What I did on my Spring Break

Today, I used a pressure-washer. It was kind of cool. It certainly did a number on the old paint that had been clinging to my trim like grim death. Although, I’d say there’s enough lead paint chips in my yard to retard like a thousand children. Hopefully, the squirrels or the raccoon will eat them and die. I know that sounds awful for me to wish death on animals, and I wouldn’t normally, but those nut-loving little bastards have found their way back into my attic and have started tearing up my duct work again. The raccoon is just digging holes and leaving huge turds scattered around, so I suppose that’s not really worth wishing death on it. The washing was a new experience to me, and since it involved water, I ended up completely soaked. Of course, since it also involved huge chunks (and I mean CHUNKS) of paint flying off in all directions, I am sure that I ingested some of it as well. Me not think I losed too many brain thinks. But it was gross, because of the dirt. Oh, and apparently my house is now New Bedford, Connecticut: I have never seen so many wasps. They were like in every conceivable corner and cranny (nook space is currently unavailable). I washed them out, too. Then I sort of sprayed the ground where they were to make sure they wouldn’t be airborne any time soon. But I still somehow managed to end up with one crawling on my leg. That kind of freaked me out, because I remember the last time I got stung. There was a hive up under one of the rungs of the fiberglass ladder where I couldn’t see, and when I accidentally jostled it, like a billion wasps came boiling out. It was kind of freaky to see, and one of them ran right into my finger in the fracas. I cursed and dropped whatever I had in my hands and ran into the house, where I applied ice and Cortisone in equal amounts. It actually worked: the sting didn’t really hurt too much after that, and it was barely noticeable. Then, after things had calmed down a bit, I went back out and carefully found where the nest was. Then I Hot Shot-ed those bastards for all I was worth. This sucks: I should be in Lauderdale doing body shots off of some dumb frat guy. Sigh. If only.

I've fallen and I don't care

Recently, I had reason to visit The Gap. Not really for myself (though one time I did purchase a very nice pre-Brokeback blue flannel shirt there) but because someone else wanted to go, and therefore I got sucked along into going. Maybe you can tell I sort of have mixed feelings about The Gap, and all other retailers of its ilk. Why? Well, you know how in sci-fi movies everyone is always wearing the same silver jumpsuit? They bought them at The Gap of the Future. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy quality clothing items as much (possibly more than, what with the homo-ness) as the next person. I just have this thing where I think our clothes should be different, so that we are different. Otherwise, we are wearing uniforms: you wear this outfit and that means you are this kind of person, wear that one and you are that kind of person. Of course, I’m not a big fan of their prices, either. I mean, you’d think their clothes would be cheaper: it’s not like those Indonesian children are making more than twelve cents a day. I mean, if you aren’t going to pass down the savings, maybe I should be a little more ethically concerned about my buying options. Although I didn’t find any clothes to buy, I did have a revelation of sorts while I was shopping. It concerns an ugly pink frock coat and discount merchandise. See, there was this coat. It was pink, with psychedelic paisley whipped through it. It was frocky looking. These two factors combined synergistically to make it fantastically ugly. Jackson Pollock would have looked at it and gone “It’s a little busy.” (although somehow I think John Waters would have said “It’s not nearly tacky enough”). Anyway, my friend pointed out how it wasn’t a surprise that it was on the sale rack. And then the fashion angels sang in my ear: maybe these clothing retailers make these fantastically ugly clothes on purpose so that they will end up on the sale rack so they can know who the cheap people are. Makes me suspicious now of my flannel: it was on sale, too.

A night out

Recently, I had one of those freak Saturdays where I was in charge of my own amusement: I had no one to do anything with. These occasions are rare (I think the last one was well over a year ago), and as such are precious to me in a way. It’s strange to me to think that I might cherish time alone (especially since that is how the majority of my time is spent anyway), but I suppose that the reason I do is because they are a chance for me to sort of break out of my vigorously circumscribed routine and let my hair down, put it up in fingerwaves, or shave it off.
The first stop was routine and boring, but necessary: Publix for groceries. After I got them home and put away, I had to decide what I was going to wear for the rest of the evening. I decided on a black t-shirt, jeans, black boots, black hat. A classic look, a little rough-and-tumble, sort of spoiled by me stopping to buy pillar candles at Linens & Things, but I worked through it. Now, the mall that I was shopping at also has a Borders and that was my main goal for the evening. I wanted to check out some books on landscaping/horticulture/gardening (yes, again: sort of a blow to the whole “rough-and-tumble” nature of the look, but still); I also thought there might be the chance for an encounter of the flirtatious kind.
After wandering around for about 8 minutes (they haven’t put a map up, at least not that I could see), I finally found the gardening section: it was cleverly hidden behind a post and labeled “animals”. That bit aside, I was really hoping to get a look at not just the kinds of flora to put in my space, but also at potential architectural features: a pergola, paver patio, water feature, something. I am just plain tired of my ugly-ass backyard. Well, I plopped myself down with a stack of books right on the floor in the section because some rude ass had already hogged the table to have loud conversations with his boring companion.
Of course, doing so put me at a bit of a disadvantage, flirtation-wise: I was myself now hidden behind the pillar and sort of huddled over large books with pretty flowers in them. I guess I didn’t look so much rough-and-tumble as freed from my harness and fresh off the short bus. But I was no longer interested in attracting people, because I had just encountered my nemesis: the Talker.
I think I have mentioned before how much I hate to be talked to by strangers. Certainly, it is one thing to pass the time with someone whom you’ve just met by engaging in idle chatter, such as while at a party; while not one of my favorite activities, I have endured worse, and sometimes even made friends that way. I don’t even mind the hesitantly offered request of an old person, which I can easily and graciously fulfill. However, the people who feel compelled to intrude their presence into my consciousness for no discernible reason: they are the object of my rage.
If I had classes for them, those rude entities that try to drag me into their world, she would have been a Class A: “A” being for annoying. I could hear her coming, talking loudly to the book monkey, weaving some story about how she was looking for a picture of her dog. This immediately generated a flight response in me: she was coming to where I was! And she was talking! Goddammit! But I was firmly entrenched in the section and was greatly afeared of being able to find my way back if I should wander off. So I chose to remain, for I would be damned if I was going to let a Talker ruin this for me!
Of course, she talked the entire time she was in the section. She talked to the book monkey about her dog: about how her dog was abused, the manner in which the dog was abused, quickly followed by the indignant and pointless preemptive interjection: “not by me!”, then on again to the nature of the dog’s behavior, her fruitless searches at other bookstores for pictures of said dog, then after being shown six different dog books, her sudden remembrance of a book found at another store with a picture sort of like what she was looking for and the subsequent inquiry if they had that book: all in a seemingly endless and uninterruptible flow of chatter. Eventually the book monkey was able to scrape her off and flee: now it was just the Talker and me. I was determined that I would not be drawn in, that I would not give her the satisfaction. She was equally determined and resorted to proven strategy: talking to herself.
She began with just a few noises; little “ohs”, some “hmms”, a few sucking, clicking sounds. I’ve been through this before, so I knew these were only the opening volleys. I remained steadfast in my commitment to ignore her. Unshaken by her inability to draw me in, she soon resorted to heavier fire: “Oh, this is not right. No. This will not do at all.”, practically begging for the comment “What’s not right? What won’t do?” I continued to refuse the bait.
But as I sat there on the floor, my horror rising at the impending contact, my amusement was rising as well. Me? Upset that some lady was going to talk to me? It was rather ridiculous. But my determination not to get involved remained, even as I began to struggle to keep from laughing aloud.
Then it happened: I was finished with the books in my stack. Not a one of them was anything I was interested in. I was going to have to stand up to get some more books. As soon as I stood, I knew that she was going to talk to me. There would be no way to get around it. I hesitated, then I stood. She said “Excuse me?” I pretended I didn’t hear; after all, I hadn’t made eye contact. Perhaps she was speaking to someone else in the section; there was another presence there that had unwittingly wandered into the midst of this raging battle. Then she said “Sir?” directly at me. I knew then that I was fucked: I was going to have to interact with her.
I briefly contemplated ignoring her and pretending to be a deaf-mute: I had my Palm, I could write up a quick memo to that effect when she tapped me on the shoulder or waved her hand in my face. I felt like a total shit-bag for even thinking it. I turned my head in her direction. She asked me if I could reach a book for her, the red one with “Dogs” on the cover. I reached for it and handed the book to her; she said thanks. I said nothing, but I did give her a short nod of acknowledgement before plopping back down on the floor to look through still more books inadequate for my needs.
She eventually wandered off, but not before exclaiming excitedly that she had found a picture of her dog… but she wasn’t sure she wanted to pay $60 for it. I let her march off, content in my solitude once again. Until, of course, I got to the register. There, some overly-peroxided and made-up blonde was clutching a book about ADD and bobbing her head up and down, back and forth as though scanning the store for whoever had her money when she turned to me and asked “What are all those bubbles? Do you think they are security cameras?” Why me?, I thought.

Fat Sunday

Now, the last time we left the bear meetings I had become if not the toast of the town, at least slightly browned about the edges: I was a regular and faithful attendee, and while it was mostly the creepy guys who were interested in me, at least someone was taking a nibble at the bait as it were. Then I missed a couple of months and events due to scheduling complications (imagine my surprise at having scheduling conflicts in a seemingly empty life). Fortunately, last month, I was able to get back on the horse (ahem) and although my stay was brief I was warmly welcomed back into the fold. I was also invited to attend the Mardi Gras festival parade as part of the group.
Before you go off getting grand visions of me in tight silver shorts and nothing else (the thought makes me shudder, too) let me explain the setup here: the “parade” was a simple march around the inner courtyard sidewalk of the big gay resort here. Not exactly an environment conducive to riding in a float (although that didn’t stop the drag queens, I mean gender illusionists, from riding the route on a big shoe a la Priscilla). The bears won best in show last year and wanted a repeat and needed everyone’s support.
At the time, I had absolutely no intention of going: it just seemed like it was going to be an exercise in lameness, and furthermore the gentle shroud of darkness that envelops some of our, how shall I say, more aesthetically challenged members was going to be peeled back like the proverbial rock revealing the white eyeless wriggling things beneath. Then, I got some cosmological news to the effect that I should get up off my ass, get out of the house, put myself out there, and basically do the kinds of things that I never do. Of course, we all know that I am about as spiritual as a duck and don’t really believe in any of this crap anyway. So I decided to go. Well, what can I say? What harm could be in it?
Fortunately, the narrative arc does not dip into a tale of woe at this point. It was quite, well, quite an experience. I have grudgingly come to accept that I am considered cute by some (usually, however, they are NOT considered cute by me), and I did get hit on a couple of times even though that was not ostensibly my goal. I wasn’t really helping matters though, because I was kind of leaning up against a palm tree in a street hustler-esque, I’m-available-for-rent-CHEAP! kind of way.
The first guy to hit on me was easily 30 years my senior. He ambled up (ambled is the precise word choice here, since he was wearing a leather vest and cowboy hat) and asked me what he had to do to get some of the beads I’d been given to throw to the crowd on our jaunt through the courtyard. My first instinct was to point to the table where the beads were being given out and say “you can pick some up over there”. I didn’t though, because I have already maxed out my asshole points for this lifetime: no further bonuses are available to me for that. But I said “Well, I guess just ask.” And he was quite incredulous, and turned to his friend (also an AARP member of long standing) and said “He says we just have to ask!” with a sort of leer in his voice. So I handed him some beads and gave some to his friend too, and that was the end of that. Days later, I thought I should have said “Can you take out your teeth?” I know: it made me want to throw up a little, too.
Funnily enough, the next guy to hit on me WAS missing teeth, although he wasn’t really old enough to have done so: I think he must be five or six years my junior. I’m not going to be real mean and bitchy about that: I mean, maybe he had a hard upbringing, got kicked out, couldn’t afford dental care, something. I know: I hate being redeemed. But he came up and told me he wanted to give me some beads because I was just standing there looking so cute and I wasn’t wearing any and he wanted to be the first to put some beads on me, which I thought was sweet. I also thought it meant he must be a bottom, a thought confirmed when I saw him getting ground from behind by one of the other bears.
So, on to the parade. It was short. I felt like a dickhead during the march. I managed not to peg anyone (I think) and I only got hit in the head with the banner a couple of times. So, yeah that was about right. After we finished our march, the next group came behind us: it was ANOTHER bear group! It was the most astonishing thing. AND they were throwing, not beads, but little teddy bears! BITCHES! Ha ha, no seriously: bitches. They even had a guy in a bear suit who was being pulled on a wagon. What was nice was when the one bear next to me (who was kind of cute) chatted with me a bit, and kind of gave me a hug. I think he would have kissed me too, except I kind of shied away from it: I am just not a casual kisser (especially not after that cold sore incident, although I will say that Abreva is the shiz-nite!). But he did give me a nice hug.
And that was pretty much all I got, and I realize that I am to blame for that: I create this image of being so distant, aloof, and unattainable that only the ones with nothing to lose will even dare to approach me. Which sort of makes me sad in a way, but I don’t know how to fix that without feeling like I am betraying the things I believe in and hold to be most important to me, like not contracting syphilis or turning into a complete and utter man-whore. Meh, no one said it was going to be easy.