Broken

I hate hotel rooms. There is always something so depressing about them in their tasteful tastelessness. There is nothing to offend, yet nothing to please. They are mere waiting rooms, places to take shelter as you move from one place to another on a journey, with all the charm of a dentist’s waiting room. This particular room was a plain box, the proportions were utilitarian rather than attractive, the beds covered in a flowered print that only vaguely attempted to imitate chintz. It’s very cleanliness only added to its nondescript nature, its lack of character worse than tasteless. No odd touches of vulgarity to give it any sense of place, some touch that indicated any personal thought had gone into its design. Cheesy run down motel rooms have at least this to be said for them, the slightly grubby ambiance at least is an ambiance. This room was completely anonymous. There was nothing to be loved or remembered about a room like this. It’s sole purpose utility.

I also hate family gatherings for similar reasons. There is an artificiality to such gatherings that tends to make them either a labor of duty or an irritation. Everyone is on what passes for best company behavior, all the while everyone knowing there is really something else going on below the surface and waiting to see if that something is going to set some member of the family off. Another opportunity for the bad behavior that is the hallmark of our family life. Someone or other with an ax to grind, quietly waiting for any opportunity to bring out one of their grudges, ancient or current, and give it a good airing, though these days it is mostly my mother who is feeling aggrieved, the rest of us have long since retired from the field of battle. So having the 2 combined was not something I was inclined to look to as a source of enjoyment. Yet, there I found myself, in a hotel room in Poughkeepsie NY, talking with my older brother. The reason being, that we were to attend the wedding of my younger brothers daughter.

This wedding was already not the happy occasion that one would have hoped for. Miscommunication and old grudges having left me anxious and slightly depressed at my attendance. I worried about what my family would get up to, and if and when someone would start acting out and ruin the day for my niece. Invitations had been misdirected and feelings hurt. John’s daughters had not received an invitation, for that matter, neither had I. Phone calls were made, veiled accusations on my mothers part, implying that my younger brothers wife was behind all this. Misdirected invitations finally arrived but the whole engine of our family’s dysfunction was by now under full steam. John and his wife were at this point convinced by my mother that there were intentional slights being directed at them and their daughters. I was already growing disgusted with my mother and sister, but especially with John for playing into my mothers perpetual conviction of being slighted by everyone.

I don’t want to give anyone the wrong impression. My brother is a good man and I like him. But we had had a rocky relationship all through our childhood. To be blunt about it we couldn’t stand the sight of each other when we were kids and now we are always a little careful, a little reticent with each other. It is understandable.

John was something of a goody two shoes, and often a bully. A goody two shoes when my parents could see him and a bully when he was out of sight or earshot. The situation wasn’t improved any by my parents, especially my father, constantly harping at me about “why couldn’t I be like John”. John was smarter, bigger, more obedient, did better in school, was more devout which counted for a lot in my Catholic family and in general was a touchstone and a constant reminder of my own second class citizenship within the family. About the only thing he ever did that was in direct defiance of my parents was to get married young, before he had finished college.

The rigors of young adulthood have managed to knock off a lot of the rough edges of our relationship and the blessings of middle age have truly smoothed all of the old, irrelevant childhood grudges so carefully nursed over our twenties and early thirties. This was not such a difficult task with my younger brother Mike. If we sparred as kids, the scraps were soon forgotten, unlike the long drawn out battle between John and I. Another mitigating factor may have been that even before we moved out of the house, we were all leading separate lives. Their was no connection and so no real reason for the pretense of familial intimacy, and now, no sense of connection to create any friction other than slights or wrongs that are purely imaginary, so most conflicts are only slight and usually forgotten almost as soon as they are aired. It requires a commitment on both sides to maintain an argument and our lives are so separated that the necessary intimacy for sustained conflict is largely not there. The one overwhelming difference of opinion that has stood like the iron curtain between any truly final détente between John and I has been our Dad. For as long as I could remember John would simply not hear me say a word against Dad.

My father was an alcoholic and on top of that a mean drunk. So it was rather unfortunate that he couldn’t stand the sight of me when I was a kid. I remember joking once with a friend who came from an equally abusive background that I was 14 before I could recognize the old man without looking at the back of his hand first. A boy needs the support of his siblings when combating the forces of parental tyranny, and I was shit out of luck in that department.


In the world of my childhood memories it was every man for himself in our house. If our lives were bounded by an unreasoning tyranny imposed by my parents, there was no thought of a group rebellion. There were no alliances possible. The only things I could count on John for, was to rat me out, torment me with or without his buddies Norm and Pat or beat me up if he was bored.

Whatever the circumstance, the attitude of my parents over these confrontations was that I must have deserved it and sometimes it wasn’t worth complaining because with the old man there was always the chance of risking a double dose.

It was a strange way to grow up. I think everyone in that house was living some kind of separate life. In part it may have had something to do with the age differences. We were all 4 years apart, which as children is a vast chasm. We developed at our own rates each always slightly out of step with the other, each just that much younger to be a painful embarrassment to the older sibling.

John and Mike were athletic, and interested in those manly pursuits that were more in mesh with my father and his view of masculinity. They were always ready to go fishing or hunting with my father. Though that wasn’t entirely it. I would fish, though I never enjoyed it much and my father pretty much refused to take me hunting with him. Some of my lack of enthusiasm I think had to do with the fact that my father was never very good at disguising his distaste for me.

So family seemed from my point of view, a club from which I was excluded and in which I seemed to spend most of my time running to keep up, or being left behind. Children can sense these things and John always gave the impression that favor was his due, always seemed to capitalize on any given situation. Our childhood relationship seemed to be a combination of either trying to avoid or kill each other so I was not sorry to see John married and out of the house when I was 15.

As for my father, I think that from the time I was about 11 until the day I moved out of the house myself, I wished the man dead every day. I know that until I was 16 I was afraid to go home and looked for any excuse to be away.

I moved through a world where I never knew what was going to happen next. No, that’s not right. I knew what was going to happen next, I just didn’t know what would precipitate it. Whether through some fault real, imagined, mis-assigned, or simply that the old man had had a tough day. There really were days when he would walk into the house and “give me a thump” because he did not like the look on my face.

My personality didn’t do me any good services either. It wasn’t so much that I was defiant, but more like a small dog that would not back down when confronted by a Rottweiler. I didn’t instigate fights with my father, but when he came after me I was stupid enough to stand my ground. I remember one instance. My father had a nasty habit of deciding which chores he wanted completed. Then he would wait for us to be doing something we enjoyed and announce that we had to mow the lawn, weed the garden or paint the great pyramid at Giza. There were no arguments, or if there were, you earned at the very least a good clip before you got sent off, away from what ever you were doing to complete some task. It was bit sadistic.

I was watching “The Monkees” a show that I loved at the age of 12. The old man waited until the show had started and I was interested and announced that I had to mow the lawn. Needless to say, I was not thrilled and I doubt I went off to my assigned chore with anything like good grace. I fired the mower up and started to mow the half acre of lawn that the old man insisted on maintaining. However long it took, I don’t remember. I can tell you the TV show was long over by the time I got done. Then the old man came out to let me know I had spent my time far better mowing his lawn than by watching television. I can’t remember his exact words, though it was something to the effect that “wasn’t I happier now that the lawn was mowed.” I stupidly asked why I couldn’t have waited until the show was over. This started to set him off and he went on about the importance of getting his lawn mowed and that I should have been happy to do this, and now wasn’t I happier I’d mown the lawn than watched some stupid TV show that he hated? Moron that I was, I said no. He hauled off and hit me in the face so hard it broke my glasses. Then he really went after me because I had made him break my glasses.

There was no escape either. If I tried to avoid the old man, I would get in trouble for never spending any time at home and then I would try to make myself hang around the house and I would get “it” because I should have been out playing with the other kids, or doing some work around the place or anything that I happened not to be doing at the moment. If it sounds as though it was some sort of no win nightmare that is because it was.

Through those years the only significant change in my relationship with my father came on a day when one of his rages came careening out of nowhere to be grounded on me, and I had finally had enough.

I really thought the old bastard was going to kill me that time. He came after me, screaming at me and with a rare insight accusing me of being gay. I was an exceptionally slow learner and I had not figured that one out myself yet. He started in on me and I got frightened as yet another beating began, this time even more uncontrolled than usual, and my own anger started to boil up after all of the years of having Dad use me for his whipping boy. At first I assumed the usual defensive posture, the idea of trying to fight back was an idea out of my frame of reference. Then the fight or flight instinct took over and after I finally managed to get away from him, I ran out of the house, and the old man followed hot on my heels. Looking back, I probably should have kept running and never looked back. Instead, that day, in the front yard, we finally had it out as much as we ever would. Dad and I both out of control at that point, with my mother calling from the porch door for us to come inside as we stood out on the lawn, nose to nose screaming at each other. My mother finally saying something stupid to me about coming back in the house, all of the neighbors could hear us and me shouting at her “Why, so you can let this bastard kill me?” It only ended when I threatening the old man that if he ever laid a hand on me again I would kill him. The sheer audacity seemed to take the wind out of him. Maybe he saw that at that point I would have killed him without a second thought. He stormed back off to his beer and I stomped off to my room.

From that point on we rarely spoke except to snarl at each other and the only times we sat down at the same table to eat was at Thanksgiving, Easter and Christmas, and then only after my mother had given us both separate lectures about what 7 kinds of merry hell she would make of our lives if we didn’t behave ourselves.

Throughout all this, John was not remiss in handing out his own brand of bullying. “Girl”, “Foureyes” and I now remember when he was taking French, “jeune fil” were all used liberally. If he wasn’t ridiculing me in front of my parents, he was ridiculing me in front of his friends. This led often to tussles all of which I came out on the worst end of. I was smaller and weaker. I didn’t do the things he did, share the same interests, and I was “weird”. By the time I was 10, John pretty much enjoyed the same status as my father as far as people to avoid went. Then John got married. He was out of the house and so our confrontations became fewer and further between, simply by virtue of his absence.

Life moved on and eventually I went to college. It wasn’t a huge improvement since my mother insisted that I remain at home, so I dropped out of college for the first time, and moved away. By that time the old man and Doris had quit drinking. I do remember Dad cried when I left, and I know he cries every time I leave on the rare occasions I go to visit. A few years ago I was making one of my obligatory periodic phone calls home and when I was talking to the old man, out of the blue he said to me, “I know I wasn’t a good father to you, son. I hope you forgive me.”, and started crying. I told him it was okay, and oddly, it is.

From the time I was 20 and moved away, and for the next 25 years I went my own way. Perhaps it was the time we all lived in which had not developed a place for gay children in families. I was an unspoken secret, and in many ways was allowed to remain in the family only on sufferance, and so as time progressed I began to keep my family at arms length in turn. I made the obligatory visits home for holidays and special occasions, but as time progressed, the visits became more uncomfortable and less frequent.

It was far from all bad. Like so many in my generation I created a family of my own among the friends I made. It was a more accepting family and one I grew to depend on more than those to whom I had only a biological connection. The distance between my family and me continued to grow. I had my ups and downs, and it became clear that the people I could count on were not the people with whom I cohabitated for the first 18 years of my life.

Initially it was very hurtful. The exclusion was sometimes subtle, sometimes blatant, it always sent a clear message of second class citizenship.

However as my friendships deepened and this new life that I was leading became the norm, the people I could claim kinship to became more foreign to me. I began to visit my family less and less, and concentrated more and more on my adoptive family, until all holidays, which I had come to dread having to spend with my family, were spent with people I loved and who loved me in return. Parents, brothers and sisters took more and more of a back seat.

Time went on and with time came change. After a couple of my cousins came out, my mother decided she couldn’t be outdone and I was welcomed back into the fold as a sort of trophy. A sort of “me too” status symbol for the family.

My father had a heart attack and retired and the family rallied around. John as always was the dutiful son. The one to be counted on and in many ways, the only one of the children whose opinion counted. My mother began to hold my fathers illness over us like some sort of ax. “You really should make the effort to come and visit a little more often. We don’t know how much longer your father will be with us.” But as time passed and the old man showed no signs of checking out anytime in the immediate future, so we drifted yet again. For my part, I have developed a certain amount of coldness, a reluctance to place too much faith or effort in people who I felt had in many ways, turned their backs on me and who I in turn, turned my back on.

By that point I had tried talking to John about our childhood and about the amount of abuse we had taken as kids. He just wasn’t hearing it. I remember my parents 50th anniversary party, John got up to say a few words about what wonderful parents Mom and Dad were, and he made sure to make a few pointed remarks, that some people might think the old man was too hard on us, and some might be silly enough to think that we had been abused while looking directly at me. That brought the temperature down between us yet again. After that we really didn’t talk for a while.

A couple of years later John had a bout with cancer. It changed him. As I said at the outset, John is a good man, so the change for lack of a better way of putting it was that the illness matured him. After surgery, treatment and remission, John stopped being a slavishly devoted son. Finally, it had stopped being important to him that he be the responsible oldest son and whatever recognition he had previously felt was his due was just not all that important anymore. At first it seemed like too little too late, but we made a start. We were talking more honestly on those occasions when we did speak, but our communications were few and far between still.

Eventually we talked a bit more, each time a little more honestly. Mostly we complained about how difficult my mother has become to deal with and how my father, now something of an invalid is a virtual prisoner to my mothers strictures. We talked about her interference in her adult children’s lives. I was enlightened on the topic of her behavior towards her daughter-in-laws, which I had observed before, and while I knew just how badly she behaved towards my younger brothers wife, I had had no idea of just how unpleasant she had been to John’s wife.

Usually we would meet before putting in an appearance at home, complain at length about Mom and finally come to the conclusion that in the end the best thing to do is simply agree with anything she says and then ignore it, because it will all blow over when the next inevitable drama of the old lady’s manufacture usurps the preceding drama. Still though, whenever the topic turned to Dad it would be some story about the old man doing this or doing that and always with a tone of admiration from my brothers regardless of how appalling Dad’s behavior was in these stories.

So now I found myself in a hotel room with John and wishing I was elsewhere. Not because I dislike him, but because I have so often felt as though we have little in common, and often nothing to say to each other. So we started to talk about inconsequential things, work, what we have been doing to pass time and eventually the conversation turned to family and dealing with Mom and my sister who is a sort of mom junior.

John kept talking and started to talk about when we were kids and about my father, but it was unlike anything he had ever said before.

He began to tell me about my father and his women, something I had found out about as an adult, but what John told me about were the fishing trips. My father would announce he was taking John fishing and then they would stop and pick up “a friend”. Eventually, John would get sent back to the car for beer for Dad or some other excuse, so that the old man could have some time alone with his girlfriend.

He talked about the democratic beatings, when Dad would get so bent out of shape if one of us had done something wrong that there was plenty for everyone. I am ashamed to say that John also reminded me that when he had done something wrong and the old man had the belt out, he would beg Dad to give him another whipping rather than Mike or I get “it” as well.

He remembered bitterly, “There might not have been enough money for a decent meal on the table but there was always enough money for beer.” With that memories I thought long dead began to seep in, the scant meals, dinners of crepes and brown sugar, or margarine sandwiches. There were the shouting matches between my parents, the dark pit of childhood where nothing was certain and nothing was safe. Every word coming up through the stove pipe holes in the floor.

There was the party where somehow he had got up on the roof of the local college where he worked and shouting “Look at me I’m Superman!” had jumped off. It was only one story high, but I am not sure how that would have turned out if his drinking buddy Eddie hadn’t been there to catch him.

He reminded me of Mom driving the old man home from parties so drunk he couldn’t walk. “He’d be shouting at me, John said, ‘You think I’m drunk, don’t you, you little bastard. I’ll beat the shit out of you and you’ll see how drunk I am…’, He was too drunk to move, and I would have to put him to bed.”, John told me. And I remembered.

I began to tell John some of my stories, and back an forth and sometimes with shared memories in chorus, walking through that black nightmare of childhood, but this time together instead of wandering alone.

“Do you remember the time he almost burned the house down when he passed out in front of the TV?” and John remembered. It was when he was still dating his wife. The old man had passed out in front of the TV. I was upstairs with my younger brother and I started to smell smoke. Dad had left a pot on the stove. I got Mike and my sister who was a baby at the time out of the house, and John pulled into the driveway. Together we put the fire out. It was just the pan, though the kitchen was pretty blackened from smoke. Mom was away, but was due home the next day and we had to spend the day cleaning the kitchen so she wouldn’t find out.

“Did I tell you about having to stop him from slapping the baby because she wouldn’t stop crying?” I asked. And then related that tale, of getting the old man away from the crib and guiding him back to the easy chair, which was his favorite perch to pass out in, receiving the admonition that I’d “better keep her quiet or he’d really give her something to cry about!” and then spending the night walking the baby.

Finally, John said to me, “Do you know why I got married so young?”


“To get the fuck out of the house?” I asked.

“I was working nights on the work study program when I was still living at home.” He told me, “I had come home from work and was making myself breakfast. I was in the kitchen in my bare feet cooking some eggs, when the old man got up to make his breakfast. He went to the refrigerator and when he saw I had used the last 2 eggs he came over and stomped down as hard as he could on my foot with his work boot. That afternoon I called up my wife and told her we had to get married as soon as possible or I was going to kill my father.”

“Just before the wedding Dad asked me what I wanted as a wedding gift, John said, I told him I wanted him to stop drinking.”

Then he just looked at me with tears in his eyes and said “We are such a fucked up family. We don’t talk to each other, we don’t visit each other and now I’m going to this wedding I don’t want to go to and where I feel like my brother and his wife don’t want me.” By this time he was crying and for the first time in living memory, I behaved like a brother and put my arms around him and comforted him. Two middle aged men in an anonymous room, locked in their own anonymous rooms, where they had been waiting for too many years, before it was time to move on, on their journeys.

Once, some years ago I was talking with friends and we were discussing our childhoods. I had related some story about mine, and one friend just looked at me in horror and said “Man, you are so broken.” It feels like that is true and my brother is also broken. We have each been wandering around, me without the knowledge of how truly terrible John’s childhood was, remembering only what seemed like his charmed status as oldest son, and John until now not knowing how close a thing it was for me. Where do we go from here? We have both been carrying burdens separately for such a long and lonely time, where do we meet to share this heavy load.

John is still a Catholic and he worries about my younger brother and I because we are atheists. So there is no common ground there, but I have taken away something from all of those years in Catholic education, I believe in redemption and forgiveness. Forgetfulness is not an option, I will carry some things around for the rest of my life. Forgiveness is difficult but it can be done. I have forgiven my father, the slightly sad man who worries that he will burn in hell for the things he has done. I will never forgive the man he was before, who took his frustrations and anger out on his children. Forgiveness comes harder for my mother, who tries to pretend that things were never as bad as I claim they were. As for John and I, if we find some way to forgive ourselves for abandoning each other in order to survive then there is hope, because we were children and we should not have had to protect or abandon each other in order to live through those years. At least we have made a start, we have started acting like brothers.

Traffic safety

My pal La Simpatica has been having a tough time of it lately, so we went out to lunch together yesterday to discuss life's problems and get the hell away from the madness that is our place of work.

Our destination was on the other side of campus and you have to cross a couple of busy intersections to get there.

We had our lunch, mulled over our problems and got up from the table feeling a little better that we had had the opportunity to at least vent a little.

I am sure I have mentioned that La Simpatica is a very attractive woman. Guys kind of can't help drooling while they are talking to her and at one point an undergrad was making a serious attempt to get her out on a date. What I may not have mentioned is that she is also in possession of, for lack of a more elegant phrase, knockers. Whoever designs this womans bras deserves a Nobel prize for engineering. I'm impressed and I'm not even batting for her team.

At any rate. We got to the first of the very busy intersections which are now buzzing with lunch time traffic. Suddenly, SUV's being driven by straight guys who wouldn't touch the brakes if there was a brick wall in the middle of the road are slamming on the brakes, goggle eyed, grinning like idiots and wildly waving us across the street!

La Simpatica looks at me, smiles and says, "These big boobies will do it every time."

I think if the girl decides to change jobs she has a big future in traffic control.

They're back.....

I was running a little late this morning, so it wasn't till 6:30 that I was walking down Fenway on my way to take the train to the gym and there they were. An army of SUV's, mini vans and station wagons. The students are back and anyone with an ounce of sense will avoid any retail outlet or tourist venue for the weekend.

I arrived in this city myself as a student, but this was back at the dawn of time, so things were a bit different. Generally speaking, once you were out of your parents house, you were on your own. Some people were getting a bit of financial assistance, or pieces of furniture from various basements, attics or garages and maybe a few bucks pocket money to tide them over the first few weeks. Now, anxious parents are buying out big box stores, purchasing condos, depleting the stocks of supermarkets and arranging everything short of au pairs for their college student offspring. Wide screen TV's? My friends were lucky if their parents relinquished the old rec room black and white set with a coat hanger for an antennae.

I can only assume that these parents intentions are the best, but I don't think they are doing their children any service. College used to be a rite of passage into adulthood. Now it seems more like an extension of day camp. Institutions of higher learning are viewed as high end baby sitting services and it is somehow the universities fault if their kids are not doing their work, making decent grades or are getting into trouble. Working at a school I am fortunate in that I have very little contact with the undergraduates. I hear stories though. There are parents that are calling on a weekly basis to make sure that their little darling is dressing warmly and that angelcakes special requirements are being met and that no one is doing anything to upset those delicate sensibilities.

It's not just the freshmen either. One friend at work told me about a couple of cases where graduating seniors had their parents go with them on job interviews to negotiate salaries! In one case, after the kid started, he got yelled at by his boss and his mother called his place of work the next day, very upset, because her little darlings feelings had been hurt! Isn't that just so special? I personally would have fired the kid on the spot. If he doesn't have the maturity to fight his own battles or at least keep his mother shut up, he has no place in the work force.

Parents need to back off. Cut the umbilical. Push the kids out of the nest. Choose your metaphor. We wonder why the country is in the shape it's in? Maybe it's because we have decided that no one is capable of taking care of themselves and that it is the responsibility of education and employers to continue to hold the hands of peoples adult children. Does infantilizing young adults improve their ability to cope with the real world? More importantly what are these parents thinking?

Speaking as a middle aged man with a mother who still persists in trying to dictate to him, I can say that having a meddling parent is not even remotely helpful. The only lesson I took away from it was that when my daughter went off on her own I adopted a noninterference policy that has held me in good stead for the past several years. The daughters mistakes were hers to make and if it was painful to witness, it was also a bit gratifying to watch as she mustered up the maturity and courage to deal with her own problems and to feel as though I had played some small part in helping shape her ability to function as an adult. Of course, I am with rather limited means, so there has been very little I could do to smooth the path, but I didn't feel the need to call up her bosses and tell them to stop being meanies when my little angel was having troubles at work either.

So, all of these really special college kids are once again invading our fair city. They will congest the sidewalks, be rude and feckless and feel as though it is their right to behave as badly as they choose. That, yes as a matter of fact they do own the sidewalk and the amenities, that they have been assured by their doting parents that they are indeed entitled to do exactly as they please, that it is wrong for others to behave in exactly the same way if that will upset these little prodigies and everyone really should get out of their way and let them do what they want or they will throw a tantrum.

The first few weeks are always the worst, then classes and the New England winter weather drives them indoors and they are somewhat less underfoot. Oh well, there is always Memorial Day and the grand exodus to look forward to.

One of those days

Going to the dentist this morning and finding out I need 4 teeth crowned was the best part of my day. I'm not joking.

By the time 2:00 rolled around I was ready to douse myself with gasoline set myself alight, jump from the roof onto a pile of sharp rocks. If I could have figured a way to arrange a convoy of semi's to then come barreling through, I would have done it.

I have been really busy lately with one big project, and a lot of little projects. The big project looked as though it was doomed to failure. I had been having to deal with a group of people, all of whom had opinions. All different. Decisions kept getting delayed, people kept changing their minds and the clock was running. Somehow, I managed to bring it in on time. This involved a certain amount of begging, pleading and groveling, but I did it.

That is when all the small projects decided to turn to shit.

You are probably asking, "Where's Monkey?" The answer is buried alive under the steaming pile of shit that has been dumped on him. The most that either of us have been able to do for each other has been to occasionally drag each other away from our respective desks, in order to prevent us from doing harm to ourselves or others.

So, imagine my surprise when I got a call from a florist asking for directions to my office. A short while later I was in possession of a big basket of cookies directed to me and the Monkey. RG having heard ALL about our recent travails decided we needed cheering up.

Yes, a glorious basket of sugar and carbohydrates! If you think I give a shit about my diet at this point, you are sadly mistaken. I don't think we are planning on sharing and since there are no asshole cookies, we won't be giving any to our oppressors either.

Back to school

I was reminded yesterday, by C., that next weekend is the Labor Day weekend. How the hell did that happen? While the past couple of weeks have, by virtue of the stifling weather, crawled by, the summer has pretty much flown. What ever happened to the long lazy summers of my childhood? What ever happened to the warning shot over the bow that summer is drawing to a close?

I sometimes have a hard time after 30 odd years of life in the city remembering what summer was like when I was a kid, though I can remember the signal to the end of summer as clearly as if it was yesterday even though the world of rural Vermont where I grew up is as far away and improbable as a fairy tale.

The true signal to the end of summer when I was a kid would be the day that Doris would announce that we would be going to Rutland to shop for school clothes. My father worked for the state, so payday arrived bi-weekly on Thursdays. When the fateful Thursday would arrive, we would get piled into the '53 Ford and head up Route 4 to Rutland. This was before the days that the highway had arrived and we would take the winding road, through Castleton, Hubbarton, Putney, Ira and West Rutland, traveling from the valley up through the foothills, past Birdseye Mt. Farms and isolated homes were the furniture of the landscape in the distance the mountains would loom green in the foreground and indeed going to purple in the distance. The cool days and cold nights not yet setting the mountains on fire with the colors of autumn.

Looking back now, I realize how dangerous some of these stretches of road were. Narrow roads cutting around properties and natural barriers, semi's barreling around sharp turns, but the sensation of traveling through the hills, in between them and sometimes, precipitously on the sides is not to be compared to the rather pedestrian experience of the safe, gently curving highways that would cut across natural barriers and through forest, farmland and the granite of the mountains themselves and would replace these old roads.

Eventually, the old Ford would pull into a parking space hot as an oven. Those were the days when air conditioned cars were a rarity for the wealthy, or at least the middle class who seemed wealthy to us. There were no rolled down windows on those days. The best we could hope for was that we would be allowed to open the wing vents to let some air circulate in that rolling steel oven. Doris would have done her hair put on a nice dress and heels and in my early childhood, gloves and a hat. In those days a woman would no more think about going grocery shopping without getting properly dressed first than she would contemplate leaving the house naked. Any woman foolish enough to go to the grocery store in curlers would be talked about for weeks over coffee in various kitchens.

After a final spray of Adorn, Doris was ready to face Rutland and was not about to be mussed by any refreshing air pouring through open windows. We had not escaped either. We had been scrubbed, combed and dressed and threatened with the direst of consequences if we dared to even think about getting dirty before we got in the car. Somehow, we managed to escape the fate of some of our friends and were not throttled by having to wear ties. I guess even Doris thought that was overkill.

For all of the dread that school shopping would bring, there was also the frisson of excitement. There was Woolworth's, Fishman's, Montgomery Ward's and Ames. There was the annual visit to the shoe store, where our feet would be measured and if we could beg the change off our mother, the florescope that let you see the bones in your feet! I don't remember any ritual order of shopping. The progress through the stores was ad hoc. Sometimes if we had been behaving and Doris was feeling generous, there would be an ice cream sundae or a banana split at the counter of Woolworth's with it's shining glass cases, the bright appealing colors of the desserts on display and the enticing smell of the nuts in the roaster at the counter.

Mostly though Doris was all business. Pastel button down shirts and perhaps the occasional plaid. Slacks. At St. Mary's, indeed even at the public school, jeans were forbidden. In hindsight the idea that blue jeans were forbidden as school wear in a farm district, where most kids were doing barn chores before school and stepped off the bus to do yet more work at the end of the school day seems more than a bit odd, but it was the case. Instead we wore slacks. Not chinos, slacks. Glenn plaid, herringbone, houndstooth, tweeds and flannels. Everything, to our howls of protest, was purchased with room to grow. Pants that would later be taken up in anticipation of being "let down" as the school year progressed. Cloths were held up, sweaters were forced over heads, arms stuffed forcefully into sleeves. A process to be repeated in each store we visited as childish patience was exhausted and maternal patience worn thin with the cry of "Do I have to?" Until finally the dreaded day was done, all parties tired out, the Ford pulled into the driveway and We were dressed like miniature adults, heading off to our offices. It wouldn't be until I was in my junior year of high school that the school systems would finally catch up to the flood of change that the 60's brought, but in 1963 the 50's of Ozzie and Harriet, Father Knows Best and residual McCarthyism was still hanging onto our little corner of the world with a death grip.

Within a few years, everything would change. My parents alcoholism would deepen, and my mother would pronounce that she was not going to waste that kind of money on clothes that we would only outgrow, cheap clothes and seconds would become the norm in order to save money wasted on children that could be better spent on beer and shopping would take place in outlet stores.

Viet Nam which was a strange place half way around the world and only existed in geography books would burn itself on the national conscience and a war would be watched on TV's across the nation and our country would find itself in a storm of change because of it.

The highway system would cut through mountains and farmland where the old country routes had skirted and meandered around properties and natural barriers and would both physically and metaphorically bring the rest of the world to our doorsteps.

But before that we lived in a brief window of time which looking back as an adult, only existed in my perception of the world as a child. Untroubled by a larger world, that made Burlington on the other end of Lake Champlain seem as distant and exotic as China had not yet broken the spell. Childhood still unaware of the ugly changes that were taking place in our own family. The biggest worry was changing from Sister Perpetua's class to that of Sister Grace Mary and the dread of being bathed within an inch of ones life and then sent off to the first day of school.

Happy Birthday RG

After a very quiet 3 days off, I took RG out for dinner for his birthday. Needless to say it was a very entertaining evening. I had intended to take him to my favorite neighborhood trattoria. I did not however have the foresight to check and they were closed for summer holidays. So it was off around the corner to another neighborhood spot for lots of carbohydrates in cream sauce.

2 glasses of wine later we were in fine spirits. I should point out that neither of us really drinks. You can imagine. We talked about families, men and general nonsense and I think RG had a good evening. As hard as it may be to imagine, the boy is even funnier in person than he is on his blog. Not that he doesn't have his serious side, but even when discussing serious matters he is one of those rare people that can keep his sense of humor about things.

It was a fine night after a rather oppressive weekend, so we ate outside and RG made sure to grab the chair facing the sidewalk so he could people watch. It was a great evening for sitting outside and watching the life of the city go by. Being old farts we also managed to reminisce about the bad old days when we were both much younger and gay life was, at least to our eyes, a bit more colorful. All the while people wandered past, presenting themselves for RG's appraisal. It's always nice when the world decides to cooperate.

Eventually the check came and fortunately there was no embarrassing moment with, oops, I don't have enough money and then RG suggested we head off for coffee to counteract the effects of the wine. We went to the Starbucks near the Landmark Center, a mall, office complex which back before the surface of the earth cooled had been a Sears. It is one of those post war buildings that while mass produced is actually quite handsome, and even if it wasn't, it made a great perch to watch all of the new college arrivals. We compared notes and came to much the same conclusions about everyone we saw pass by.

After a rather long period of brain deadening at work, the evening was a great remedy. After all what is better than sitting around with a friend and reviewing the past, checking out all of the new cuties and making a spirited attempt at digesting a big dinner.

Tomorrow it's back to the grind, but for tonight it was nice to have a summer evening like I remember good summer evenings being, back when I was younger and the world seemed greener.

Suprisingly functional

Afternoon smoke break.

Monkey: "It's all because I was raised by nerd-wolves."

Me: "It could be worse. You could have been raised by crazy alcoholic wolves."

Monkey: "That's true."

After a moments thought I said, "No, that's not fair, I've met your family"

Monkey: "You know, you're right. Actually, all things considered, we're surprisingly functional. We should have that printed on business cards, our names with, Surprisingly Functional."

More garden photos

I was out in the garden yesterday and caught some wildlife with the camera. There were a lot of Monarch butterflies and Goldfinches around. The finches are very shy, so this is the best I could do. I'm going to have to either try harder or get a better camera.






That's all I got.

Making sense of stupid

As Monkey and I were getting ready to leave work he was checking his junk mail. "Oh, another free daily planner." Opening another envelope."And yet another, but you can tell this one is for women, it's pink, and it has the phases of the moon so you can keep track of your period!" He shoves them into the miscellaneous drawer. "It's a good thing the Uber Boss doesn't see these things. She'd probably have me ordering them for everyone in the department.

I can hear her now, 'They're soooo helpful. I'm so much more organized than I was before, everyone needs to start using it, because everyone thinks the way I do. Besides they're pink, and they're so cute!'

"No one thinks the way that Uber Boss does."

I thought about that for a second. "On the little gauges on your brain, Uber Boss is riding dangerously low on Common Sense. I'd say the needle is hovering right over Empty. But the Stupid Gauge is topped right up to full. As a matter of fact the auxiliary tanks has plenty of stupid in it as well", I stated.

Monkey thought about this for a minute. "Okay. What you're saying is stupidity isn't the absence of intelligence, it's its own thing?"

"Yup.", I said.

Monkey thought about this a little more. "All right, that makes sense. By the end of the day at work, my stupid level has usually gone up."

See even stupid makes sense if you think about it.

Morning view

I am still pretty much dead from the neck up, however my misery was alleviated somewhat this morning by male hotness. If nothing else I am still able to register when good looking guys walk into the room and 3 of the regulars at my gym, who would qualify as hot in anybodies book were all working out in the free weight room this morning. This was fine, except I kept loosing count of how many crunches I was doing, which is not a bad thing, since I could use with tightening up the old midsection. It was also slightly painful, since I am trying out some more intense movements and, well, ow.

This was all scenery by the way folks. One of these guys isn't batting for my team and the other 2 are way out of my league. That said they are all nice guys and they are a distinct improvement on the morning scenery. I just felt like I needed a drool rag by the time I was done.

Having dutifully attempted to burn off some excess fat, I showered and shaved and then headed off to Park Street to catch the train to work. Standing on the platform was this bald hotty that I have been admiring on my morning commute for a few weeks now. There has been a certain amount of eye contact and smiling that has gone on which has set my little ganomey heart aflutter, so today, somewhat emboldened, I said hello. That was about it, other than a little flirtatious eye contact as we got on the train. Once on the train I noticed 2 things. He has really nice hands. He also had what would appear to be a wedding ring on one of those hands.

Fuck.

I can't say I was surprised. My immediate reaction when I saw this guy was, "He's gotta be taken. They don't leave ones like that just lying around." This isn't going to stop me from trying to chat this character up, I just will now be keeping my expectations realistic.

As a consolation prize, I will be having lunch with this guy, which will not only provide good conversation, but also make me take some time away from my desk. Considering what work life has been like lately, this is a good thing.

Speaking of, I have to go and attend to all of the whiners instead of blogging. Catch ya' later, kids!

Nothin' Much

Gah! I'm sorry if I've been negligent, but work life has been something of a shit storm. Not that there hasn't been plenty of things to observe and write about. I just am finding myself too busy or too tired to write much about things at the moment. I will be taking notes however, and once the dust settles I will have a couple of things to rant about.

In the mean time, I just wanted to thank Gavin over at Why Oh Why, for the very nice mention of me and my blogging buds RG and that handsome Hoosier, Mike. Who knows, if I find a few minutes before the day is over I will get something of interest off.

Until then, I at least am thinking about blogging about something!

Year One

I have just realized that I have been blogging for a whole year! Well, actually it was a whole year as of yesterday. Time flies!

Our buddy Monkey set me up with a blogger account and I have been off and running ever since. It has been an interesting experience. I began imagining that I would basically be talking to myself. I have found over the months new friends and regular visitors. I was more than a little skeptical of the idea of blogging as a social networking tool.

Over the past few months I have met a lot of great people online and a few of you in person. All in all , it has not been what I expected and is proving to be fun and at times frustrating, when I feel like I have nothing to say.

So, I guess it's happy birthday to the Evil Ganome. Thanks for egging me on. God only knows what I'll be writing next!

In other news

This spring The Niece regifted me with a gift certificate for one of my favorite nurseries and I got another clematis. It has decided it likes me and has started to bloom. Pretty sweet, huh?

Getting my game on.

This morning once again proved that sex is better than football, regardless of what Cowbell has to say.

For starters, you do not go at it for about 2 seconds and then have to spend 20 minutes getting back into position while some high school marching band plays irritating, jangly, interpretations of pop tunes that make you want to jam sharp pencils into your ears to make it stop.

You do not have to wear a helmet and 40 lbs. of protective padding.

There is no jerk in a striped jersey blowing a whistle at you.

It does not require a coach to tell you what to do next.

You do not have to hire a squad of cheerleaders.

You do no have a stadium full of fat drunks watching you.

There is a far slimmer chance you are going to break anything while having sex. Okay, at least not in a bad way.

If I have any complaint about this mornings game, it is that while we were ready willing and able to go into overtime, we had to go to work and FB was being all Mr. Responsible. (If it had been my decision, we'd probably still be going at it)

In case you haven't guessed, FB emailed me and we were doing the deed from around 6 this morning till a little after 8. That's when he looked at the clock, said he had to be at work at 9, and we went for the touchdown.

I am hoping he has a lovely vacation with the sibs on Lake Michigan and that he gets lots of rest, because I'm already up for a rematch.

Tweeked

Here is a picture of what my sunflowers looked like a couple of days ago. Sadly they were knocked down and more or less fucked up beyond hope by some tweeker who jumped the fence into my garden. I shouldn't complain too much. It is the first time my garden was vandalized this year. It is one of the hazards of gardening in the city and should be expected. I think I found this particularly annoying though, since as my friend and neighbor Mike pointed out, sunflowers take so long to get to maturity. Oh well. Life in the big city.

Aaaarghhh...

I am personally going to tear down Fenway Stadium, sow the earth with salt, put all the fat, weeble assed fans to the sword and force the morons on the team into jobs more appropriate to their intellectual talents. Serving burgers and working in stock rooms comes to mind.

There is a game on. This leads to certain problems for those without residential permits. FB does not have a neighborhood sticker. The last time he came over when there was a game on, he got towed. We agreed that it was not necessarily a great idea for him to come over on game nights. We had neglected to consult the game schedule earlier. There is a game on tonight.

I hope the Sox loose miserably, or at least more miserably than usual and that the even bigger morons who are willing to take out a mortgage to watch a game that has all the thrills of paint drying kill there stupid selves in a fit of despair and that the knuckleheads that are rewarded with millions of dollars for playing this dismally pointless game are torn limb from limb by wild animals.

I ain't getting any tonight! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take care of something by myself.

Mondays

It has been a Monday all around. I have been run off my feet for most of the day, which at least has had the virtue of keeping me busy and making the day go quickly. I have had to deal with expense accounts, travel, new scholars, moving furniture, and even running to the hardware store to purchase nuts and bolts to effect a repair on some department equipment by the simple expedient that it would be faster and easier to just do it myself.

I have also been dealing with some personal stuff either via email or over the phone. Email involves the ever elusive FB, who is in the mood it seems to tear off a quick one before he heads off to Michigan for some quality time with the family. I should point out that a quick one with this character is usually around 2 hours. Fortunately he is young, so I don't have to worry about breaking him.

Cell phone conversation was not so light hearted. A friend, really more of an acquaintance just found out he is positive and is needing support. He still seems to be a bit shell shocked and seems to both want company and not want company. We chatted for a bit and finally made a date to go to the movies. 5 minutes later he called to cancel. Since I am not sure how I'd be reacting to the news, I am willing to be patient with any erratic behavior and I will try and make myself available to hang out and also to get stood up until he has a handle on things. As I said, we are not close friends, but I don't think he has many close friends, so I guess I should take it as a compliment that he feels as though I am dependable enough to lend a shoulder to cry on at this time.

The day itself is an interesting mixture of summer in New England. We started off pleasantly warm and fairly sunny, by noon the humidity had climbed up and the skies were a solid grey. We have been treated to some thunder and torrential rain, though I have not seen any flashes of lightning. Maybe they are saving the big show for the walk home. I can see it now, walking across the Mass. Ave. bridge, the cell phone goes off, it's FB so naturally I answer, big flash of lightning and I wind up as a small pile of charcoal. This would suck in so many ways, but especially in the not getting laid department.

All in all, it's a Monday. The weekend went too quickly and I am pretty sure the week itself will drag out for what seems like a month. However, I have a fun romp to look forward to tonight and for the rest of the week Monkey and I can continue to plan our overthrow of the department.

Daddy update

It has been another rather tropical week here in Boston. One of my garden neighbors has described the air quality as moist and chewy. It seems in my old age that this kind of weather has the same effect on my brain functions that cold weather has on molasses. Ideas tend to crawl rather than flow.

To attempt to get things a bit more current I will see if I can kick start my brain and remember anything of note that has been going on over the past couple of weeks.

I made a reference to daddyliciousness in my last post. I was taken out to dinner at a fairly trendy tapas joint the other week by my friend Wahz and we were joined by C. It was a very nice time and the food was delicious. To add to the mix, we were also treated to some people watching. The restaurant is one of those destinations in the South End where the hip can go an be seen to be seen. Boston is not a big fashion town, so you have to know which little enclaves to go to, in order to see the painfully hip. One of the servers managed to make it into that category. We called her the scary waitress. The poor dear looked like she had been missing meals and manifested the arrogant countenance of someone who found it very trying to have to wait on people who were so old and out of it and should really have gone off to Denny's for the senior special.

I frankly didn't get it. Aside from looking like she had dressed out of the free box at the corner, there was her hair. It looked rather like she had not washed or combed it for at least a week. Is bed head the hot new hair style for young female hipsters?

However I have to admit that she may have had a point. Not that the 3 geezer gourmets were in any way unable to appreciate our food, but C. was the only member of the party that looked as though he had dressed for the occasion. Wahz and I had dressed for the weather and not the occasion, and if W. was, to be honest, looking like a slob, I wasn't looking much less dowdy. I suspect the cream colored aloha shirt and white shorts made me look like someones grandfather out for an evening at "The Cheesecake Factory". Still I was decently covered and able to cope with the tropical conditions here in Boston.

The meal as I said was delicious, and I had a very nice time, in spite of the fact that I should have been shipped off to some colony for the hopelessly geriatric and unhip and after we had done a certain amount of violence to Wahz exchequer we headed back towards our own part of town.

We had only got as far as the corner of Washington and Mass. Ave. when I found myself being cruised by some 30 year old. WTF! As I said, I was not exactly looking my best and I should point out that I will be walking with Monkey and he will suddenly announce,"You were just SO cruised!" I will usually give him a blank look and have to ask who supposedly was checking out my past the sell date ass. In order for me to notice that anyone is giving me the eye, they practically have to jump up and down in front of me, wave their arms and shout. So, when I say this young fellow was giving me the glad eye, he wasn't being at all subtle about it. It was a nice little ego boost, if a bit odd and we continued on our way.

We hadn't got much further than the corner of Mass. and Columbus when a big, shiny, new pickup with a couple of young 'mo's in it pulled up to the stop light. The admittedly hot, but much too young passenger turned to look at us, made eye contact and proceeded to give me the slow burn, his head turning to follow me as though it was on ball bearings. Now, I am more inclined to think something like this was horrified fascination on the part of youth. But I was in a good mood so I gave him a nod. He broke into a big SEG, nodded back and continued to check me out. By this point his companion had become aware something was going on and gave his passenger a dirty look.

The light changed we crossed the street and the truck drove on.

It was a nice little ego boost, but it set me to thinking about how much 30 years change things. When I was young, I would have wound up with either an evening of adventure or at least a phone number. That evening I was more than content with the rosy glow of having some cute guy notice that I still have a pulse. I guess I must be more secure or something, since I didn't feel any need to prove to myself that things could go any further, aside from the unacceptable age difference I did not feel compelled to flake out on my friends at the first hint of sex. At 22, this would have been an automatic reaction. Now I find that I enjoy the certainty of my friends company.

I have been experiencing "daddy" incidents for the past few years. While I would rather pursue guys my own age, they all seem to be trying to recapture their lost youth and are chasing after 20 year olds and it is rare that I meet anyone age appropriate who acts interested. I am finding myself increasingly hooking up with guys in their late 30's which is stretching it a bit in my opinion. I shouldn't complain. They have proven to be, in large part, very nice guys. They have finally reached an age where they are no longer so young that they have to dedicate their every minute to doing something that everyone else is doing and are capable of holding a conversation and in general are adults.

There may also be a certain amount of justice in this since I, in my youth used to almost exclusively date men that were around 10 years older than myself. So, now it seems to be my turn to be the older guy. I suppose I should just relax and enjoy it, I don't have that many good dating years left.

Oh, and cute truck guy, if you're reading this. Cute, really cute but get back to me when you've got a few more years on you, okay?

Muh...

I thought I'd better post something today. I have received a couple of concerned comments, emails and this morning RG called me at my office to make sure I was still alive. Basically, I am just feeling craptastic. Nasty, possibly, sinus related unwellness. My head is probably going to explode and I have been having unpleasant fits of lightheadedness. No smart remarks about lightheaded!

If I can clean some of the cotton out of my head, I will post about lunch with a friend and the return of the date-from-hell. Also I can probably talk about tapas, near sex experiences and manifesting daddylicious at inconvenient times. Once my head has cleared and the sound of the keyboard stops making my head feel like it is going to split open, I will see if I am able to recall any of the events of the past week and give my invaluable perspective on what's been going on.

Fini

Okay. I finished Harry Potter. I can now safely pay attention to the internet and the media again. Oh... and CB, thanks for not telling me what happened.

Back to work

It was an oddish weekend. I spent Saturday very busy, trying to get lots done. Among other things running errands and getting home in good time to meet with RG who had some questions about his new blog account. While we were there, he wanted to take some pictures and to that purpose had bought a new charger for his camera. Lo and behold, it wasn't that the old charger was dead, it was the camera that was dead.

We talked a little bit about the camera and possible new cameras and finally I said,"It's Saturday, we're gay, let's shop!" So, off to that glamorous emporium, Best Buy. Unfortunately, RG is a temp whore right at the moment, so money is a little tight, but as luck would have it, he was able to find something that fit in the budget. Afterwards, to ease the pain of the expense and of course to reward ourselves for a job well done, we went to my favorite Mexican joint, where I treated and we ate burritos the size of our heads.

Afterwards we strolled over to my garden so RG could Oooo and Ahhhhh over the beauty that is the weed patch. Actually, he was pretty impressed and RG is not a garden person, so it must look alright.

Yesterday was a complete avoidance of anything productive and I read about 500 pages of the new Harry Potter. Yes, I have drunk the Kool-Aid. I started reading the books when they first came out after hearing Rowling read from the first book on an NPR show, before the book was released in the US. People can criticize the books all they want, however I feel that reading books is far from the worst fad that has ever hit this fad crazed nation.

Today, it is back to the insanity that my job has sunk into. I had to be at work 2 hours early to meet the contractors, movers and painters who are working on all of the projects that are going on here in the department. The good news is that I will get to leave 2 hours early on Friday. I hope. Maybe. Okay, I'm gonna try. If you don't hear anything out of me for the next few days it's because I am either chasing people around trying to get projects completed, or I am hiding under my desk in a fetal position, crying.

Rough week

This is totally what Monkey and I look like at this point after a very hard week. Pity us! We deserve it.

RG's gets his blog on

Commenter and smart ass RG has finally started his very own blog. Drop by, say hello and leave some comments and give the boy some linky love.

Yet another rant.

It's time for a rant. Aren't you excited? I know I am, because I get to rant about 2 of my favorite pet peeves. Bicyclists and cell phones. What does one have to do with the other? I'm glad you asked.

Recently, I have noticed a growing phenomena here in Beantown. Jerks riding their bikes and talking on their cell phones. And I mean, not with a handsfree set, but with the phone clamped to their ear, or wedged between shoulder and ear. Is it just me, or should it be obvious exactly what a bad idea this is?

I first witnessed this particular asshatted behavior a couple of years ago. I was sitting in a coffee shop one early spring morning with a friend. It was snowing out and it was one of those wet early spring snows. Big, fat, wet flakes, turning the sidewalks into a slushy obstacle course, that you had to carefully slide down, rather than walk on. As we were sitting, drinking our coffee, enjoying the fact that we were all snug and warm as the slush fell from the heavens, I saw some college kid sliding and weaving down the sidewalk on a bicycle. This was an indicator that he was a hopeful in the Darwin Awards. Then I noticed that the little jerk had his cell phone clamped to his ear! I pointed this out to my buddy and it led to a lively discussion of just how stupid this kid must be and made us wonder if he brought the toaster into the tub with him in case he felt like a snack while he was bathing?

After that particular moron sighting, I can't say I gave it much more thought. I mean, anyone with any common sense at all would know better, or at least use a hands free set. Right?

Not so much as it turns out. Since that fateful day, I have been seeing more and more of the intellectually challenged out on their bikes, yacking away without a care in the world as they weave around the sidewalk (illegal) or into oncoming traffic (downright stupid).

So who does this? In the interest of fair reportage, I have to say that I have seen mostly men doing this, but that may just be that I see more men on bikes around town than I do women. I have long ago stopped trying to cheat the distaff side out of their right to behave as stupidly as their male counterparts. Many the woman have I witnessed racing down residential streets at 40 mph, cellphone in hand, screaming at pedestrians for trying to cross the street at an intersection, just because the pedestrian has the nerve to try and cross the street in a legal manner, when the cellphone using harridan is in a hurry and traffic laws don't apply to her. But I digress, since this is a rant about cellphone using bicyclists.

As I was saying, I have seen mostly men doing this. I have managed to contain the urge to start screaming abuse at them when they nearly run into me as they weave their crazy way down the sidewalk and then give me the "can't you see I'm on my bike, talking on my cellphone you stupid pedestrian?" look. That and watching as they swerve into oncoming traffic out on the street, just knowing that they would try and lay the blame on the motorists if they get their stupid ass run down, because they, superior beings that bicyclists are, should be able to do any half-assed thing they want simply by virtue of the fact that they are riding their fucking bike.

In case you haven't got the idea, these clowns are really starting to get under my skin. There is no interest for the most part in law enforcement to crack down on bicyclists, but in fairness, no one seems to be interested in curbing the reckless behavior of motorists, or the stupidcidal tendencies of the average pedestrian either.

So, yet one more hazard added to everyday life here in the big city. I can think of any number of malicious solutions to this problem up to and including a bounty on cellphone talking cyclists. The problem with that is that in the interest of parity, we would have to put a bounty on the stupidcidal in the pedestrian population and the homicidal as well as stupidcidal among motorists. This would make Boston more of an open warfare zone than it already is and trust me, there are enough hazards out there as it is without adding any more to the mix.

Any one with a better solution than carpet bombing and starting over, let me know.

Harassment

CB has asked me to start harassing RG to start blogging. I actually have suggested to the little smartass that he start blogging, however, I think he needs some added incentives. For starters, I think CB should promise to come to Boston and fuck RG cross-eyed if he,(shut up CB, we're all going to have to make some sacrifices here) you know, say... starts a blog and posts regularly for.... ooooh.... 3 months. I think that's fair! I mean come on, a couple of lousy entries, he gets his way with CB and then... sorry, the whole blog thing didn't work for me. I don't think so. I want to see some commitment here!

Besides, I am sure everyone who has been reading his comments would be more than happy to give the boy some linky love. Sort of give him a leg up. No, wait. CB has that job. But you know what I mean. How long did the rest of us feel like we were blogging into the void? This way, he'll get at least 2, maybe even 3 readers, right off the bat!

At any rate, it is my job to harass RG, until he finally caves and starts blogging. Now I don't want you to think that I am going after RG just because it's fun. This is a happy by product! As much as I hate to admit it, RG is very funny, and I swear, I think I actually witnessed a synaps fire off once. It would be selfish of me to keep RG all to myself, when I could be inflicting... by which I mean, sharing him with the rest of the world. Whaddya say people? We want RG, we want RG! Oh, and CB, he likes the whole drum and bugle corp thing. It's true.

So come on, let's hear it! We want RG, We Want RG!!! I mean, God knows we're going to hear what you think, whether we want to or not anyway, so give it to us straight from the horses... uh, mouth.

Weekend in review

I started off my morning chatting online with Glenn. I was running a little late, so I figured the leisurely approach would suit me fine. Finally, I decided that I should get my shit together and go water the garden and yank out a few weeds. I planned on spending an hour and then heading over to Starbuck's to meet Wahz. (I know, I know, but he likes the place and goes there every morning) However, weeding is like eating potato chips. Just one more. Also the garden was in desperate need of a good soaking. We haven't been having terribly hot weather, but it's been dry for a few days now and it's been hot enough. Though, today really seemed to be trying to make up for the fairly moderate weather we've been enjoying. It wasn't ALL that hot, mid 80's, but the humidity more than compensated. You know you're in trouble when you can see the air. And it's kind of grey. Oh, yeah.

With one thing and another, 4 hours of my life slipped by, without me noticing. Then it was off to the Ganome lair for a hot shower and a yummy lunch of protein shake. Mmmm mmm! God I have to find a better way to keep my weight down! Then I hied off to Trader Joe's. Sticker shock was to be my lot. I didn't buy anything extravagant, however, if you want to eat fresh vegetables and food that doesn't consist of high fructose corn syrup, and 100% artificial flavors and ingredients the meter can really start cranking over.

The pay off is that I have what I hope will be a very yummy seafood salad with calamari, shrimp, scallops, sock eye salmon, oil cured olives, red bell pepper, scallions, asparagus and yellow bell pepper with a vinagrette dressing. This ought to represent 3 or 4 meals. This may sound like I was just asking for it at the cash register, but I would not have done any better at the local Shaw's which in most cases is actually more expensive and besides which, the store just plain sucks.

All in all, as usual, the weekend went all too fast. Actually, this summer is going all too fast. Tomorrow, it's back to the grind. For the moment however, I am going to relax and savor my last few hours of freedom. I've got a couple of books begging to be read. There is plenty of music waiting to be listened to. So a little relaxation seems to be in order. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.

New Look

I'm trying a new look out here at Evil Ganome. I am still playing around with it, so let me know what you think.

Yet more garden pictures

Want to see some more pictures of my garden? Too bad, you're gonna look anyway. I got over to the old weed patch after work to water and to my pleasant surprise, neighbor Mike was still around. During the week he is usually gone by the time I get there. It turns out he wanted to get some pictures of my zinnia's. What can I say, I'm a slut, so I let him in and he snapped away. I have to admit, the garden is looking pretty nice right about now. So, this is what's going on garden wise, including a random snapshot of the delicious Mike, who is always good to look at if I get bored with the garden.

The road to perdition

Mingle² - Free Online Dating

My morals have definitely been sullied from hanging around with those potty mouthed southerners. I figure a little more exposure to Lynette, Tater and Doralong, and I'll be X rated before you know it!

Though this was based on: piss (4x) death (2x) and sex (1x) I guess blow jobs don't count, though I have heard anal gets you naughty points as well as gay. Who knew? I wonder if they even have an X rating. Probably not. Assholes!

Oh, well. Into each life.

Mountaineering

Recent conversation:

Monkey: One of my criteria is that people I am friends with are not like my mother. The line has been drawn, and that is a line I will not cross.

Me: I've seen your mother. That's more like a mountain range than a line.

Monkey: Okay. That is an alp I will not cross. I ain't got no elephants.

I think, therefore...

Okay, I got out my tiara, my sash and my bouquet of American Beauty Roses. Hemm, hem. More Cowbell nominated me for a Thinking Blog Award. I don't know what to say, except thank you. Like everybody else, most of the people I can think of already have one, but I have a few left who haven't been nominated.



I Just Want To Be A Tugboat Captain, because when Dave doesn't have me peeing my pants laughing, he has me thinking.

Perge Modo, which is so beautifully written by Farmboy Tony. His reminiscences, observations and opinions are always worth reading.

My gardening buddy, social observer and all around handsome Hoosier Mike over at Masspurgation where he talks about political folly, social folly, gardening and life in our little corner of the world.

I still have 2 left to go. I will have to give this some thought.

Since I can't decide on who else to tag, instead I'll show a little skin, since that great thinker Tater keeps nagging. Yup, me in all my tubby glory.



Okay kids, you've all seen the trainwreck, now let's move on. If your eyes hurt it's all Tater's fault. Now, I have to go think.

RG's tattoos

This is my friend RG. Cute, huh?



Or maybe not so much. He asked me to post his picture because he was feeling left out with everyone else showing off their ink. Or so he claims.

This is just a pathetic ploy for attention, because this cheap slut is just trying to steal away the cyber love of Dave, who I've been stalking... uh... I mean, who I have been admiring from afar.

Well, we'll just see about this.

Zinnias and daylillies

I guess summer must be getting away from me. The daylillies and zinnias are doing their stuff.

I gotta try harder

Mingle² - Free Online Dating

I finally bit, and decided to see what my rating was after seeing this on both Bigass Belle and I Need More Cowbell. WTF! No... wait! What the fuck! I need to start using more fucks, shits, pisses and general bad language. Damn I mean... does butt fucking count? I will have to consult my list of invective and get back to you.

(shit, fucking lousy, asshole R rating. I want a goddamn X and I don't care what I have to say to get it.)

The new arrivals

Here are the new baby robins. It looks as though only 2 of the 5 eggs hatched and so we will see how these little guys do. Lynette has expressed worry about cats, however, these guys need to worry more about raccoons and red tailed hawks. I'll keep you posted on progress. So far, things are fine though I am having to deal with the hysterical parents every time I step into the garden. Once again I am in the position of just wishing the kids would grow up and move out of the house.

Inky

Eric, Tater and Dave have all been showing off their ink. I figure I'd show off one of my favorites. After all everybody loves big dicks!

Living large

I have run across a number of posts on different blogs about people (other gay men) trying to deal with their bad body image. I am no stranger to this. I have never been too satisfied with my own appearance and a long stretch of letting myself get tubby didn't help.

I wear a size small in shirts. I have always been a size small. So, today when I decided to buy a tee-shirt off the Cafe Press site I checked the size chart before I put in my order. I am a large.

In the past 2 years since I started this 5th grade science experiment, that I think of as "how big can the old guy get, lifting weights" I have gone from a 37 chest to a 42. Now, I admit 42 doesn't sound all that impressive, but you should bear in mind that I am only 5'3". Proportionally, I suppose that means I am pretty big. I just don't see it.

When I look in the mirror, on my best days what I see is some scrawny short bald guy with love handles. That's about it. This attitude catches me a lot of shit, of the "what are you bitching about" variety.

One of the most recent attitude adjustments that was handed to me was when I was standing in the office door talking with my pal La Simpatica. This is a girl whose bras are a monument to the science of structural engineering. I was wearing an open Hawaiian shirt and a wife beater. Monkey walked up to us and made some remark about my chest. La Simpatica gave me a critical once over and announced, "Yup, girls with big tits get it all their own way."

Since this pearl of wisdom came from someone with a lot of practical experience, I may have to reevaluate my perspective on my shape.

Happy Fourth

All of the Fourth of July’s of my childhood involved clear blue skies and perfect warm days. I am sure in reality there were Fourth’s where it rained, where the lake valley in the mountains of Vermont reached the unbearable heat and humidity that happens. People think the mountains and they think cool air. They don’t know about the days that reached 100 with the air so thick you could cut it with a blunt saw.

I think that the reason that I remember these days as being so perfect is because those days were always spent with Grandma Brown.

Florence Brown, nee Mallette was my mother’s mother. She was a grandmother straight out of central casting. She wore cotton house dresses and pinafore aprons. She kept her hair in a sensible pageboy and wore equally sensible, black Dr. Scholl’s shoes. Grandma was a country woman, raised on a farm, who didn’t drink and from whom I never heard a swear word. The strongest expressions I ever heard from her being “golly” and “my gosh”. Her only vice was Raleigh cigarettes. Grandma baked and cooked and put up pickles and vegetables and preserves. She raised a garden every year and the bounty from her little patch graced her table year round.

But the Fourth was a special day. We were sent off down the road to Hydeville to the house she kept for her son, my Uncle Burt, to spend the day and have a picnic at Grandma’s.

She spent days preparing. We kids would be sent out to pick strawberries days before, tiny fraise des bois, smaller than the tip of your pinky and sweeter than sin. These were used in strawberry rhubarb pie. There were always three kinds of pie at least. Strawberry rhubarb, blueberry and lemon meringue and sometimes there would be apple turnovers if there were still apples in the root cellar. Potato salad, macaroni salad and a green salad from the garden with radishes and whatever else good was in season. I had escarole salad long before it was a trendy dish for yuppies. I remember bitter escarole fresh from the garden with chopped chives and sour cream. Of course there were hamburgers and hot dogs, but they were served with piccalilli, green tomato relish and pickle relish that she had put up. Then there were the pickles. Sweet pickles, dill pickles, mustard pickles and bread and butter pickles. And there were always cookies. My grandmother always had cookies in the house in case we boys dropped in, which we did frequently. What I remember most were the molasses cookies and the sugar cookies. The molasses cookies were thick and cakey, like the best gingerbread you have ever eaten and the sugar cookies were as crisp as a freshly starched collar and as light as a cloud.

By the time we got to Grandma’s the preparations had been made and we would help bring things out to the picnic table in the back yard near her clothesline, setting out the red and white gingham print oilcloth on the green picnic table. Then the parade of food would begin until the board was groaning under the food. Quite often the bluebird house would have a family going and the stage was set for a Fourth of July picnic that couldn’t possibly have happened outside a movie from the 1930’s. Grandma is one of the few people I have ever known that could actually get bluebirds to nest in a bluebird house.

Grandma would say grace and then we would begin eating and Grandma, encouraging us to eat more would tell us stories about her childhood.

Grandma had been born on December 31, 1900, one of 12 children of French Canadian immigrants. Born and raised in Vermont, she and her siblings were unusual in having finished high school. Her father had been a teacher in Quebec before moving to Vermont to become a farmer, he encouraged all his children to finish their education. Her love of learning colored her life and she passed this love of knowledge on to us.

She would tell us stories about her 2 favorite brothers Andy and Poly, (Napoleon), all of those stories began, “Andy, Poly and I…” how they terrorized one of their teachers in the one room school house that they attended as small children by making themselves bows and arrows out of reeds, putting tacks in the ends of the reeds they used for arrows and ambushing him, climbing rocks in forbidden areas, swimming holes and the pastimes of a long past era. She would tell us about the first time she ever saw a horseless carriage, the first time she saw and airplane, about the music that was made in a house of musically talented children, she the only one unable to master the violin. She had been taking German when the US entered WWI and the school stopped teaching the language. Grandma kept her text books and taught herself German.

Sometimes the stories were sad, once about the loss of a younger brother to diphtheria. Another about the brother who was the most talented of all at the violin and how he hung himself in the barn one day, no one ever knew why.

Grandma had a hard life. She had married a wild Scot from Nova Scotia, who turned out to be a drunk and a spendthrift and she had divorced him. She raised 4 children in the depression, making a living cleaning houses. The second world war came and both her sons were sent over seas. She suffered a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized in the state mental institution for 14 years. The state hospital in Vermont was notorious and the fact that she was able to overcome her illness is a testament to the strength of her will.

After she was released from the hospital, she lived with us briefly and then for economic reasons, she remarried Carrol Brown, so that they could combine their resources and live on their Social Security. She had never had much, so living on social security did not present any challenge to her that she was unequal to.

I didn’t really understand as a child how much these meals meant to my grandmother. It was in some way defiance in the face of want and it was about generosity and thankfulness for those things in life she loved and it was about love.

Grandma loved us boys. I don’t think I had ever given it much thought as a child, but we were the only ones of her grandchildren who visited her frequently. It think it must have been painful for her that my Uncle Joe’s daughters rarely came to call. Joe had been her favorite child, and she would tell us how she had saved a dime every week in order to save up enough money to help him buy his first car. His infrequent visits and the lack of contact with his family must have hurt in a way that Grandma never let show.

I loved that kind and gentle woman and these many years since her death I still do. I wish there had been some way that I could have shown her how much I loved her in the way that she showed her grandsons her joy in us by her annual display of plenty and generosity. Carefully planned and saved for out of a meager income, brought out of the ground with her own hands, prepared and then presented to us and while we were sustained with these good things we in turn sustained her with our pleasure in her offerings and her company.

In a fairly miserable childhood, I was given the gift of many happy Fourth of July’s, enough to last any man a lifetime. So on this Independence Day, I wish for you all to have as good a Fourth as any of the ones I had as a child.

Stupid fun

I wanted to see how liberal I am. Now I know.

My Liberal Identity:

You are a Reality-Based Intellectualist, also known as the liberal elite. You are a proud member of what’s known as the reality-based community, where science, reason, and non-Jesus-based thought reign supreme.

Take the quiz at www.FightConservatives.com

Holiday lack of plans

It is a funny day. I have been getting things done, though largely I am acting on auto-pilot. I have had to put up with asshattery and have also been fortunate in having competence come to the rescue as well.

In the garden the baby robins are hatching. We have moved from blue eggs to tiny grey balls of fuzz, newly hatched and as delicate as membranes. They manage to be grotesque and beautiful in a strange miraculous way. I will try and get photos but the proud parents are a bit hysterical and I don't want to wind up like Tippi Hedren.

I have no plans for tomorrow. It seems as though people have all made plans, assuming I had as well, or will be out of town, or simply refuse to come into town and deal with the unwashed masses as they descend on Boston to spend the entire day camping out on the Esplanade in anticipation of the evenings fireworks. I am looking, or at least attempting to view this as a karmic break. This is a gift of peace and quiet to be embraced.

Whatever your plans for the 4th, I am looking forward to sloth.

Cure for the blues

Well, they've managed to piss me off, which has been a great cure for the funk that I had allowed myself to get into.

I got up Friday morning in plenty of time to go to the gym. I got there, right about on time, maybe a minute or 2 past 6. But, Eddie, our faithful front desk guy was late. That did not piss me off. Eddie usually is not merely on time, he usually will let us in a bit early.

No, pissedoffness came in the form of some buff assclown. I found myself waiting with one of the regulars who I see just about every morning. We were chatting and these 2 characters come up. One being Mr. Buff Assclown and his friend Mr. Desiccated Yuppie. Buff Assclown says something about "Is he always late?" The regular and I look at each other and sort of mumble something about how Eddie usually has the doors open early.

"Well, he's batting 3 and 0 with me!" was the response.
This kind of ticked me off, because I've been using this gym for about 2 years. I go usually 5-6 times a week and I am usually there at opening time. In all that time I have never clapped eyes on Assclown.

Eddie shows up about 5 minutes late, apologizing. He had called the assistant manager to let him know he was running late and had asked Mike to open the doors for him. No harm no foul as far as I am concerned.

The morons get on the elevator with me as I headed down to my locker room, and were giving me the look that as far as they were concerned they had scraped more acceptable things off the bottoms of their shoes. So taken were they with their display of disgust that they neglected to push the button to get off on the level with the machines, and rode down to the basement level where we lesser mortals have our lockers. This also seemed to be an annoyance since I had not read their minds and intuited that they wanted the machines and not the free weights.

I changed and went up to the machine room to pre-exhaust before I hit the free weights. This is when they really worked grandpa's last gay nerve. These guys were using one of the cable machines so I went over and set up and used the other one. I did one set and then went over to use the parallel bars to do some dips. When I started back to the cable machine my new friends had decided that the machine I was using was for some reason much better than the equipment that they had been using. I really didn't feel like getting into it with these 2 bozos so I used the machine they had abandoned. I finished my set on the cable machine and started to head back over to the bars. Guess what? That's right, they were over there. Once again I improvised. This kind of went back and forth until I headed down the stairs to the free weights. Fortunately, free weights seem to be something that happen to other people.

I actually had a pretty good workout. I shook the dust of these two mooks from the Ganomish skirts, and then it was off onto the city streets where a larger than usual number of morons crawled down the sidewalk, managing to move as slowly as possible and block the entire sidewalk in their glacial progress. I managed to get past all of the wide loads, hit my usual coffee shop and was down the stairs of Park Street Station. Actually, I was half way down when the next aggravation transpired. I got to the top of the stairs to the Red Line as a train disgorged it's load of commuters, all of whom packed both sides of the stairs not allowing anyone to descend. I fought my way down the stairs and reached the platform just in time to see a nearly empty train pull out of the station.

During the 15 minutes it took for a Alewife train to come the platform filled and finally when the next train pulled in, it was a)packed and b) the air conditioning was out. I finally got to work and Monkey came over to my office to say good morning and ask if we should try for a quick smoke before the day began. He then said something about reading my post and asking how I was doing since my post was sounding pretty glum.

"I'm fine, today. I just had a whole bunch of people piss me off and it snapped me right out of my funk!"

So, to all of the assholes that aggravated the living piss out of me first thing Friday morning, I say a hearty thank you. You actually do serve a useful purpose.

More garden photos

After this mornings post, I figured we all needed something to cheer us up.



Here is the latest photo of the new tenants kids.



Prairies Sun Rudebekia



Blue Lace Cap Hydrangea



Annabelle Hydangea



And one of my favorites, Lillies.

At any rate. After a long day at work, I went out and watered my garden. Spending a half hour or so out in my garden, watching things grow and observing progress helped me relax and get a different perspective. Life goes on.

Heatwave

Boston is one huge grey fug. As Monkey observed, you feel like you need a machete to cut through the air. It is a bit strange for someone like myself who used to thrive in the heat, that I seem to be getting slowed down.

I went to bed early, wound up oversleeping and blowing off the gym. I walked in a very leisurely manner over the river, stopping for coffee on the way at one of my usual stops. The early morning clientele were like sonambulists. The only lively character, the art student who works at the front counter, who had my coffee ready and waiting before I ordered. (The benefits of being a regular who tips)

I am not sure that the heat is the only reason that I am feeling out of sorts. I have been very busy at work. Lots of projects, lots of problems that are out of my control that are creating new sets of problems that are leaving me feeling brain dead by the time I leave the office.

The trainer that I have been working with has taken a new and better job. I am happy for him, but not so happy for me. Aside from the fact that we have become quite friendly and I have come to like him, he was also the manager of the gym and was a good presence in the facility. Cheerful, friendly and helpful. I know why he left his job and it does not give me any good feelings about the direction the facility may take upon his departure.

Maybe it is all of these things in conjunction but a lot of my motivation is drying up. I do not feel like writing in my blog, or doing anything during the work week that actually requires any reasoning powers. I am in a funk.

I have an appointment with the shrink, so maybe it will do me some good to get some of this out of my system. I will most likely be back in the gym tomorrow, getting my energy up before another day of putting up with other peoples nonsense. The weather is suppose to cool, I have plenty of mindless chores ahead in the garden over the weekend and friends to catch up with.

See, I'm starting to feel better already.

Oh Daddy!

I can't say I've really taken to being called a Daddy since I've hit a certain age. However, if you happen to be a really handsome 6'6" black man, and you call me Daddy, I'll be willing to overlook it. (It helps if you're really well hung too)

Happy Summer

Today is the official first day of summer. Also called midsummer, as in "A Midsummer Night's Dream". It is the longest day of the year, which seems odd, since the days just seem to fly in the summer, and the winter solstice which is the shortest day of the year, seems to drag on forever.

The weather today, either is or is not conducive to the sense of magic that Shakespeare put into his play. It is cloudy here in Boston and the temperatures are only suppose to make it into the low 70's. But they are threatening thunderstorms, and the roses are still in bloom, late spring flowers are still in evidence and the world is still seeming young and fresh.

By August, the city will seem dusty and tired. All of the fresh green of spring will have somehow lost its vibrancy and the slow pace of high summer will have effected both the appearance and mood of the city.

For now it is almost like a mood of anticipation. A red-tailed hawk circles over the turnpike and then settles on the red tile roof of the old Hotel Somerset on Charlesgate. The scent of the lime trees in bloom soften the air, harsh with the exhaust fumes of the morning commuters. The pace has slowed. The students gone for the summer in this college town, people are more leisurely, the chores and cares of the day can wait a bit for attention.

Men in t-shirts and tanks call out for my attention, though summer is a time for love, not spring. The mating dance is done. Spring, that lusty and burgeoning season has exhausted itself and now like a perfectly ripe peach, summer waits to drop in our lap. Now is the time for long days, picnics, the beach, or seeking the shelter of cool shade to refresh from meandering in the sun. Short nights spent dancing, going here and there for an evenings entertainment or simply finding a congenial spot to enjoy the cool of th evening air, building a cache of memories to warm the long winter nights.

But today is grey. I hope we do get the thunderstorms they are promising. Sturm und Drang. Some proper drama for the day. Oberon and Titania in conflict, then a clearing sky, the sun, reunion, the happy lovers united at last. I do not know what the day will bring, but reading this over, I have put on my donkeys ears. I am looking at the world differently, and who knows what wonders this day and the newly minted summer will bring.

The New Tenent

I don't know how well anyone can see this, but a robin has taken up residence in my rose bush. Pretty cool huh?

Good Cause

A lot of talk goes on about doing the right thing. Helping people. Making a difference. Dave is actually doing that. Follow the link over to his blog. Make a donation. You'll feel good. Trust me.

Shopping list

As I was working out this morning it occurred to me that I should stop at the drugstore on the way into work. The foremost reason being that I had neglected to buy a birthday card for Monkey. He turns an ancient 31 today.

I also decided I should get some decongestant as well, because getting my Allegra refilled was one of the personal errands that got pushed aside over the weekend. Then I remembered I needed toothpaste, a necessary purchase for if no other reason the obscene amount of money that I spend at the dentist, and I was running low on condoms and lube, another necessary purchase, if for no other reason than the idea that hope springs eternal.

Quite a shopping list, huh? I have since been trying to think of possible stories that the check out clerk could construct from the items that I purchased. I am thinking it would involve preparations for a big birthday celebration for a loved one. Or at least a lusted one, accompanied by hay fever and a desperate sensibility about oral hygiene.

I remember a woman that I once knew who had a big, friendly Lab. He was a great dog except for a certain unreasoning attraction to skunks. I can tell you, there are plenty of skunks in the Boston are, so he had plenty of opportunities to make new friends. She discovered after living with a rather more fragrant than usual dog that a product called "Summers Eve" was especially effective in counteracting the effects of skunk.

He was a big dog and it took a lot of... er... feminine hygiene product to bath the dog. She found buying it in large quantities a little embarrassing, so she used to go to a convenience store in the dead of night. One night she just broke down and decided to buy a case. When she brought her purchase up to the counter the young man gave her a curious and slightly horrified look.

She had a skunked dog, a case of douche and I am guessing about all she felt like taking for that day because she looked him in the eye and just said,"I'm having a really heavy month, okay?"

Happy Father's Day

My daughter called me. I called my Dad. Done and dusted.