Journal
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Monday 19 January, 1998 2:00AM
Wasn't sure if I would like scented candles. But that's all they had last time I went candle shopping. I like white candles. Basic, classic white. All they had in white were gardenia scented. Turns out, I kinda like 'em. Turns out, so does Johnny.
Candles seem to add warmth to the room. Warmth you can't get from electric light, even with dimmers. Not that we needed extra warmth. I don't think you need additional warmth anywhere he is.
He has to go to work in the morning. Didn't bring an overnight bag. It's a little early in the relationship for that. Did I just type relationship? I'm hoping that's the direction things go. Still to early to tell though. We barely know each other.
We talked. I told him some of my stories. He shared some of his with me. His last relationship ended four years ago. Badly it sounds. Explains why he's so cautious. It hurts when a relationship ends. I know. I've had three, four if you count David.
So I give him the space he needs. I know the questions he's asking himself in his mind. I'm asking myself the same questions, I expect. I'll take it slow. Let him come to me. Still don't have his phone number. I don't think I'll need it. Besides, I think it would add pressure. I don't want him to feel pressured.
I've followed several other journalists' sites. One thing that seems a common thread, is that the journalists' boyfriends don't seem to care for the idea. It's one thing for me to decide for myself that I want to throw away my privacy and share my life with the world. It's quite another to do that to your boyfriend. I don't have that right. It adds pressure. Pressure that I don't want him to feel.
But he is in my life, for now anyway. Maybe it will turn out that he becomes a major part of it. So where do I draw the line? Certainly with his input. What if we disagree? What if we find what seems to be the right balance, and then he changes his mind after everything's been posted?
I've already decided that anyone I write about in a significant way will read the parts pertaining to them before I post them. It will depend on the topic and my relationship with them as to how much of their input or editing I'll take into account. Certainly if they want to write their own accounts of things, or rebut what I've said, I'll let them.
I intend to accept contributions from anyone. Not everyone wants to put up a site, but I'm sure there are many who would like to make a contribution to one. Every one has something to say. If they want to say it here, fine with me.
I don't want this site to turn into a soap opera. It runs counter to the ideas I have for it. I fear that if it became a soap opera, the messages I'm trying to get across would be lost. Damn this is hard. My brain hurts. Time for bed.
Tuesday 20 January, 1998 1:00PM
Wow! Two sunny mornings in a row! This is an unusual event in R-Town in the winter. Hell, it's unusual any time of year. Seattle may be more well known as a cloudy city, but Rochester is number two on the list. At least last time I checked.
The afternoon cloud bank has rolled in, as it does between noon and 2:00, if we've had sun. When it rolls in, you know it. In just minutes a thick blanket of gloom descends on the city smothering the brief respite we've had from it's depressing effects.
At least the sun's getting higher in the skies now, so when it does shine, it's starting to make it into my windows. Through December and early January, it taunts me, hiding just behind the peaks of the roof next door.
Back in September Caroll and I started working through the clinical diagnostics for Seasonal Affective Disorder, (SAD). I got bored with it. I don't need the DSM-IV to tell me how I feel in the winter. Shitty. I did go shopping for one of those light-boxes they recommend, but they're HUGE! And my apartment is tiny. It's only 385 sq. ft. total. Including the closets, hallway and tea-room. For all practical purposes, my world is only 14' x 16', just 224 sq. ft.
Moving from a three bedroom house in the suburbs to small studio apartment in the city, (sometimes called a efficiency or bachelor) wasn't the trauma for me that everyone I know thought it would be. As is a running theme in my life, I was escaping. Besides my clothing, all I brought with me from my old life, was the handmade cherry credenza I bought on the local public TV station's annual auction in 1990, and the consumer electronics. I bought a sofa-bed, tables, chairs desk and lamps. That's all.
It's amazing how much stuff you can live without. Everything I own would fit it the back of a minivan and an 8' U-Haul trailer. By volume, Vince-the-ex and I used to take more stuff to the outdoor flea markets on Sundays. And I still think I have too much stuff. When I moved everything out of the apartment so they could recarpet, it took 18 banker's boxes to empty all the shelves and cabinets. That's all. And it's too much.
Yet there's a void in my life. One that can't ever be filled with stuff. I need a man.
Tuesday 20 January, 1998 8:00PM
Damn I'm tired. I've been overdoing it. Not enough sleep, not eating right. I slept for 12 hours last night, and just got up from a two-hour nap. Still tired.
I've got an interview tomorrow. Contract at Citibank. Apparently they're converting a bunch of PCs from Windows 3.1 to Windows 95. I can't even begin to count how many of those I've done. They figure it'll take five months or so.
Unless they're real assholes, or the place is a real dump, I'll probably take it. The pay is the pits. US$10.00 an hour less than my last contract. I could hold out for more on another position. But I'd like a track record with both Citibank, and the contract house, Tek Systems. Both companies have large facilities in Las Vegas.
I've wanted to move to Vegas for years. I like the climate. Everyone thinks it's because of the heat. They say why not Florida, or Texas, or Costa Rica. I like Vegas because it's the desert. It's dry. Seldom rains, over 300 days a year of sunshine, and no humidity. I could take Phoenix I suppose, but they get a lot more rain there. Basically, I want to live somewhere I'll never hear the words "lake-effect" and "gulf moisture" in the forecast.
So why am I still here? Wish I knew. Part of it is I won't move without a firm job offer, but job offers aren't made to people who don't already live in the Vegas valley. I don't know a soul in that city, except maybe the poolboy and car-rental clerk from the Stardust. They always seem to remember me from trip to trip. I'm afraid I'd be lonelier there than I am here.
So Citibank and Tek Systems point to another continuing theme in my life. I'll take the job. It'll mean the end of my vacation. I feel like I've done nothing. Haven't finished the apartment, haven't finished upgrading the PC, haven't rested. Eight weeks as of tomorrow. Where did all the time go?
I know where the last week has gone. Into this web site. Actually, I've got about two weeks into it. Lesse, that leaves six. There were the holidays, and my last trip to Toronto, J . So there's about 5 weeks, I have nothing to show for.
I've spent a lot of time on the internet. Almost 50 hours so far this month, according to Net.Medic. But that reading's low. It doesn't count ftp time and AOL. And, I've had several online crashes that required a reboot, so the time in those sessions is lost. So I would tack on another 12 to 15 hours. That works out to about three hours a day, which feels about right. I usually spend about an hour in the morning, and two hours at night.
I've started thinking about things in terms of how they would work in the journal. Is this worth mentioning, how would I characterize that. Strange. I've only been doing this a week, but it feels like forever.
I do my writing in Word. This sentence is the first line on page 16 so I've been putting down about 2½ pages a day in the journal. This doesn't count the work on my stories, or other writing for the site. I expect I'll write less each day as time goes on. In these early days of the journal, I have to connect things to my past more. That takes space.
Cool! I was just thinking, 2½ to 3 pages a day, 900 to 1,100 pages a year. That puts me up there with two of my favorites, Robert Ludlum and Tom Clancy. Of course this isn't creative writing, and nowhere near their league. And hopefully not as dense as Clancy. Sometimes I think that man writes just to see how much ink he can fit on page. He's one of my favorites, but I need a rest after one of his books.
If anyone knows how I can get a hold of a song called "Just Come Back" by Hypertrophy, let me know. I'll be eternally in your debt. They've been playing it for about three weeks on Music Choice. It is HOT! It's my current "Terrorize the Neighbors" hit. Knocked out "Brazen Weep" by Skunk Anansie a couple of weeks back. Haven't heard either one in the clubs around here. In case you haven't made it to my Music page yet, check it out for the scoop on Music Choice and my favorite music.
Thursday 22 January, 1998 1:15AM
In the introduction to the site I write about how I feel that "between the ears" I'm still 20. That may be pushing it. 15 may be closer to the mark. Went over to my parents' house for a free dinner and a rummage through the basement. I dug out four boxes and brought them home. What I had been looking for was the journal I kept in high school. I found it, and I've been reading it all night. I makes me wonder if these words will still be around in 25 years. Better do back-ups!
Thursday 22 January, 1998 8:30PM
I've struggled all day with this question, "I've promised not to edit my journal after writing it, but does all the stuff from my high-school journal belong in it?"
I've decided no. It doesn't. The more appropriate place to analyze my writings from 25 years ago is on my "Past" page. I've moved the rest of this morning's journal entry there so I can dissect it, and come to terms with it in my own time.
I was up until about 5:00 this morning going through it. Then, I've only been able to cat-nap all day. I guess I wasn't really prepared for what I found. The excitement of anticipation was replaced by ... I'm not sure. But it's not pleasant. Perhaps sadness comes closest.
If as they say, time heals all wounds, I've reopened them. I remember having a difficult adolescence. But to read the words, all the pain, loneliness, suffering. It's done more for my mood than Rochester's overcast skies.
That journal covers the period from early 1973 to mid 1975. In it, the topics of suicide, self-loathing, depression, and loneliness make regular and frequent appearances. In stark contrast, are the high school yearbooks, although you're supposed to be upbeat when signing someone's yearbook.
To read the journal and the yearbooks back-to-back, you wouldn't recognize them as belonging to the same person. By high school, I'd already mastered the skill of hiding my true feelings from the rest of the world. It's a skill I've been trying to unlearn for the past five or six years.
Beyond the usual teenage angst, I felt trapped. I guess I can trace all the rest from there. I clearly knew I was different, but I didn't actually use the words until early 1975. "I love Jeff" were the first words I applied to me in that journal. In an entry in autumn 1974 I had said about him, "but he's so heterosexual."
The earliest homoerotic thought I can remember came when I was four or five years old. That would put it in 1961 or 1962. Eleven or twelve years later, I was feeling trapped by those thoughts. I felt isolated. I knew some of the words, faggot, pansy, sissy, femme, queer. This was after Stonewall, so I also knew the words gay and homosexual.
But there were two things which kept from applying the words to me. First was that they were hurled as insults by a homophobic society. Second, many of them referred to "feminine" affectations. Even in our Human Sexuality class, we were never told that there was anything other than "straight" sex. (And this was the 70's for christsake!)
So I was both confused by the words, and taught that they applied to bad people that no-one liked. If homosexuals were either bad people or men who swished when they walked and talked with a lisp, dressed in drag and acted "feminine," and sex was something you only did with a girl, what was I? I wanted to have sex with guys, but I certainly wasn't feminine, didn't walk funny or talk funny, so I couldn't be queer. I wasn't a bad person, and I was well-liked so I couldn't be homosexual. But I wasn't like other guys either. What strange unusual creature was I?
I was trapped. Trapped between a homophobic society and it's stereotypes. Feeling trapped leads to all those other feelings. Feelings of loneliness, depression, self-loathing and ultimately suicide.
I'll probably copy a lot of that to the "Past" page, but it kinda frames how I've felt all day. Part of what has had me feeling sad, was the realization that many things haven't changed for me in the past 25 years. But I no longer feel trapped. And over the years, one thing I have developed is identity. I know who I am now. There are parts I still don't like. I'm working to change some, accept others. It's an ongoing process.
I summed up that feeling pretty well in an e-mail I sent to a guy who is struggling through those feelings now. I've edited out the personal parts, leaving the more general ones.
Subject: Identity
"That's what it boils down to, isn't it? Our sense of self. Our identity.
"That search IS an ongoing journey. Because we change with every thought. Every event that happens to us, changes us. Not always in large easily seen, easily felt ways. Usually in very small unnoticed ways. But they're there nonetheless. And so, we are the sum of all our thoughts and experiences. If we're lucky, a bit of synergy takes place and we become greater than the sum of the parts.
"You've discovered that the very act of writing about yourself changes you. Never carve yourself in stone. Write yourself in the sand of the beach. Between waves.
"The joys and rewards of self-discovery and self-identity are vast and great. Identity is the second greatest gift you can give yourself. The first is love. We all want to love another, but can you truly love another, until you love yourself? Can you love yourself until you accept yourself? Can you accept yourself until you know yourself? Identity. That's where it starts.
"I'm on the same journey myself. It's a journey best taken alone. You can share the stories, maybe ask others for input, but the journey, the adventures, the discovery, is yours and yours alone."
There were also a few laughs in my nostalgia box, and some things I'm proud of. In the proud category, I found all my marksmanship medals from the NRA. I'm still a pretty good shot. I found both my Provisional Radio Operator Certificate, and my Radiotelephone Third Class Operator Permit, with the broadcast endorsement, from my days as an on-air radio DJ. (They list me as being 5'-11", 145 lbs, and having brown eyes and blond hair. Last time at the doctor's, I was 5"-10", 168 lbs, and what's left of the hair is brown and graying.)
I'm not sure if it falls in the proud or laughs category, but I found my first Driver's License Revocation Notice. Don't know what happened to the second and third ones. Lotsa speeding tickets when I was young. Haven't had one since 1982. Haven't had an accident either since 1978 or 1979. Unless you count the time I was sitting at a stoplight and got rear-ended.
I still drive fast, but now I carry protection. No, not condoms, (I carry those too,) but a Valentine One radar/laser detector. Went through four or five other detectors before I got the V-1 a couple of years ago. Although it's now 12 years old, my Dodge Lancer ES Turbo still doesn't really settle into the road until 80 to 85 mph.
For laughs, I found pay envelopes from DJing in 1978. The princely sum of US$200.00 for five nights. All sorts of stuff I collected from the Billboard Magazine Disco Conventions in the '70s. Among my favorites is the "RollaBuns" from Casablanca Records. It's a strap-on cushion for your butt, from the roller-disco craze.
Found pictures of my car after that accident in '78 or '79. I had a '71 Impala 2-door, guy in a brand new Monte Carlo pulled out of a side street right in front of me. T-boned him at about 35mph. It was my winter car, bought it for US$200, so I didn't care. Next day at the garage where I worked, I raised the lift, drove the car under it, blocked up the frame, and dropped the lift on the hood. Flattened it out enough so I could see. A little mechanic's wire to hold the hood down, and I drove it for two more winters. No-one EVER pulled out in front of that car again. 
Found lots of pictures. From the early 70's, my brothers mugging for the camera. From August 1982, took some friends and my boss to my parent's cabin in Rideau lakes region of Ontario for a fishing trip. There's a pic me (proudly) holding a sunfish smaller than my hand, while my boss points and laughs in the background. Balancing that, there's a pic of me (nonchalantly) with the 22" walleye I caught for dinner that night.
Vince-the-ex was amazed I could hunt and fish. He goes "Ewww" at the thought of touching worms and gutting fish. I e-mailed him about some other stuff last night and added this to the end:
"P.S. In rummaging through my nostalgia boxes, I found the pics taken in Aug '82 in Canada with Terry & Dale and Ducky. (I really WAS kinda cute then, wasn't I?)"
He wrote back today:
"PS by the way yes you were very cute and if I gave the impression I thought that ever changed it didn't. Smile my friend byeeeee"
Ain't he sweet?
Well, in other news, I aced the interview at Citibank yesterday. Strangely, I'd been nervous about it for the past several days. As soon as I walked in, all nervousness I'd had went away. Felt like home. Security badge issued at the door, glass-walled multi-story atrium, acres of gray burlap cubicles.
Interview was held in the server room. I instantly became loose and relaxed. I knew I had it in the bag before I even took my coat off. There 10 or 12 twenty-somethings. Dan, the contact for the interview, apologized for it being a group interview. I joked that it was a lot easier than tag-team interviews. We settled into coffee-stained chairs for a half-hour that was more shop-talk than interview.
I think I'll like it there. Drew from the contract house (Tek Systems) called shortly after eight this morning. I start a week from Monday.
To celebrate yesterday, I went out a bought a CD player for the car. The factory cassette unit had developed a taste for the tapes I'd made in the bars years ago, so time to update. Got a discontinued bottom-of-the-line Sony unit for a song. I'd upgraded to Blaupunkt speakers a few years ago, so it sounds okay.
Haven't heard from Johnny since Sunday night. I have a feeling he lives with his parents, or at least people he's not out to. I think that's why he hasn't offered his phone number. Closet-depth could be a bit of a problem. I've been out for 22 years, and I'm not goin' back in. He's not out to his parents. I'm gonna have to tell him, "You're 29 and don't date women. They're not stupid, you know. Get it out in the open and you'll all feel much better." I hope to run in to him tomorrow night.
Friday 23 January, 1998 11:30AM
There are many things you can't change about yourself. And some things that you can. It's important not to get the two confused. But cha know, if there was only one thing I could change but I can't, it's the ADD.
Now it's not all bad, many ADD people seem to have more neuron connections, so we can relate all sorts of stuff together. On retrieval, we can make those connections on a completely unconscious background processing level. An example is quick wit. But for me, the biggest pain in the ass about ADD is distractibility.
Here's how I piss me off: I'm finally getting around to having a second phone line put in for the PC. Guy shows up today, on-time. Got him started. So I've gotta get the apartment cleaned up. There's stuff from my nostalgia boxes all over the place, a couple piles of laundry to do, and the usual once-a-week cleaning, could be company tonight.
So I decide toss some junk, and combine two nostalgia boxes. I'm sorting through stuff, stays, goes, stays, goes. Got to the photos. These I separated into three groups, stays in the apartment, goes back in the nostalgia box, and gets tossed. Phone guy comes back, wants to call his boss, they have to reschedule the call.
At some point in here, I have to start paying attention to him, to check my schedule and all that. I set down the "stays in apartment" pile of pics. Where those photos are now, I have absolutely no clue. I get distracted, my hands do stuff I'm not even aware of. (Of course, in the sack, sometimes that's a good thing! )
Now this apartment is not big enough to lose a handful of snapshots in. Unless you're me. I've checked the desk, all around the room, the empty nostalgia box, the full nostalgia box, the trash. Nowhere. So to distract myself further, I wrote this.
Thank heavens I don't have the hyperactivity part that would make my ADD into ADHD. Then I'd really drive myself nuts!
Sunday 25 January, 1998 2:30PM
Good heavens! So much has happened in the past couple of days! Just wanted to start with the weather report. A nice sunny morning today, and I missed it. Slept 'til noon. Caught about an hour of solar radiation before the afternoon gloom police came and restored Rochester to it's normal overcast state.
Well, I'll have to come back. My neighbor Angela is having trouble with her Mac again. Don't go away!
So, where did I find the pics I "lost" on Friday? I'd put them away where they belong. What a concept! I'd looked everywhere EXCEPT where they were supposed to be. Had no idea I'd gotten that far with the project. Spent over an hour looking for the damned things. I kill me.
So Friday afternoon I had some running around to do. Had to go to the bank, get some groceries, return some leftover stuff from the car stereo install, (and got to see the really cute guy at Parts America again. Swoon!)
So later, I'm in line at the prescription counter at the pharmacy. The cell phone rings. (My voice line at home call-forwards to the cell if I don't answer.) It's Johnny. He apologizes for not calling during the week, he's been ill. We get to the "What 'cha doin'" part and I tell him I picking up my prescriptions. This freaks him out! It's like, "Omigod! What do you HAVE?" Nothing acute or major. Just some stuff I've been taking for over 10 years for a couple of chronic conditions. Notice I didn't freak out when he said he'd been ill this week?
Let's backtrack. Last Friday night after we both got past the shy-guy thing, he's all questions. Do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, kids? No to all. Do you see other guys, when was the last time you had sex, use condoms, what's your status, test regularly? Yes, a couple of weeks, yes, negative, yesterday as a matter of fact. Showed him the needle mark. As you already know, I eventually passed the "interview."
So I'm standing there shocked in the pharmacy thinking to myself, "He thinks I'm here picking up AZT or something. I told him I tested last week. If I were poz, I wouldn't need THAT test. I'd be getting other tests and they don't do those at Thursday night free clinic. And besides that I play safe so what's the diff anyway?"
Then the other shoe drops, "What 'cha doin' tonight?" Well, after the funeral parlor ... "What?" Have to explain that Terry's (of Terry & Dale) father died after a short illness, the only calling hours are today, and Vince-the-ex and I are driving out there (about an hour from the city) to pay our respects. Of course, this was mistake number three. Why is it I can't lie, or even fib a little?
Digression: I don't understand why it is that people have a hard time with the fact that I'm still close to my exes. I mean, I'm not a bad person, they aren't bad people, the problems we had were BETWEEN us, not BECAUSE of us. I can't IMAGINE going through the rest of my life being angry with someone I was close with. Life's too short and there's enough misery going around that you don't have to add to it.
In the case of Vince-the-ex, 18 months of being angry was more than enough, thank you very much. Yes we're great friends again, but it stops there. Neither one of us is particularly interested in getting back together, but on the other hand, we can't wait 'til we both have new boyfriends and the four of us can get together for the occasional euchre game.
Now then it's also kinda fun to shock people with this little gem. Vince-the-ex hangs out in the chats on AOL a lot and there's a whole crew of them who go out together. It's a riot to watch people when we run into each other at Muther's and he introduces me around as his ex. After I excuse myself because I'm meeting so-and-so, it's fun to watch them all natter, natter, natter. End of digression.
So this whole soap opera is unfolding, much to the amusement of the people in the pharmacy as I juggle the phone and the checkbook, and explain that Vince-the-ex doesn't like to drive more than about 20 minutes, or in the rain, or after dark, he's got to drive by within a ½ mile of my apartment anyway, no sense in us taking two cars, so I'll drive out to the funeral parlor. Anyway, Johnny give me his phone number (YES!) and we agree to meet at Muther's later.
I take my prescriptions and leave a bunch of people in my wake marveling about life in the 90s. My life's an open book. Even before I started this site.
Later on, it's all the usual stuff at the funeral parlor, no we're not getting together again, yes we're just friends, yadda, yadda, yadda. Terry (of Terry and Dale) is doing okay, his mom isn't, although she tries to put up a good front. After 53 years, I'd be a major mess. But if I were to have a 53 year relationship, I'd be 93 by then, and a major mess anyway! Not a pretty thought.
Of course, it's old home week. A very large gay contingent in the back of the room. Everyone you'd like to but don't always get to see is there. We get to meet Preston's new boyfriend Len. Terry McD, reclusive owner of Tara, is there with his BF, David. David tends bar during the day at Tara so I get to see him from time to time. Terry McD and I each rented a room back in the early 80s from Buddy, the founder of Tara, so we know each other pretty well. I miss seeing him.
I reminded him that we have a date sometime for a fly-in Sunday Brunch, (he got his pilot's license a couple of years ago.) And, I repeated my promise not to get out of the plane until it was on the ground. No, it's not that Terry McD isn't a good pilot, but I skydive. He promises to go skydiving with me one day.
And so it goes. All the usual socializing you find in a funeral parlor on a Friday night.
Back in the city, Vince-the-ex and I stopped at my favorite restaurant, Hogan's Hideaway, for a post-funeral parlor nosh. Neither of us had had dinner yet, so we were starving. He even picked up the tab! J
So last Sunday when Johnny showed up at the apartment, he was wearing only gym shorts and a T-shirt under his overcoat. Very suggestive. So I figured I'd return the favor. Now I'm NOT going to Muther's in gym shorts and an overcoat on a Friday night in January, I might get attacked! (Only in my dreams!) I settle on a suggestive T-shirt.
Ahhh yes, but which one. Got a lot of attention at the post-Pride Parade bash last summer when I wore the one that says, "I FEEL LIKE A NEW MAN. You'll do." Nah, not on a second date. Hmm, how about "Let go of my ears, I know what I'm doing." Not quite. Rejecting several others, I settle on one that says "Breakfast Included." Suggestive, but tasteful on many levels. And it was already ironed!
Later at Muther's, Johnny got a kick out of the shirt. I wore my jacket until he got there so he'd know it was just for him. Now I'm not sure if that was such a good idea. You see, we talked for almost two hours, dodging the pool players, (Listen missy, don't point that big stick of yours at me unless you intend to use it!), the barbacks and the people in line at the coat check.
Just before last call, I got the "I don't know where this is heading, but I what us to remain friends" line. Dammit! Just what you need to hear at the end of the evening. Got my coat, tried not to look like I'd just gotten hit with a Louisville Slugger. We left the bar together, I got a consolation kiss in the parking lot and came home alone. (By the way, he does live with his parents.)
I called him on Saturday, left a message on the machine, still haven't heard back.
