A few words while my stained glass cement dries. . .
The other day I was reading a description of a newsletter we publish at work. It said the newsletter was published bimonthly. There was a time when my mind was certain what that meant. I was certain of a lot of things at one time. Now I’m not so sure. Anyway, I looked it up in two dictionaries, and they both give the same basic story. There turns out to be a real problem with the meaning of the word ‘bimonthly.’ The first dictionary said it means happening every two months. That’s the first meaning. The second meaning is . . . happening twice a month! The second dictionary gives both meanings as well, but it says that happening twice a month is nonstandard. Either way, although those two meanings are not exactly antonyms, they’re close. Essentially the word is useless. What is a customer to understand when we say bimonthly? What if they’re non-standard customers? Semimonthly has more meaning to my mind. ‘Semi’ means less than whole. I think of semi-sweet chocolate, which is less sweet than sweet chocolate. So semi-monthly should mean less than monthly, or every other month. If we all understood semimonthly correctly, we should all understand bimonthly correctly. But we don’t, so bimonthly is no longer useful.
Today I came across the question “Who do I contact?” and I wondered if I should change this to “Whom do I contact?” Isn’t the latter correct? But people don’t say that.
Note to self: Egon Schiele. Remember that name.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
The other day I put a small pot of water on the stove to cook some broccoli, but then I couldn’t find the lid. I became so irritated over this little problem, jumping from one cabinet door to the next, throwing things out and cursing to anyone within distance to hear, until I found the lid. At that moment I wanted to institute a new rule that the lid to the pot had to be put in the same cabinet as the pot itself. But later, when cooler heads prevailed, I started to wonder if the rule might be more burdensome than the occasional time it might take to find the missing lid. I was reminded of my rule because Ann has recently begun to place like glasses in separate rows according to their design—a row for my favorite tall, light glasses and a row for her thick, heavy glasses. I like the orderliness of it, mostly because it eliminates the occasional delay in getting a glass I prefer if one or more of hers is blocking access to mine. It’s all about eliminating irritation.
Today I wore the most ridiculous pants. I just bought them, and today I wore them for the first time. I was in the bathroom at work, looked at myself in the mirror, and thought to myself, “Good lord, you look like a dufus. . . in cheap, neatly pressed, but tight, slacks.” They were slacks, not pants. They were slacks I might have bought at Sears.
The last few days have been the most beautiful autumn days of the year. It’s always this way. Autumn is always the shortest of the four seasons. Or at least the days that are quintessentially autumnal are so few. Yesterday the tallest trees across the street glistened in golden brilliance against the backdrop of the large mustard colored Victorian home, and the temperature was unusually warm. I was glad to be in Rochester, glad to be in upstate New York, and glad to be where I was in my life.
I was in San Diego last week, and didn’t enjoy the city much. Maybe it was in part because the weather there was a little cool, and the contrast with Rochester was not so striking. But also, it seems too disperse for me, like L.A., but without the city feel of L.A. The gay area (not neighborhood really) seemed characterless, or characterized by distance, concrete, and business travelers. Where was the gentrification, the pedestrian traffic, the local flavor? There was no flavor. Well, I passed some time one night in a dance club which had little to set it apart from any other gay dance club. There was the large dance floor in the center, surrounded on all four sides by elevated platforms, and two beefy studs overlooking the floor, shaking their bikini bottoms in obvious boredom to indistinct but seamlessly integrated dance beats. The entire scene seems almost perfectly designed to filter away all that might stand out or stir interest. Afterward I stopped in at a bathhouse. I’m always interested in seeing different bathhouses, the facilities, the scene, the crowd. As paranoid as I am about disease, I tend to be more of a spectator in such places. This place was not so great. The crowd was older and sparse, the facilities very mediocre. Of course it’s always hard to judge such places, because often there are good times to go, and bad times, and unless you know these times, you’re chances of having a good time are poor. At this place I met a 31-year old man, a gym-built guy with an impressive chest and a handsome face. He was the best looking thing inside, and he quickly introduced himself. We chatted. He told me he was attracted to white guys--he confessed, after some prying on my part, that he was from Iran. He seemed worried that I’d hold that against him. Was he really worried, I wondered, or was it simply a way of ingratiating himself, invoking my empathy, or something. He had a white boyfriend. I teased him a bit. Where was the boyfriend? Does he know you’re here? You drove an hour for this? Etc. He groped me a bit in the hallway as people passed between us. He wanted me to go to his room, but I said I have a firm rule against sex in bathhouses. (The rule is not firm, but with him it was going to be firm.) He said we needn’t necessarily have sex. We could talk. I chuckled. He smiled in return. We chatted a little more about why I was in town, about his plans for the evening, etc., and then I said I was going to walk around some more. I walked to the showers, which were empty, and I began to lather up. A moment later the Iranian enters. He offers to “get my back.” I laugh and turn my back to him. He lathers my back very briefly before reaching lower. He tells me with a smile that I have a very nice ass. We’re both smiling; all is light playfulness. We grope some more in the hot showers while a small group of spectators gathers at the entrance. He drops to his knees as the strong shower pellets his hair. I allow it for a moment, but then I pull him up to me, hug him firmly, and turn toward my towel, which hangs at the entrance. I dry off and leave the shower. Enough of the display for me. I sit a little bit at one of the high traffic spots where hallways intersect and the sauna entrances lie. Few people pass by who interest me. Eventually a tall black boy with a fine, firm butt walks by, heading toward the bathroom. A moment later he comes out and enters the wet sauna. I follow him in after the appropriate delay, just to get a better look. The wet sauna is my favorite place in a bathhouse. It’s wet and warm, and the steam hinders visibility. What was uninteresting outside is suddenly infused with just enough mystery and fog to make me a passive voyeur. You see the faint outlines of men in corners, and on platforms, and you hear moans and the sounds of sex, but usually you can’t see much. I often sit and listen with feigned indifference, and wipe the steam from my glasses. I sat for a few minutes while my glasses adjusted to the heat. The black boy sat in his towel diagonally from me, lightly stroking himself. I watched. We exchanged looks as I worked my glasses fastidiously. His skin was dark, and his penis long. His abdomen was furry, but his chest wasn’t. He shaved, no doubt. Our glances turned to watching, until finally he stood up, walked over, and sat down beside me at a little distance. But his intention was clear. He extended his arm and put his hand on the platform beside him, and I reached down and touched his hand. He didn’t pull away. He touched my arm, and we were off. Soon, however, we both had to leave the steam room. So we entered a hallway and stood facing each other, cautiously touching each other while we exchanged short phrases—names, where we’re from, what we like about the other. I liked his voice, his intelligence and his forthrightness. And of course his body. We weren’t there long before he suggested we move to the movie room, which had a large open area and multiple levels where men in towels could sit and watch the porn on two large TVs above their heads. He was 22. I learned that he had recently been discharged from the Marines after over two years of service. Someone reported that he was gay. He was from North Carolina and was estranged from his family. He liked white guys, and my face, which I attributed to the dark theater. Hehe We chatted for maybe a half hour while we explored with our hands, and kissed, and commented on the other men in the room. I mostly remember how nice his semi-rigid penis felt in my hand, how sexy it looked, curving up stiffly when it was hard, and the sound he made when I put my finger into him. Eventually I said I had to go because I had an early morning. He wanted to continue in some way. He wanted to go back to my place, but I assured him that I shared a room with someone and couldn’t. (I didn’t, and could have.) He wanted to get together the following day, but I told him I was working. He hinted that he’d be willing to move to Rochester, that he wasn’t attached to San Diego. Jesus, don’t be ridiculous, I thought. Of course it was absurd, but he was young. His mind and emotions moved quickly, and he was searching for a home, for a person and a place where he belonged. I’m older, and already have that person and place. I took his contact information, which he wrote on the back of a card, and we hugged and said goodbye. It was a nice experience, but it made me feel a little guilty, guilty that I have the life that I have, the comfort and security. I guess I lived through the same sort of period during my youth when I felt unmoored. But it didn’t seem so starkly barren of support, so isolated, hostile, or difficult. At least that was my impression of his situation. He’ll be fine, I’m sure. But it does seem like the world should not be so difficult for him. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just getting mushy and sentimental. Today I spent the entire day listening to Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead. It’s a symphonic piece that sounds just as it’s titled—a dark, murky island at the end of the earth where the dead are laid. A few weeks ago at the ImageOut gay film festival Gerry and I saw a film about a gay boy struggling alone in the darkened streets of urban France. It was called “Stupid Boy” and it featured this music of Rachmaninoff’s, playing as the boy wandered alone at night through empty streets, picking up strangers for rough sex and filling his day with sleep and a numbing job. The music seemed to lend the film a gravity that it didn’t warrant, exactly, though I understand now why it was used. Of course the boy was a barren island in which he was the only inhabitant. As the movie ends, he begins to understand that he needs to form relationships and emotional bonds if he is to find meaning and happiness in his life. I suppose lots of boys have to struggle with that realization.
Today I wore the most ridiculous pants. I just bought them, and today I wore them for the first time. I was in the bathroom at work, looked at myself in the mirror, and thought to myself, “Good lord, you look like a dufus. . . in cheap, neatly pressed, but tight, slacks.” They were slacks, not pants. They were slacks I might have bought at Sears.
The last few days have been the most beautiful autumn days of the year. It’s always this way. Autumn is always the shortest of the four seasons. Or at least the days that are quintessentially autumnal are so few. Yesterday the tallest trees across the street glistened in golden brilliance against the backdrop of the large mustard colored Victorian home, and the temperature was unusually warm. I was glad to be in Rochester, glad to be in upstate New York, and glad to be where I was in my life.
I was in San Diego last week, and didn’t enjoy the city much. Maybe it was in part because the weather there was a little cool, and the contrast with Rochester was not so striking. But also, it seems too disperse for me, like L.A., but without the city feel of L.A. The gay area (not neighborhood really) seemed characterless, or characterized by distance, concrete, and business travelers. Where was the gentrification, the pedestrian traffic, the local flavor? There was no flavor. Well, I passed some time one night in a dance club which had little to set it apart from any other gay dance club. There was the large dance floor in the center, surrounded on all four sides by elevated platforms, and two beefy studs overlooking the floor, shaking their bikini bottoms in obvious boredom to indistinct but seamlessly integrated dance beats. The entire scene seems almost perfectly designed to filter away all that might stand out or stir interest. Afterward I stopped in at a bathhouse. I’m always interested in seeing different bathhouses, the facilities, the scene, the crowd. As paranoid as I am about disease, I tend to be more of a spectator in such places. This place was not so great. The crowd was older and sparse, the facilities very mediocre. Of course it’s always hard to judge such places, because often there are good times to go, and bad times, and unless you know these times, you’re chances of having a good time are poor. At this place I met a 31-year old man, a gym-built guy with an impressive chest and a handsome face. He was the best looking thing inside, and he quickly introduced himself. We chatted. He told me he was attracted to white guys--he confessed, after some prying on my part, that he was from Iran. He seemed worried that I’d hold that against him. Was he really worried, I wondered, or was it simply a way of ingratiating himself, invoking my empathy, or something. He had a white boyfriend. I teased him a bit. Where was the boyfriend? Does he know you’re here? You drove an hour for this? Etc. He groped me a bit in the hallway as people passed between us. He wanted me to go to his room, but I said I have a firm rule against sex in bathhouses. (The rule is not firm, but with him it was going to be firm.) He said we needn’t necessarily have sex. We could talk. I chuckled. He smiled in return. We chatted a little more about why I was in town, about his plans for the evening, etc., and then I said I was going to walk around some more. I walked to the showers, which were empty, and I began to lather up. A moment later the Iranian enters. He offers to “get my back.” I laugh and turn my back to him. He lathers my back very briefly before reaching lower. He tells me with a smile that I have a very nice ass. We’re both smiling; all is light playfulness. We grope some more in the hot showers while a small group of spectators gathers at the entrance. He drops to his knees as the strong shower pellets his hair. I allow it for a moment, but then I pull him up to me, hug him firmly, and turn toward my towel, which hangs at the entrance. I dry off and leave the shower. Enough of the display for me. I sit a little bit at one of the high traffic spots where hallways intersect and the sauna entrances lie. Few people pass by who interest me. Eventually a tall black boy with a fine, firm butt walks by, heading toward the bathroom. A moment later he comes out and enters the wet sauna. I follow him in after the appropriate delay, just to get a better look. The wet sauna is my favorite place in a bathhouse. It’s wet and warm, and the steam hinders visibility. What was uninteresting outside is suddenly infused with just enough mystery and fog to make me a passive voyeur. You see the faint outlines of men in corners, and on platforms, and you hear moans and the sounds of sex, but usually you can’t see much. I often sit and listen with feigned indifference, and wipe the steam from my glasses. I sat for a few minutes while my glasses adjusted to the heat. The black boy sat in his towel diagonally from me, lightly stroking himself. I watched. We exchanged looks as I worked my glasses fastidiously. His skin was dark, and his penis long. His abdomen was furry, but his chest wasn’t. He shaved, no doubt. Our glances turned to watching, until finally he stood up, walked over, and sat down beside me at a little distance. But his intention was clear. He extended his arm and put his hand on the platform beside him, and I reached down and touched his hand. He didn’t pull away. He touched my arm, and we were off. Soon, however, we both had to leave the steam room. So we entered a hallway and stood facing each other, cautiously touching each other while we exchanged short phrases—names, where we’re from, what we like about the other. I liked his voice, his intelligence and his forthrightness. And of course his body. We weren’t there long before he suggested we move to the movie room, which had a large open area and multiple levels where men in towels could sit and watch the porn on two large TVs above their heads. He was 22. I learned that he had recently been discharged from the Marines after over two years of service. Someone reported that he was gay. He was from North Carolina and was estranged from his family. He liked white guys, and my face, which I attributed to the dark theater. Hehe We chatted for maybe a half hour while we explored with our hands, and kissed, and commented on the other men in the room. I mostly remember how nice his semi-rigid penis felt in my hand, how sexy it looked, curving up stiffly when it was hard, and the sound he made when I put my finger into him. Eventually I said I had to go because I had an early morning. He wanted to continue in some way. He wanted to go back to my place, but I assured him that I shared a room with someone and couldn’t. (I didn’t, and could have.) He wanted to get together the following day, but I told him I was working. He hinted that he’d be willing to move to Rochester, that he wasn’t attached to San Diego. Jesus, don’t be ridiculous, I thought. Of course it was absurd, but he was young. His mind and emotions moved quickly, and he was searching for a home, for a person and a place where he belonged. I’m older, and already have that person and place. I took his contact information, which he wrote on the back of a card, and we hugged and said goodbye. It was a nice experience, but it made me feel a little guilty, guilty that I have the life that I have, the comfort and security. I guess I lived through the same sort of period during my youth when I felt unmoored. But it didn’t seem so starkly barren of support, so isolated, hostile, or difficult. At least that was my impression of his situation. He’ll be fine, I’m sure. But it does seem like the world should not be so difficult for him. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just getting mushy and sentimental. Today I spent the entire day listening to Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead. It’s a symphonic piece that sounds just as it’s titled—a dark, murky island at the end of the earth where the dead are laid. A few weeks ago at the ImageOut gay film festival Gerry and I saw a film about a gay boy struggling alone in the darkened streets of urban France. It was called “Stupid Boy” and it featured this music of Rachmaninoff’s, playing as the boy wandered alone at night through empty streets, picking up strangers for rough sex and filling his day with sleep and a numbing job. The music seemed to lend the film a gravity that it didn’t warrant, exactly, though I understand now why it was used. Of course the boy was a barren island in which he was the only inhabitant. As the movie ends, he begins to understand that he needs to form relationships and emotional bonds if he is to find meaning and happiness in his life. I suppose lots of boys have to struggle with that realization.
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