I just stood for 10 minutes waiting for two little old ladies to conduct their business at the coffee shop counter. First it was the ordering of sandwiches, choosing meats, condiments, cheeses. Then drinks had to be ordered. Decaf or regular? Whipped cream? Water on the side. Then desserts. One wants the triple decker white cake, the other the mud pie. After all is ordered, the dishes gathered together and carried to tables, and the total tallied, these two women, dressed in long, loose dresses and large-brimmed straw hats, remove the purses hanging from their tiny shoulders and place them on the counter to begin the search for exact change. After some effort they combine their resources of spare change to come up with what they think is the correct amount, except that of course they’ve misheard the total that the clerk told them, so the process begins again. Apparently it wasn’t acceptable that the clerk simply give them change from the $20 bill that they gave him. And all the while I was thinking how easily one could snap one their frail little arms. The clerk and I exchanged grins, which of course the old ladies did not notice, caught up as they were in their quest for nickels and dimes lying at the bottom of their little clothe purses. God bless them.

This week a co-worker told me how a clerk at a store had been rude to her because she wanted to buy a greeting card worth $2.49 using a credit card. She didn’t realize that I have my own personal pet peeve regarding that very thing. I had to tell her please to never, EVER, use her credit card to pay for a cup of coffee, ever. We are not yet a cashless society, and unless they can expedite credit card transactions, let’s hope we never are.

Yesterday I had lunch with a group of gay attorneys. I had never met one of them. He was an older man, nice enough, entertaining to listen to in his own way, though he had a penchant for monopolizing the conversation. Subtle but noticeable. As we all parted, I noticed he wanted to touch me more than seemed appropriate in a professional context. Well, it was social, but I was among co-workers in front of my office building. He was touching my shoulder, seemed to want to hug, incidental touching of my chest, etc. I truly don’t mind that sort of touchy feely among gay men. And with older men it seems almost sweet, the least I could do for the older guys. But I started to wonder how far it could go before I was implicated in a bit of unseemliness myself. I mean, inappropriate touching can be impugned to the toucher while the touchee remains blameless. But if the touching is allowed to continue without protest, at some point the touchee is implicated. At what point must I protest? Doesn’t matter in this case, because he didn’t cross the line.

I haven’t been buying much music lately, mostly because I can’t seem to find a good time to go to the music store. But it’s forced me to dig into my collection and listen to some music that I either haven’t listened to for a long time or never gave it an adequate chance the first time around. This week I’ve been listening to some of the older pieces of Steve Reich, things like Desert Music and Music for Mallets. I never really cared for Desert Music before, but I’ve finally come around after more listening. Well, his music for orchestra, or even for just strings, is not very interesting, in my opinion. John Adams is just the opposite. His music for small ensembles doesn’t seem to come alive like his music for orchestra. But Reich is truly great with unconventional musical forces, typically including percussion of some sort, and he’s pretty good with voices. Desert Music is a full-scale cantata for orchestra and voices, and it’s wonderful. But what has been most surprising to me recently is how I’ve come to love the symphonies of Honegger. My friend Gerry would be pleased. He loves Honegger. I don’t know anything of his music but his symphonies 2 and 3, and I never cared much for them, but I’ve come around totally. Symphony #3 in particular is excellent. He writes complex, sophisticated music. That symphony uses a big orchestra sound, almost Strauss-like in places, which surprises me.

I am less than 30 pages from completing Proust’s 6-volume masterpiece. What will I read in its place? Nothing will ever quite match its perfection and beauty for me. Here’s a discussion which struck me. He’s speaking about dating and being matched with one’s “type.”

“There was a time when [Odette] had found Swann attractive, which had coincided with the time when she to him had been ‘not his type.’ The truth was that ‘his type’ was something that, even later, she had never been. And yet how he had loved her and with what anguish of mind! Ceasing to love her, he had been puzzled by this contradiction, which is really no contradiction at all if we consider how large a proportion of the suffering endured by men in their lives is caused to them by women who are ‘not their type.’ Perhaps there are many reasons why this should be so: first, because a woman is ‘not your type’ you let yourself, at the beginning, be loved by her without loving in return, and by doing this you allow your life to be gripped by a habit which would not have taken root in the same way with a woman who was ‘your type,’ who, conscious of your desire, would have offered more resistance, would only rarely have consented to see you, would not have installed herself in every hour of your days with that familiarity which means that later, if you come to love her and then suddenly she is not there, because of a quarrel or because of a journey during which you are left without news of her, you are hurt by the severance not of one but of a thousand links. And then this habit, not resting upon the foundation of strong physical desire, is a sentimental one, and once love is born the brain gets much more busily to work: you are plunged into a romance, not plagued by a mere need. We are not wary of women who are ‘not out type,’ we let them love us, and if, subsequently, we come to love them we love them a hundred times more than we love other women, without even enjoying in their arms the satisfaction of assuaged desire. For these reasons and many others the fact that our greatest unhappinesses come to us from women who are ‘not our type’ is not simply an instance of that mockery of fate which never grants us our wishes except in the form which pleases us least. A woman who is ‘our type’ is seldom dangerous, she is not interested in us, she gives us a limited contentment and then quickly leaves us without establishing herself in our life, and what on the contrary, in love, is dangerous and prolific of suffering is not a woman herself but her presence beside us every day and our curiosity about what she is doing every minute: not the beloved woman, but habit.”

Last night I went to a local club, which features a mix of a drag queen shows and dancing. The MC of the show is always very good. Last night at one pint she said something about it being near the end of summer. It’s still July, for Christ’s sake! Please. Why do we all rush to our disappointments, as if to take the edge off the pain of diminishing hope and optimism. We rush to get it over with, whatever casts a shadow over our future. Every morning as I’m driving through the parking garage I see people making a nuisance of themselves by insisting that they back into their parking spots. I can’t help but think this is all part of the same mentality—they feel that by backing up into their spot in the morning they’ve cleared from the remainder of the day whatever unpleasantness they feel by having to back out of their spot in the evening. When they get out of work, they can just pull right out and zip home. Everyone wants to get out of the way things that they don’t like. Winter is ugly so we hasten its approach. Kids and teachers dread the return of school so they begin to imagine the impending return long before it is here. I understand the impulse. I just wish those damnable people who back into their spots in the morning would stop it. It requires much more precision and care, and takes up more time, than if they’d just back out when they leave. At least then they have more space and room for error. Backing into the spot in the morning is NOT equivalent to backing out in the evening.

Last week I went to a little lunch hour picnic at work. Admittedly it wasn’t a good week, so my attitude wasn’t good going in. But I felt a sadness as I walked around and stood around, a sadness like I rarely feel, almost a sense of panic, as if something were very wrong. Groups of middle-aged people stood around looking bored, their hearts not really into it, as if they had little interest in being there but felt they had to show some interest. The barbed wire wasn’t exactly surrounding the perimeter of the park, but perhaps someone or something held them hostage through subtle but very real coercion. And the worst part was that though they didn’t really want to be there, neither did they want to be anywhere else.

I’ve finally finished the first volume of Gide’s diaries, running from 1889-1913. It started out with promise, but much of it was pretty pedestrian, and when it wasn’t pedestrian, it was tediously dull. Gide’s thoughts on most things aren’t especially interesting to me, and certainly all of the talk of religion and Christianity turns me off. I’m moving on to the second volume, mostly because I want to read of his relationships with Proust and Cocteau. And I’m interested to read about both world wars. World War I has lately been of particular interest to me, probably because of Proust’s discussion of it in Time Regained. Here’s something which Oscar Wilde once said to Gide: “I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works.” I like that. And here’s a word of caution from Gide for anyone facing retirement: “The truth is that, as soon as the need to provide for it ceases to force us, we don’t know what to do with our life and we waste it wantonly.”

I’ve been working on criminal law publications for some months now, and having read lots of court opinions on the topic of searches and seizures, I’ve learned that lots of very stupid mistakes are made by suspects, costing them years of prison time. Sometimes the difference between going free and spending 20 years in prison can be one stupid decision made during a brief encounter with the police. So here’s my advice to anyone who has a run in with the police.

First, even though the officer may seem friendly and the encounter cordial, be wary and do not volunteer information. Absolutely never consent to a search of your house or car. If the police have a search warrant, of course allow them to conduct the search on their own, but do not assist them in any way, do not speak, and do not show them anything. If the police take you for questioning, ask if you are a suspect. If you are, do not speak to the police without an attorney. If they have you in custody, ask whether you are free to go. If you are, then go. If you are not, say nothing.

If you are stopped while driving your vehicle, cooperate but keep your comments to a minimum. Do not offer information, and positively never consent to a search of your car if the officer asks. If he’s asking, he needs your consent. You don’t have to give it. The worst that can happen by refusing is that you’ll seem suspicious to the officer, but nothing good can come of consenting. So many convicted criminals have been caught through searches conducted with their own consent.

If you are asked to take a test for blood alcohol levels or to perform sobriety tests, comply. Do not refuse DUI tests.

People get nervous around the police, but it’s important to keep your wits. Do not start yammering to try to convince him or her of your innocence. Do not be taken in by the nice cop who wants to be your friend. Again, keep the interaction cordial but volunteer nothing, never consent to a search, and go if you are not under arrest. That means leave the police station if you are there, or drive away if the police have pulled you over in your car. Do not allow the scope of the interaction to expand beyond the reason for the initial stop. If your business is completed, you’ve been ticketed and are free to go, then go. That’s all for now.

This Friday I thought I’d go to the local gay shop and rent some porn. We have two good shops in Rochester, each filled with all the porn a man could want. Well, not that much, but at least enough to keep *me* supplied with adequate-to-good porn for months. And new porn is coming in all the time. Apparently there is no shortage of boys willing to share their sex with the insatiable gay male public, a fact that ought to make us all thankful. With this supply one oughtn’t to have to repeat a selection. So why do I regularly rent a video only to realize, when I get it home, slip in the video and sit down, eager for fresh boys mounting slippery behinds, that for Christ’s sake, I’ve just rented it weeks ago! My memory for porn, or rather for the porn video covers that line the back walls of the stores, grouped according to the highly refined demographics and sexual idiosyncracies of the gays to which they appeal, is poor. You’d think I’d remember, given how carefully one tends to scrutinize the covers, trying, on the basis of a few photos and some descriptive text, to discern the closest matches to one’s own sexual profile. There’s so little to go on, so the processes of choosing a video is arduous. Are the boys in this video cuter than in that one? Are there more bodies? (There’s safety in numbers, you know—amongst all the boys, surely one will please.) How long is it—the video, that is. Does it seem to focus on particular acts or body parts? After going through this, you’d think I’d remember the damn thing the next time. I don’t. Not even a twinge of déjà vu, not the faintest suggestion of familiarity. This time around I got home, only to realize it was the very same video I’d rented, not months ago, not several visits before, but the very same video I rented the last time I was there! What is really funny is how predictable my preferences are, how reliable they are at choosing the very same sexual pleasures out of a multitude of options. Out of the hundreds to choose from, I hone in on the very same video.

Tomorrow it the gay pride picnic. Last year AIDS Rochester was performing their usual “polling” of random attendees about sexual practices, opinions, and knowledge of safe sex practices and STDs, and knowing that the reward was a large bottle of lube, I readily agreed to participate. The contents, today, a year later, are barely depleted.

[The guy exiting the door to the outside chairs, returning my stare with the look of piqued interest, thinks I’m lusting after his body, when what I really want is the generous slice of carrot cake with the fork sticking out of the top of it.]

I promised to lay off Proust for a while, but I can’t. Time Regained is excellent. I thought perhaps, this volume, being his last, published posthumously from a disjointed and fragmentary text, would be off the standard of the earlier volumes, but it’s wonderful, full of his thoughts on writing, on aging and the passing of time. Time is not regained exactly--its passing is rendered painfully obvious, as he returns to his cast of characters after having retreated from society years earlier (to write). He finds old age. “So different was she to look at from the woman I had known that one was tempted to think of her as a creature condemned, like a character in a pantomime, to appear first as a young girl, then as a stout matron, with no doubt a final appearance still to come as a quavering, bent old crone. Like a swimmer in difficulties almost out of sight of the shore, she seemed with infinite effort scarcely to move through the waves of time which beat upon her and threatened to submerge her.”