Evening stroll

Filler until I have something else

Not quite sure where to begin. I don’t have anything that would legitimize this posting. So maybe you’ll want to skip to the next blog. Just saying it’s doubtful that you’ll walk away with a nugget of quality prose today. But let us sally forth.

Friday night I came home, sucked down a beer and began a pity-party-palooza before 7:00pm. Then a light went on. Actually a light did go on because I have a living room lamp on a timer for no good reason other than gay aesthetics. I just thought, ‘Michael you can sit here or go out. The choice is yours. The world will not come on to you.’ Which is sad, really, because the world used to visit quite a bit when I was younger. It was around the time of the woolly mammoths. But I digress.

So I went out just like I did the Friday before. I’m starting to get my bar mojo back. Meaning I am semi-comfortable leaning against a wall while decidedly not watching a bank of video screens because my peripheral vision is scoping out if that’s really a ‘penguin’ or a ‘pony’ on the polo-shirted hawtie 20-feet across the bar. I have good night vision, which will not help us one bit when traveling through Montana in winter; I don’t drive. But where was I going here? Oh! So, like, I saw the silver-haired man who lives in my building at the bar. Remember him? I shared our lil’ Craigslist coffee meet-up in this space way back last Fall, I think. To date we have ‘hello-how-R-you’ elevator protocol firmly in place. But Friday night we actually chitchatted at length. Which was surprisingly good. He’s very witty and we shared a few laughs just talking about life and gay drama in general. BONUS POINT: He thought I was 42 or ‘…early forties. You mean you’re MY age?’ So that felt nice. We talked a bit more and then he said he was just going home to toss a pizza in the oven. I saw no reason to stick around so we left together.

Once inside the building and while the elevator was swooshing up, up and away I invited him to stop by and see my big hard on shower curtain. Well that is a bit of a joke, actually; I told him two or three weeks ago when I ran into him that my sole weekend plan was to score the ultimate shower curtain (to date I’ve purchased and returned two) It was all just real casual, my invitation, and he was pleased that I’d asked, I think. I mean, who doesn’t want to scope out how queenie someone lives? We talked another 45-minutes or so just hanging here in the living room. He was really complimentary on how I’ve got the place coming together and said that I really had an ‘eye’ for decorating and such. He really went on and on about the space and I enjoyed the compliments as I’ve really not had too many folks as company because I still feel like I don’t have my act together here. Like, for example, I really want unlined, silk curtains but don’t need them at all. Still they would add filtered light and another layer of queenieness warmth and detail.

I guess you’re probably racing ahead of me with the ‘well, did you two do the horizontal tango’ question. But the answer is ‘no.’ He’s just a nice guy who happens to live in the building; he’ll be moving to his new condo come September. I’ve been up to his place here; he lives on the 31st floor and has fan-fucking-tastic views of the city. Though I would not have wanted to be up on thirty-one a few weeks back when Chicago had that wee earthquake rumble. No sir.

So. That’s Friday night’s story. See? I told you I was just rambling. Nothing much went down yesterday. I did some grocery shopping and bought yet another shower curtain. It’s not easy being me, or my shower curtain either, apparently.

Because the night belongs to lovers

You know how some songs just sorta reach, oh…I dunno, ‘iconic status’ when it comes to defining a time and place? You get that notion, right? This song still gives me goose bumps. I first heard it in a boyfriend’s bedroom. (Hi Bruce! S-Q-U-E-A-K!) I knew right then and there that I was having a unique and defining ‘moment.’ Youth, nights and summertime; it was all good.

Just having a flashback. Talk amongst yourselves. Move along.

I have to fart

Like right now. But I can’t because I’m in a professional workplace. And it’s killing me. I even took a long walk at lunch in hopes I’d work out the kinks. But no such luck. And, too, one can never tell, really with any accuracy, if it’s going to be a ‘pffft’ or the dreaded ’squizzrrh.’ Which often signals the outcome of a shart; a shit and fart combo. That is not acceptable outside the better nursing homes. But I am wearing dark denim today so… just saying, any rip in a storm.

I used an outhouse once; my extended family (rich side) had a summer camp on a river. It wasn’t at all like the Ralph Lauren ads where one views Hamptons-like, white wasps in unwrinkled linen in safari camp. I don’t know why this is relevant. I can vividly recall that there was a sack of chalky white powder (lye?) to toss in the shitter using a small garden spade that hung from a rusty nail. I hated that toilet because I always feared some giant shit-eating snake was living beneath the ferns and purple thistle that seemed to flourish next to a shit hole. At night I would just pee in the dirt road but then have to wait to go back inside. The cool night air gave me a sturdy boy boner. But I digress.

But I tell you this: I am getting my ass home to rip a fart that will peel paint. I am in agony. I don’t know where this cramping is coming from. I bet I have enough gas built up to fuel a Prius to Cleveland. Minus any skid marks.

What’s better than roses on a piano…

…tulips on my organ.

Taking time to smell the roses. That’s figurative not literal, like. I mean, if I was going to suggest smelling roses then I would have posted a pretty rose bouquet or something FTD-like. OH! Which is no special shout-out for ANYTHING FTD.com offers! I’ve been burned on more than one occasion by flowers arriving at their destination looking NOTHING like what was pictured/featured on-line. Of course FTD’s big COVER YOUR ASS statement is “…some florists may substitute a similar flower, blah, blah, woof, woof…”

Anyways. Got off on a tangent, huh? Later. Play nice.