song. Probably not. No, in that case, more evidence of the utter vacuity of today's populous, the world going to hell in a hand bag, etc.

Anyway.... Well, first, there's a hot guy, a stranger, outside my door hanging onto the fire escape on the house next door, apparently doing chin ups? I don't know. Who is that? What the hell.

So, I wanted to take a moment and comment about some remarks I read recently about gay porn. At the time I thought I had some comments. Now I think I mostly agree. Maybe I have just a few thoughts. First, one should always be suspect of anyone who says anything like, "Why do you think X back in the day was so much better than it is today." Ah... it's not. You're just getting old and nostalgic, you old fart. hahah Well, surely it's different and even better in some ways, but maybe the newer stuff is better in others. But certainly the younger generation will one day say about their own porn, "Why do you think we did it so much better than the boys today?"

My other, more pervasive, impression, really, more than a well developed thought, is a discomfort with how gay culture has elevated porn and sex. It's not only how we get off. It's become fodder for intellectualizing, aesthetic discussions, etc., which is all fine, and actually good. I just worry a little that we--gay America--have become lazy, content to spin theories on the latest sexual trends. Maybe there's nothing to this. Maybe I'm simply not comfortable about engaging in serious discussions about porn when I'd rather just jerk off to some hot boys getting it on and then go read Proust by a sidewalk cafe, if I can be such a snob just this one time... ok, maybe not JUST this once, but at least once ... again.

Well, and I have concerns... (Joys and Concerns) .... about how apparently shallow and self-absorbed the gay population is today. But that's not new. And surely there ARE differences, important ones, between art and porn. And I can't yet decide if I like that gays know the intimate details of each other's sex lives within 5 minutes of meeting, or if this is yet more evidence of the ill plaguing the soul of gay America. I don't know. It comes down to me worrying about people being lazy and stupid. But right now I just want to go do something else with my time, so off I go.

For the last two consecutive nights I've dreamt that I was dying. But I wasn't dying a normal death, as if from a debilitating disease, perhaps cancer or some other such disease. I was dying at a specified time, as if being put to death. It didn't seem like I was being executed, exactly, but it had the same certainty and foreknowledge. I was lying on a table, perhaps a surgical table, covered with a white sheet. There was sadness around me, a funereal feel to the occasion. I sensed my mother there with me, and at a distance, my sister, perhaps, though the identity of that presense was less certain. I don't have a clear recollection of what was going through my head, but there was anticipation, a sense of a countdown. I had that same wonder and awe, a facination and a fear, that I always get when someone I know, someone who was alive one moment, and then dead, gone the next moment. There is something profoundly mysterious about that phenomenon--being one moment and the next moment not being.

I enjoyed the dream in some ways... perhaps the excitement generated by such a personally apocalyptic event, but of course I felt real fear, or rather not fear, but dread mixed with an uncertainty and regret, perhaps, but above all an inability to fathom it. After all, how can one fathom one's own nonexistence. It makes no sense. Well, there's existential dread of the highest order. The phenomonologists, and later the existentialists, believed, and I agree, that intentionality is fundamental to human consciousness. Consciousness is fundamentally a projection into the future, intending, planning, becoming. Not being, but nothingness. And the sure knowledge that there will be no more becoming is, I suppose, an anathema to it. Maybe that's the source of the dread, of the inability to fathom. I wonder what the existentialists have written on death and dying. Anyway, I didn't mean to jump into such musings. My only point here is that I thought it was peculiar that I dreamt it twice, especially since I so seldom ever remember dreaming at all. The other thing I thought noteworthy was how I felt my mother with me. It was so nice to have her there, even though she couldn't really help me. My mother doesn't know what's going on inside my head most of the time now that I'm an adult. Others know me better now, in that respect. But there isn't another soul on the planet I'd rather have with me at such a time.

When I was a student in Philadelphia, I was always impressed with the fact that I wasn't home, that I was in a major city seeing new things, being out in the world. I think it comes from growing up in a small town and coming from a family of farmers, people who never strayed far from home. No one in my family went to college really; no one left home to move to a new city. It wasn't as if it was discouraged--it was more that such a thing was not fathomed as a possibility. Such things were done by those who had fancy jobs, money and privilege.

While at college I felt so lucky to be there, and I didn't believe that it would last, that it could last. It was all a wonderful vacation that would (had to) end with me returning to my small town. I can remember distinct occasions when I promised myself to remember a moment for more mundane times certain in the future. I can remember walking the streets of Philadelphia during rainy spring nights, soaking up the feeling that a vibrant city gives off--buses driving by, headlights moving silently through small back streets, the orangish tint of the street lights, people hurrying to their destinations. I'd go by myself into Center City, to the Academy of Music, to hear the Philadelphia Orchestra or to hear a recital by a renowned musican, to the opera. Student ticket prices, and my love of great music. I loved the ride home on the bus after the concert. On weekends I'd often walk through the city, sometimes walk to the Philadelphia Art Museum and enjoy the privilege I felt for being able to see great works of art, to be in the museum itself. I loved walking among small streets filled with brownstone apartments and residential neighborhoods, small shops, book stores, and bakeries. I loved riding the subway with confidence, as if I belongs in that city, a city dweller.

I was in awe of the university and its inhabitants. It felt like an impressive place, and I often thought I didn't belong there, that I was lucky to be in such a world-class university. It was not Grove City College. The buildings and campus impressed me. The professors intimidated me uniformly by their very position, regardless of their individual personalities. The immense library inspired me every time I entered--corridors that extended for what seemed like miles, books in every language and on any topic, more than one thought even existed. I had access to all of this. Of course the students. They were impressive. They were better than me. Somehow they all knew the rules and the ways that I didn't--how could a boy from Grove City. They were smart AND clever, sociable and talented, all the things I believed that I was not.

I enjoyed studying atop the huge lounge area, windows on all sides, on the top of the student housing highrise I lived in. At night you could see the entire city, the streets demarcated with the orange street lights and the city grid alive with cars heading places. There was no doubt I was in foreign territory, and I loved it.

I did return to my small hometown. But I also left again--to Indiana, to Kentucky, to Pittsburgh, and to Rochester. Each of these moves carried with it the same feeling of awe, in varying degrees, and for different reasons. But underlying them was the sense that I was out in the world, and not contained within my hometown. I was out seeing things, doing, and exeriencing, and it was exciting.

I've lost this feeling, I think because I've been in the same place so long. Rochester has become my hometown, my new Grove City. It's safe, it's familiar, it feels confining. I'm no longer out in the world. And I miss that. It's strange how much I need familiar things, routine. Yet I also need the feeling that I'm out there. Without that it's just .... routine, it's just Grove City.

I had an interesting conversation at the gym tonight. I ran into this guy I've spoken to a few times before. I had seen him a lot at the gym, and I sensed that he might be someone I'd like to get to know. It's hard to identify why that is, why we target certain people we don't really know. I guess in this case he was both attractive to me and quiet, soft-spoken. That combination will always work with me. Anyway, I'd spoken to him on a few occasions before, but mostly just friendly banter. Tonight he mentioned how he'd been unfocused ever since he'd returned from a vacation. We began talking about jobs, careers. He's a PhD student in neuro science and works in a university lab. We found common ground in our interest in philosophy. He'd been a psychology and biology major in college, with a minor in philosophy. I'd been a philosophy major. He had a particular interest in the philosophy of mind, consciousness, which makes sense. I talked of my own interests in philosophy, how I'd wanted to get a PhD in philosophy, but how the need for a paying job led me to other things. We talked about a common admiration for a current philosopher in consciousness and the mind--Daniel Dennett. (I'd taken a course on the philosophy of mind and in it we read a book of Dennett's. He'd heard Dennett speak at Stanford.)

Hearing him talk with some excitment about the area, and his general immersion in the field, made me think about my own situation with some jealousy of his. He's studying a field he likes and will make a both a good career and a good life of it. My unfortunate situation is that somehow along the way, through a series of bad choices, fear, and perhaps a lack of talents, my interests and passions became disconnected from my life's work. And the rest of my life I'll be engaged in a struggle to re-connect the two.

I'm always being reminded of this at my current job. My boss and the people I work with are PhDs in computer science. Of course they're bright people, but what's more striking to me is how they care about the sorts of things they work on. My boss thinks in very abstract terms, always seeing the generalization of the immediate problem before him, always thinking in terms of principles and abstractions as he's solving a tangible problem. He has an academic mind, and he loves thinking about the problems, seeing the solutions. While he's engaged in real issues with high corporate stakes, he's also learning and growing in his intellectual domain. Me.... I don't give a crap about computer science as an intellectual pursuit. hahah It bores me. It's interesting to play with, like it might be fun for the accountant to work on woodworking projects in his basement on the weekends. But as an intellectual pursuit... I just don't care. And the industry--printing, document output trechnologies, etc.--boring. Who cares. So this is a predicament for me.

In the meantime, I've pulled my old copy of the Dennett book from my shelf and am eager to dive into it. I've found old highlighter throughout it, so I guess I actually did take it somewhat seriously at the time. I saw an essay in there that I remember reading, which came up recently in conversation with Ann or someone, about dreams--"Are dreams experiences?" Maybe I'll re-read that. Maybe I'll read something that I haven't read. Maybe first I'll tinker on the piano and eat strawberries. Hopefully I'll talk to my gym pal further about Dennett and other things.