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March Madness

Who knew March Madness was a basketball tournament? I've thought all these years it was a really lame party theme for people too uncreative to come up with something unique.

Cheese Wiz

My apologies in advance: Barnes Place smells like a burnt cat bomb. We, or I, rather – Tony is in New Jersey – am trying desperately to aerate the estate, but the freezing temperatures are complicating the task.

I’m afraid to say, and I’m taking full responsibility here, I was in the kitchen unsupervised, and last night, I almost burned the house down. It’s no one single action that propelled me to near disaster; rather, it’s a serious of unanticipated quagmires, which began Monday evening.

When Heather joined me at Barnes Place as our husbands toiled away for their salaries, we made an attempt to enjoy chips and cheese dip. By the time we got around to the cheese dip, it had cooled considerably.

“Let’s just microwave it,” she suggested.

“We don’t have a microwave,” I said. So I placed the cheese dip into a ceramic bowl and in the oven. I set the oven to 450, and then the timer for 7 minutes. We grabbed our cocktails and retreated to the Porch at Flamingo Grove to enjoy the unseasonably warm evening we were having, and I began to explain the thinking behind not having a microwave oven. It’s not a short tale, complicated by the fact that I don’t much understand the theory myself. So, 25 minutes later when I concluded with, “… and that’s why we don’t have a microwave,” Heather and I looked into each others eyes with the fear of a chef whose soufflé has fallen: “The cheese dip!”

We raced inside to a smoke-filled kitchen. I opened the oven to reveal a cheese dip that had taken on a life of its own. The bowl bubbled and frothed like a teenage science project gone dreadfully wrong. Cheese dip was all over the bottom of the oven. “I think it’s ready,” I said with great insight. Not sure how to dispose of the cheese dip, I left it in the kitchen sink for the house cleaner on Wednesday.

Last night, Wednesday night, I went to warm up dinner. I set the oven for 350, with my dinner inside, and set the timer for 23 minutes. I normally don’t heat leftovers. They’re stored in plastic, and the task of moving leftovers from plastic to something oven safe, in addition to setting the over is not only overly-complex, but also dirties too many dishes, thus extending that unpleasant kitchen time. With everything set, I retreated to the office to go through e-mail, yak on the phone, and basically pay no mind to the happenings in the kitchen.

At about 19 minutes, I got up to return to the kitchen. Rounding the corner from the office, I saw smoke billowing from the kitchen. Billowing. Large, curling, rolling masses of smoke, bouncing across the dining room ceiling. I entered the kitchen, only to be stopped by a wall of smoke. I couldn’t make out the other side of the room. My fire fighting training kicked in, and I crawled to the back door, opening it, letting the smoke escape. (This is called “Ventilating”.) On my knees, so I could breathe, I shut down the oven, just four minutes before completion, and maybe mere moments from not-so-spontaneous combustion.

And so, this morning, the smoke has finally cleared, the danger past. A fine layer of soot covers the entire kitchen and its contents, and the smell still lingers. And so, I apologize. Barnes Place smells like a burnt cat bomb, but know it’s really cheese dip. And know when it comes to cooking, I’m a real cheese wiz.

A Funny Thing Happend On The Way To The Office.

A funny thing happened on the way to the office. No, acutally, at the office. When I got in on Monday, we have hired a new part-time designer, and my co-workers said, "Oh, he's from Oregon, too." So we make polite chit-chat about our common background. He didn't grow up there, but his girlfriend did. He says, "She was born in Coos Bay, though." Funny, I was too. [Coos Bay is a fishing and timber town of 18,000 people.] "Oh, well, you can't possibly know her. She graduated from Marshfield High in 1995." I graduated from high school - in Portland, in 1989. I couldn't possibly know her, we both agreed. "Her name is Danni Guralnick." Oh, yeah. I know her. She was in my brother's class. And her brother, David, was a year ahead of me, and quite the bully. "Well, you probably don't know her cousin, Jason McNutt?" Of course, nephew of the swim coach, Kathy. I swam. "Oh, well, then you know Brittney Hosack." Yes, and her brother Zack, and Luke and sister Shannon. In fact, by this point, it's all coming back to me. Danni not only lived in my neighborhood, she lived down the street.

Tie Me Up. Tie Me Down.

With I had a slumber party last night with Intense Boy. With Tony out of town, the house gets so quiet and lonely. Spinnin' CDs, swapping gossip and swillin' Cape Cods into the night, we were. All was fun and groovy as we yacked until we fell asleep. That's when it got uncomfortably hot. Some weired weather phenomenon rolls into the area making it incredibly uncomfortable. At 3:30 a.m., Intense Boy rolls over and says, "It's more comfortable to sleep when the other boy is tied to the bed." With that, he gets up, changes out of his pajamas and goes home. It's not secret - at least to me - why he's Intense Boy.

Oh My God!

I just checked my Boy List - I've got my first subscriber! Welcome, JD of Omaha! I know some of my friends are reading my Blog, so when I pointed out that there is a Boy List, I thought they would be the first to sign up. I thought they would, as is usually the case, hang on to my every word. Suck the drunkening sweetness from my rambling prose. But they have not. Seventeen days went by before JD subscribed to my list. I was beginning to wonder, is my rambling just rambling? Is it really not worth subscribing to? Aparently JD thinks so. Thank you, JD! But now I wonder, how did he find BP Boy? How did he come to conclude this site was worth getting in his e-mail box? And what does a 16-year-old in Omaha find so fascinating about my life. I wonder...

Staples

I ran out of staples today. I think this is the third or forth time I've had to restock my stappler. It requires that I dig deep down into my desk drawer and discover things I had forgotten about. Things from my first few days here on the job. Things I inherited when I took over this desk. And, when I open my desk, i discover thousands of staples stock-piled. Why such an arsenol of staples, I wonder, when I sometimes can't find a writting utensil around here.

Vision

I'm going to the Visionary Dinner tonight, the opening address for the Greenprints 2002 Confernece. I'll be sitting at Atlantic Station's table. They're a major sponsor, and I dropped a note to Sexy Mouthpiece at just the right moment. Big D will be there, too, but I think I got the better table. We'll see who's connections got us farther.

I Once Thought

I Once Thought
I once thought I was not truely left-handed. I read a study that said many left-handed people whose mother's are left-handed are really right-handed, but as children they were handed things to their left hand, so they become left-handed. And you can tell, because these people tend to do things with both their left and right hands reasonably well - write left, cut right, throw right and/or left. And that's me. And I went into a panic because I thought, "Gosh, what if I'm really not left-handed?"

The left side of the body is controlled by the right side of the brain. The right side of the body is controlled by the left side of the brain. The right side is creative, emotional. The left side analytical, logical. I thought, "Oh my god. What if I'm really not as creative as I thought? What if I'm really right handed. I'm just like everyone else!!"

It made me begin to question everything that I am. My life and existence. Then one day after obsessing about it for a week, I thought, "So what? Even if I were right handed, am I going to start writing with my right hand?"

I Once Thought
I once thought I was not really a part of my family. Like I had been swapped at the hospital. I don't think like anyone else in my family. I don't enjoy the things my family enjoy. I had a twin brother, and he looked nothing like me. So it's possible, among all those babies, that I was mixed up. Miss-marked by a nurse paying no mind. I was convinced I really should have been the child of a couple who owned Verger Chevrolet or something. I was sure of it. I didn't belong to my family.

But then one day after obsessing about it for a week, i thought, "So what? Even if I had been switched, am I going to abandon my family now and join the Vergers?"

Eskimo Kisses

I was in first grade when I started spending the night with my best friend. We spent a lot of time together. Especially after we both joined the swim team. If we weren’t traveling to a swim meet together, we were spending the night at each other’s house. Often at one house on Friday, and the other on Saturday. Entire weekends would go by with us spending them together – our time ending after church, when we would pile into the correct family car and return to our respective homes.

The first time I came to spend the night with him, his mother called my mother and said he’d like me to come spend the night. They had just got a TRS-80 Radio Shack Computer that was in the kitchen. We stayed up until all hours of the night playing a Singapore Trading game, building our shipping empire. When his mother finally came and made us go to bed, we retreated to his room. We’d zip our sleeping bags together and talk until we eventually fell asleep.

“Do you know how Eskimos kiss?” he asked one night. “No,” I said. “They rub their noses together like this,” he replied as he moved closer to me, pressing his nose to mine. “It’s so they keep their noses warm.” It was a silly, but it felt right. And from that point forward, before we fell asleep, we’d hold each other in our arms, and exchange Eskimo kisses until we eventually fell asleep. It was never anything more, but it just felt right that we both were exactly where we wanted to be.

Years later and a state apart, in high school, I was always so frustrated that this sort of intimacy didn’t just happen naturally between my most intimate fiends and me. And I remember consciously pondering what could be so wrong with two guys holding each other? An answer that made sense never appeared. But the body language was painfully clear – the most intimate I would ever get is wrestling. We’d wrestle into the night. And the best part of having twins as best friends: it was always two on one.

And so this past weekend, I was holed up in the country with the five most important men in my life. It seemed so natural when we all awoke, that they brought their coffee into the room and climbed into bed with me. We lay there for an hour, chatting and cuddling. It was the best moment of the weekend. That moment when I arrived at my Eskimo Home.

Meditating on Meditations

I was in first grade, maybe kindergarten, when my mother enrolled me in an after-school art program, known as Caterpillar Wings. The first class, we made Thousand Island dressing and salad. It must have been a lesson on color and texture, and how it all worked together. Otherwise, why would we make salad dressing? Of course, looking back, maybe that’s why I can’t do a thing in the kitchen—it all looks pretty, but getting it to taste pretty is another issue.

As the class moved on, and my mother had me enrolled every Wednesday for years, we developed a routine of meditation and visualization before we set out to create anything. We were told it would help us to relax, which always baffled me. What is so stressful about a six-year-old’s life he has to meditate to relax? But I went through the motions every week, spending half the class relaxing before getting to the good stuff: the drawing, coloring, creating and crafting.

One week we were led through a specific visualization as we lay in the prone position on the living room carpet. We were to go on a journey to a great place. A place of magic, and a place of wonder. And then we were to return from this place. At the end of the visualization, we sat up, and each of us explained exactly where we went. Amy went to a pasture with horses. Scott went downhill skiing on the bunny slope. And I went to McKay’s Market, where I picked up Carpet Fresh, bringing it back to disguise the cat odor that lingered in the carpet where we visualized.

I don’t know if I was visualizing what I was supposed to visualize. I don’t know if my mind wandered in a way it wasn’t supposed. But I do know the next week, the room smelled of Carpet Fresh, and the cat odor was gone. Since then, I’ve never questioned the power of positive thinking.

Revelations

More Light. Less Filter.

Country Cousins

The country weekend was a study in redneck culture at an impeccably preserved 1970s family home - turned gay Bed & Breakfast. From the 18-year-old Bi-Lo Bagger Boy jacking off on the sofa while watching "Cum Shots Galore - 6 hours" to Country Cousin walking through the kitchen butt naked with a most impressive boner, we gained tremendous insight into the life and times of the Rural American Fag.

They have a hot tub, and the place is "clothing optional", so we were expecting naked men to be running around. But, apparently when the realized six city-fied fags from Atlanta were coming, they got on their CB's and radioed the entire queer population in Northeast South Carolina. So when we got back from dinner, the place was full of fags, and it didn't take long for the clothing to shed. All of ours.

Now, mind you, we don't have a problem with hanging out naked. But these queens took it a bit to the extreme. When the host ripped the towel off Big D's naked torso while he strolled through the kitchen, we knew he had planned on cooking up a sauce we had no intention of taste testing. So when someone put a porno in, we retreated to the safety of our shared suite. And when they came to search us out, we posed as boring, married couples, who are about to turn in early.

But that didn't deter what was brewing downstairs. If your perception of the Gay World is a pre-condom porno flick, then this place is the shit. Needless to say, spectacular time, in a saucy sort of way.

Valentine's Day

It's Valentine's Day. And while it is a good excuse to take a time out with my honey, I get tired of hearing all the single people whine in their loneliness. Do they know how hard it is to find that perfect valentine's gift? Do they know how hard it is to be thre right amount of romance, the right amount of frugelness, and the right amount of pacing? By pacing, I mean to not go so overboard, you've trapped yourself for all future Valentine's Days. Oh the stress.

Point to Ponder

The difference between genius and stupidity: genius knows its limitations.

Don't know who that is from, but it is a point to ponder.

Country Place

Looking forward to a weekend with the boys at the Country Place Inn. Cocktails, games, a hot tub and my favorite men. What more could there be to life?

This Just In

From the Most Popular boy in high school, not to mention *cute*:

BP Boy...
The new site is hilarious. Thanks for giving me a happy day.
Chaps

Suck The Culture Right Out of Society

We went to go see the Atlanta Ballet perform Dracula yesterday afternoon. Visually pleasing, stunningly choreographed, dramatic in its theatrics, not to mention homoerotic, the show was enjoyable to watch. It’s precision was inspiring. However, I didn’t make too many friends sitting around me. In fact, I downright pissed off the friends I came with. Seems no one took too kindly to my revelation at the first intermission, “It’s kind of dark and gothic – like Madonna in her ‘Like a Virgin’ days.” Apparently comparing high art to pop culture is a bit of a taboo. It’s “disrespectful” and “rude.”

I’ve always had the impression the mainstream arts, or Classical Arts, are self-glorified to the point where one can question whether it’s really art. But this impression didn’t form at one ballet. A few years back, the members of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra refused to play their season, and went on strike. They thought 14 weeks vacation and an average starting salary somewhere around $70k was not enough for the seasoned artist. Forgive me; but that sounds like a group of autoworkers, not cultural conveyers interpreting the world we live in.

I learned during the artists’ strike, from the propaganda the orchestra produced, that it was about respect. Respect the art. Respect the performer. What came through was a secondary message: don’t question the quality or the inspiration – it’s art. And art, good art at that, costs money. If that’s the case, then art exists for the sole sake of art itself. It has been reduced to an economic engine. And what ever happened to respecting the audience, and their interpretation of the artist’s interpretation? Or did that just never exist?

What I don't understand is why it's forbidden to talk about art and culture and it's impact on every day life. I mean we talk about sports heroes and their drug habits, and celebrities and their private lives. We talk about their influence on children, and turn to them as natural leaders, whether they were born to lead or not. But when we talk about something slightly meaningful, like the profound influence of an individual artist (in this case, Madonna) on all the performing arts, and conversely the art community's affect on an individual artist, it's suddenly taboo to correlate art to popular culture.

Now I've only been to three ballets, and I can't say that I saw the ballet pre-Madonna. So when it comes to ballet, I'm like a virgin, so-to-speak. But my hunch says the ballet has become increasingly elaborate. My hunch is that changes in society's expectations, fueled by corporate institutions like M-TV and FedEx (which continue to speed up our society), have forced the Ballet, as have all cultural institutions, to be more hip, and to push the mainstream envelope. They must reinvent themselves, or find themselves struggling for survival.

Why can't we acknowledge those forces that require the creative leaders of these institutions to look at their art and the way in which they interpret the world in entirely new perspectives? After all, that is the very essence of what they're trying to do for us as audience members, isn’t it? Why can’t we say “It was Madonna who took us to a new level”? After all, she never went on strike, abandoning her loyal audience because she didn’t have enough vacation time.

During the curtain call, we (as in the collect audience, we) gave at least three-and-one-half minutes of uninterrupted ovation. I worked my triceps on Friday, and, honey, that applause was some serious work. I about cramped up. As my triceps reverberated, I couldn't help but wonder why are we expected, as audience members, to provide standing ovations to a cast and crew, yet at the same time, forbidden to question their motives and influences? That, in itself, will be the death of culture. Not Madonna mimicking masturbation on a mattress.

Highlights From A Heretic Night

• Boys in the Dark's "Santa Maria" throbbing through the crowd, grinding with boys who looked like they just stepped off a very exotic Santa Maria.
  
• A herd of grizzly bears grabbing at me as if I were a salmon swimming up a mountain stream.
  
• Using amazing Marcia Brady-like moves on a block to captivate the entire dance floor in the course of one song, and then being asked to get off the block because my fabulousness is overwhelming.
  
• Over-sculpted eye brows and eye lashes, prompting images of a Macy's mannequin.

Here's the Shit

Dung-Diving Dog shows up today with a dislocated shoulder. She's hobbling around and whining. It's making the bleeding hearts well up with emotion.

Get A Load of This Crap

The office has been a bit of a puppy farm of late. Which is fine when the animals are well behaved, and the primary care taker watches over them closely. And when, I might add, the dog is not the devil incarnated. Devil Dog is a female chocolate lab. Dog lovers tell me they’re about the worst when it comes to their own agenda. And Devil Dog does. She has become so huge; she’s now letting herself out.

And today, she did such a thing. Which is fine, if she’s just going to go out and run around. But today, Devil Dog let herself out, and decided to roll around in dog crap. Now, we are a functioning office. A place of business. We don’t exactly have the facilities to handle an overly excited bundle of crap-covered puppy love.

Thank goodness I was not around. But when I returned, the office smelled funny (“Welcome to our orifice,” said Lee.), and everyone’s clothes were wet. Apparently, there was some team building – as the team made an attempt to bath the dog.

Now that’s a shitty job.

Killer Abs

I've been nautious now for about 8 hours. Seems that upset stomach of mine is not an upset stomach after all. Rather, it's my abs, convulsing in pain after my workout yesterday. The pain was enough last night to force me to sleep in the fetal position; the absolute worst thing I could do for that six-pack of mine.

Control Your Lust

Why would someone ever want to control my lust? And can my lust be controlled? At least one man in my life thinks he can control my lust. Direct it, guide it, and manipulate it? Maybe the same way a fortuneteller can read my mind.

Maybe he's on to something. Maybe my physical attractions are intrusive. Dad always got pissed when we went to the pool because I wouldn't get dressed - I was too distracted by the teenage boys running around. They were intriguing with their budding manhood. Beautiful in a boyish way yet macho in a masculine sense, the objects of my lust were stuck somewhere in between boy and man. They were not shy about their awkward bodies; rather, they were quite proud. This came through in the way they teased each other, played and interacted. Their naked confidence captivated me as a six-year-old. Would I run and play naked with the boys some day? Engage in locker room frolics?

Maybe that's why the YMCA scene in "Can't Stop the Music" is so spectacular. It has all the frivolity of my childhood pool house changing room, stripped of the awkwardness, and glorified with song and dance. It's a rousing celebration of the masculine order of the locker room.

Maybe that's why my lust must be controlled. Could it be others are not as open to such explicit celebration? Maybe he feels it's his community service to distract me from visually raping other men, admiring their spirit. Kind of an "I'll take the blow for the group," so to speak, so everyone can feel safe, and we can have a peaceful coexistence from my gazing eyes.

* * *

Lust is so much easier than love. Like getting all the benefits, only without the baggage. It's loving when it's convenient.

Very Cool Site

Laid-Off: A No Nothing Production