#homefortheholidaze

HOE

Now that Halloween is done its full speed ahead into the holiday season. In my TV cable surfing I note that both home shopping networks already have their host stage sets trimmed with twinkling trees, ornament dripping wreaths, and frosted fake window panes. That all sort of annoys me as it creates a false urgency to trim one’s own home. Or at least in my head because my mother is the queen of ‘beat the neighbors’ game.

What I mean is this: whatever the holiday mother must be the first to have the wreath on the door, the flapping porch pennant, or garlanded lamp post before any of her neighbors. I don’t know why she needs to do this or how or when it exactly became a race. One year, when I still lived at home, our neighbor Dorothy came into view assembling her Christmas tree. Mother barked orders and within an hour we too were in the living room bay windows rapidly putting up our tree. My dad was always amused with her quest to be first. Mother is the neighbor decorating her mail box at 4:00am minus a flashlight. You’d think with all that competitive spirit in the house I’d be better at sports but no, not so much at all.

CLARII was, in retrospect, one of the three boys chosen last for any gym class team sport. Dead last. They would rather have the science geek, skinny kid who played clarinet or the fat kid who smelled like PONDS cold cream and wet dog fur rather than pick fey, doe-eyed moi. The curly-haired fat kid was retarded. You could use that term back in the day and not have a picket line on school property. Nowadays he’d be developmentally challenged or gifted but in my era he was simply the class retard. Life is cruel.

No. Actually kids are cruel. I’ve never been back for a high school reunion. Not one. Why would I go back? I don’t need their judgements or validation at this late stage. On the other hand it would be awesome to stroll in all semi fit and trim in my best Hugo Boss and PRADA belts and shoes. I think we all harbor revenge type scenarios when it comes to memories of high school. Like I said, kids are so cruel. I learned very early in life how to become invisible and how to build tall walls to shut out the hurt. Meh. Let’s not pick at scabs today. I got a tree to trim.

#sainthood

ALONE

Alas the cloud of disdain and displeasure has shifted a bit; the sun peeps forth and warms my countenance with hope eternal.

Jesus Christ. I sound like Barbara Cartland. Needless to say, my mood improved. I did exactly what I said I would do yesterday. I cleaned house, I bought groceries, and I skipped the gym. I couldn’t tear myself away from internet porn (3 wanks); the thought of getting cleaned up to run a treadmill seemed too overwhelming and a smidge too physical so early in my day.

But I eventually pulled myself together and managed to hop a bus downtown to a nail salon I favor. Yes, I’m THAT gay guy with the no-chip manicure and pale pink toenail polish. And I do mean ‘pale;’ actually it’s a whisper of pink. I suppose if I was poolside Palm Springs someone with astute observation skills would note the tidiness of my toes. My hands look like those of an altar statue. The Vietnamese nail tech said I should be a hand model. Actually she said “hend modder” but I don’t want to read as bitchy and judge-y.

TROLLOh Hell; I am bitchy. So here goes: later, much, I was cutting through my building’s parking garage to shop the adjoining convenience mart. While the prices are highway robbery the sheer convenience of it trumps any thought of putting on better footwear to trek further for coffee creamer and peanut butter. Halfway through the garage a car door slammed and someone shouted “Hey, what’s your hurry, honey?” And I instantly knew, minus any turnabout, what nuisance neighbor lobbed that question.

How can I state this minus any trace of gay witchery? He’s a troll. And I mean that in the most kindest and caring fashion as, you see –if Hollywood Central Casting was actually looking for someone who lives under a bridge with a raggedy, mean-spirited goat he would be the bell ringer. He’s got yellowing teeth, a triple chin, a wonky eye, and those bothersome skin-tags flicking his eyelids that would have me at my dermatologist’s office manning a cryo surgical blow torch in no time flat.

I allowed him to catch up because I’m a saint. We chatted polite conversation, as neighbors do, for the remainder of my walk. I slowed my pace as he is one to sort of shuffle along. Midway through ‘the weather turned better’ and noting his pending dinner plans, he lobbed “what floor do you live on? do you live alone?”

It sort of irritated my shit, his point-blank questioning of my living status. And, in genteel circles, isn’t the kinder inquiry ‘are you partnered?’ But I answered his question in the affirmative while lobbing my apartment floor number. I didn’t give him the unit number for fear his cold knocking for a cup of sugar. Yes, I live alone. I walk alone. I do most of what I do alone. I never really considered it to be a bad thing or a sad thing. Still, his question nagged me into the late evening. “Alone.” I chose this. I want (wanted) this. And while he obviously doesn’t live with a goat he had surely gotten mine.

 

#sorrynotsorry

BW_JCrwfrdI am in the most hateful, bitter, black heart mood. I’ve been stuck in this shit show, downward spiral since waking yesterday morning. I’m typing this while what is commonly referenced as ‘easy listening’ music gently lilts through this early a.m. insomnia. It’s a blend of piano solos, classic Sinatra, and standard elevator soft pop. I want to take a hammer to my head but I’m waiting for the best song to kick in to do so.

How did I get here you may ask. I ask the very same and I have no specific, isolated reason for this petty petulance and tantrum. And let me assure you this is indeed a tantrum as by the looks I received in the workplace yesterday when my mouth disengaged a spew of ‘goddamnits’ and ‘f bombs’ probably better suited to ground troops in a war zone.

But this is a war zone. My war. My zone; my psyche running rampant internally trying to put out one emotional fire while yet another slowly simmers waiting for just the right moment to blaze and burn my brain hot with all the baggage I carry. I don’t think I can recall…no, wait. Yes, I can recall a time when my thoughts were free and clear but that time seems to recede, fade, slip further away from me as the months turn into years.

TopperHow many years has it been since the split. Exactly seven. Shouldn’t things, and by “things” I mean all the niceties that define a well-lived life, shouldn’t that all be present and accounted for at this time? I have a good job, nice paycheck, and a roof over my head with space to hang yet one more flea market antique etching. Yet I am literally hanging on for dear life. Or some life; maybe it is not so dear. And maybe that is the source of this isolation shit stew. It’s over. All over, my friends. I’m on the back side of fifty and scared shitless. I don’t have a path, a plan, or a guide for what is yet to come.

But then life laughs at plans, really; I learned that lesson the hard way. Life doesn’t really give a shit that you purchased VERSACE dinner napkins at Neiman’s LAST CALL because the color would look so fabulous as the sun’s last ray of orange gold slips over the mountaintop. That view. That mountaintop that would be framed from the patio doors of our Palm Springs’ retirement 2nd home. Sigh. Not happening.

I came home from work yesterday, sipped a glass of moderately priced wine, and was in bed with headphones by 7:00pm. I took two Advil PMS, and a half Xanax; one glass of wine mellowed the sparkle dust astral cushion I sailed away on. While groggy I am now awake for the new day. I think the key to surviving this dawn is one of pattern and routine; I will do laundry, clean house, and shop for groceries. I will go to the gym. The curmudgeon switch will flip eventually and this darkness will wrap itself in better tissue somewhere between expensive silk pocket squares and last season’s cashmere sweaters. I have no real problems. Just unreal ones.

#emperorswaltz

BW_caresnone

My depression took hold of me this weekend. I was determined to push through it and did so with single-minded focus as I dragged out a tattered shopping bag of Halloween decor from the walk in closet that can’t be walked into because it is jam-packed with shit I stopped caring about. But I haven’t cared enough to pitch it so I found myself staring at the porcelain Venetian carnival mask with the black coq feathers. I really need to donate that to a thrift store. While a large, ribbed tickler sex toy might tag me as adventurous and sporting nothing reads more ‘sad gay’ than a porcelain Venetian carnival mask as the police and coroner poke through one’s belongings to determine why someone offed themselves. But I digress.

By mid-day yesterday I finally manned up and took a damn half Xanax to motor through  what was left of my lackluster weekend. In 20-minutes I felt reasonably human enough to face the world. And by ‘face the world’ I mean buy my mother’s birthday gift at MACY’S perfume counter. I sailed into the main floor and paused momentarily to eyeball the young man with flawless makeup mincing about the MAC counter. You go, girl. My fey ass was shoved relentlessly into my 7th grade locker, while getting books kicked to the floor, because I looked too queer in my JCPENNEY mock turtleneck. But, yes, you go wear that raven wing black eyeliner because as CHER so clearly states “it’s a woman’s world.”

beyondI had random tunes buzzing in my ears while purchasing a shit load of GIVENCHY fragrance for mother. The male clerk sort of remembered me enough from prior purchases and bonused a shiny gold cosmetic bag and purse sized atomizer which I have been eyeballing since microwaving dinner because I will have a more urgent, diva need for a shiny gold cosmetic bag well before my 80-year-old mother ever will. In my soft, new kitten Xanax fog I perused the glut of men’s fragrances and nearly pulled the trigger on the new MICHAEL KORS but snapped out of it before getting stupid with my MACYS charge.

Somewhere in ‘BETTER DESIGNERS’ I got hold of myself and thought ‘get the Hell outta here’ before serious dollar damage was done. And then it happened: a fleeting, magical moment of semi contentment on the down escalator between the ill-merchandised mezzanine and main floor. “Emperor’s Waltz” began lilting through my ear buds, as I descended, floating on flawless Strauss, between faceless mannequins in reasonably priced fall fashions and ascending tourists in too many prints and patterns. By the time I glided between Elizabeth Arden and NARS my bustled, taffeta day gown rustled to thoughts of Newport and Fifth Avenue carriages scurrying my fan waving self to The Metropolitan. The Hispanic kid in the MAC eyeliner hardly noticed my porcelain Venetian carnival mask.

#postparty

BW_yankToday is the day after the party of the season. I’m sort of in a funky mood because great displays of wealth and beauty spiral my reality shit show. Don’t misunderstand; I adore these folks. My life has been enhanced by their thoughtfulness and generosity. Still there’s all that wealth. And while its never the proverbial elephant in the room it is not casually dismissed when one stands in a private event space festooned in ‘wallpaper’ made of thousands of showy roses and tropical blossoms. It was a heady smell of money.

And my TOM FORD ‘Sahara Noir’ because that’s what I drenched myself in prior to smoothly sliding across the rented town car’s leather seat to, well, ‘town car’ myself to the party. I could have grabbed a cab but it seemed a tad pedestrian after spending an hour at SAKS ensuring my socks matched my suit to Edith Head standards. That particular fragrance lured a cougar to my personal space. A woman of a certain age who should be embarrassed in grinding her woman bits against by upper thigh on the dance floor. It didn’t annoy me as much as it bored me.

I hate going solo to these types of events. Invariably the topic of ‘who are you dating,’ i.e., who are you fucking — comes up and I always skirt that conversation with a shrug and an eye roll. As if to suggest the concept of dating is as antiquated as ringing Sarah on the phone to get Aunt Bea. Who dates nowadays when there are apps to tap for instant cock? I’ve not explored this path but one does read of these modern conveniences.

I recently dined with a group of business colleagues — all women, who asked about why I’m single at this age. “This age” is the proverbial ‘somewhere between 40 and death’ from AUNTIE MAME. But I digress.

BW_LOSTIn the space of two minutes I regaled my fellow kale salad listeners with the tale of the demise of my long-term partnership. Booze, pills, and that early a.m ER visit story line pitched to a rapt audience. It was so easy to pull it all up. To feel that anger. To taste the late-in-life bitterness that brews from a bubbling gut of shoulda’ woulda’ coulda’. But then what would I have changed had I known the path? Nothing. Nothing at all. My father always said I had the brains “God gave a goose.” And that’s okay. People are generally threatened by smarts. I’ve done okay with what I have. My lot in life isn’t all that miserable. I told myself that last night watching sparks shoot from champagne bottles held aloft. It would have been nice to have shared the evening with a special someone. I wear a lot of TOM FORD to mask any trace of loneliness beneath my tailored suits.

#summershower

GLADYSMy masculine gay über hot, 30-something Greek neighbor did not come home last night. I know this as truth because insomnia had me up and awake most of the wee hours rearranging fake Roman antiquities on my foyer console table. Too, he has not slammed his door today as he does every Saturday morning at approximately 9:30am. He goes to the gym. My powers of deduction tell me this because (a) he is literally built like a Greed god and (b) unless he’s carrying a gym bag full of sex toys, making a living as a rent boi, me thinks he carries gym-like stuff. Unlike fancy moi; the only thing I take to the gym is my faded I.D. and a rolled $20 dollar bill for any emergencies. “Emergencies” defined as a side trip via Starbucks or a stroll through Walgreens for unwaxed floss and/or any new cosmetic that diminishes dark circles while leaving me with a doe-eyed, ingenue face. But I digress.

My stud Greek god neighbor is — how do you say in your native tongue: “aloof.” At least that’s my sour grapes take. Lord knows if I looked like him (tall, tanned, extremely handsome, and ripped) I would not be sitting here typing a faggoty blog. I would be hatefully ordering kitchen staff around regarding too wet quiche and bitching at a pool maintenance crew for not clearing the fallen gardenia blossoms that my stinkin’ rich Hollywood film producer of a husband specially planted poolside so I can float in wafting fragrance while he busts ass to keep me shopping Fred Segal. In this scenario I also possess a meaningful, thick cock, that lazily erupts– though faithfully, like that geyser in Yellowstone.

shower

But let’s not tarry on tawdry daydreams. Back to my hot-as-chicken-fried-steak neighbor. I’ve pleasantly introduced myself, twice, and yet he still can’t recall my name. I mean, bitch, what is so eff’n hard to remember? My goddamn name is the post popular name for males ever — bitch, jot it down on a Post-It if need be. But youthful beauty has no time for small, ordinary details like remembering an old-fuck neighbor’s name. It has details far more exacting to consider. Like unbuttoning an imported cotton, tapered, slim-fit shirt three buttons or four for the perfect peek of pecs. Cunt. Ahem.

When I leave for my office Monday through Friday, my apartment exit coincides with the end of his morning shower. As I silently twist the key into the deadbolt lock I hear metal shower curtain rings rolling quickly. Abruptly. Youth has no time to waste. And, if I linger, silently, just a bit at my dark stained apartment door, the clean, damp scent of wet soap escapes into the hallway. I imagine him reaching for a towel. And how it hits his backside to catch the wet diamond drop rivulets coursing to that pitched divergent of a firm ass crack. From my front door to the elevator buttons, my mind hops on the bus to skankville with me in the driver’s seat. In the elevator I have his damp butt angrily riding my face while he pleasures himself into a cloudburst of gloppy jizz. But then I hit my sunlit lobby with the towering, rail-thin potted bamboos and face mature realities that keep me from ever really singing in a summer shower.

#nicebitch

STROLLERS

“Can you wave hello to the nice man? Wave hello…c’mon, wave hi hi to the nice man…”  I recently joined beaming, 30-something, stroller pushing parents in my building’s freight elevator. They were on their way to a family picnic by the looks of their red, white, and blue coordinated attire. It was Fourth of July. I was celebrating the birth of a great nation by taking out a brown paper shopping bag brimming with empty beer bottles. I never buy a six-pack; I prefer the 40s which — in my head, supports my twisted “I only had ONE beer” rationalization. There’s a smug sense of accomplishment when I hear the scraping, car crash sound of glass against glass as I toss my moldy empties into the recycling bin.

But I am not a “nice man” lady. Why, if it were up to me, your fug baby would already be handcrafting NIKE gym shoes in some remote wet spot of a Vietnam village. I think developing a sense of commerce and community is important at a very early age; structure and discipline are important with children. If a child can’t prepare and deliver scotch eggs and a bloody mary bedside on a white wicker tray I simply don’t have the time to invest my tax dollars into area schools. But I digress.

MEAN-GIRLSNo. I am not a “nice man.” I am a razor-tongued, quick wit who is emotionally arrested; I have feelings and thoughts that don’t parallel my age and life experience. I need to grow up, grow a pair, and get my shit together. I am a flighty, bitchy “mean girl” of a social climber in a man boob cage not of my making. No. Actually I DID make this man boob cage of a body. See above beer intake. Add to that chalk board equation dinners out and a lackluster gym schedule.

Meh. My actions sometimes don’t match my heart. And vice versa. But a coworker says I have a “good heart.”  His surface assessment is based on my over extended ability to buy choice birthday gifts at better department stores. I’ve always been that way. I don’t care what something costs if it will make someone happy. Within reason, of course; spending $150 on a TOM FORD powder compact may be viewed as ‘what were you thinking’ with regard to coworker holiday gifts but I don’t think that while sliding plastic across the sales counter. It’s the thought that counts, right? And by giving expensive gifts I validate my ability to do so. It’s my twisted logic on the road to becoming a “nice man” maybe. A former boss, a chronic alcoholic and full-time asshole, once told me that I bought my staff’s loyalty with unnecessary acknowledgements of their birthdays and Christmas. “…You may get them working late hours with that nonsense but they don’t respect you.”  

He’s dead now. So who won that round, bitch.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.