Journal

Here’s how the thing’s supposed to work. You fill out an online form with the changes. When you submit the form, an e-mail is automatically generated for your acknowledgement and approval. You reply to the e-mail, making no changes. Then they send you another e-mail "confirming the acknowledgement." One also goes to the new hosting service, in this case Hiway Technologies. Overnight, InterNIC updates all the databases, and within 24 to 48 hours, the job is complete.

I’d been through this twice, but never received back the "confirmation of the acknowledgement" e-mail. Rudy and I went through the process step-by-step. We went to the online registration modification template. I’d been using the right one. And the data I had entered were correct. I’d been sent the acknowledgement e-mail, and I’d replied to it. Using the tracking number given to this change, Rudy pulled up the file up. And he spotted the trouble right away.

I use Eudora Pro 4.0 for my e-mail. One of the things it lets you do is automatically add a "signature" to the bottom of every e-mail you send. Mine just says "Check out my web site at http://www.brucew.com"

That’s what confused the computers at InterNIC. It never even occurred to me that I wasn’t sending back an unchanged form. Rudy deleted the offending signature line, and it processed perfectly. Even before I hung up the phone, I had the "confirming the acknowledgement" message in my inbox.

So, I’m hoping that since I got in before the 6:00PM ET deadline for today’s processing, by tomorrow the name will be pointing to the new server. Ain’t technology grand!

Well, was I a little depressed last night? Sure, more than a little. Fortunately, it did not lead to a case of the visitations. Actually got a half-way decent night’s sleep. Anyway, considering there’s so much "family" at work, today I paid attention to the guys that caught my eye, and to the reason that they did.

Some are just plain gorgeous. Okay, animal lust. With others there was something else, and it was the something else that drew me in, not how they look. Affect, body language. I haven’t quite put my finger on what it specifically is yet, but it’s a start. So, I’m feeling a bit better.

Of course today was a real Monday. I left the apartment with my lighter, but no cigarettes, I had my checkbook, and the stamped envelope for the VISA bill, but left the bill itself at home. At least it was sunny, so the drive home at lunchtime was pleasurable, even if I didn’t get any reading done.

Suddenly one of the bosses at Citibank wants a weekly report of what we contractors are doing, starting with last week. No-one told me I had to keep track, so I haven’t. Other than nearly trashing that hard-drive last Tuesday, I’m clueless. And, they want another drug test. I had one through the contract house in December, but Citibank wants their own by the end of the week. So Wednesday a go pee an a cup for Citibank. It’s through a different lab, so it’ll be interesting to see if they do it the same way.

So I grabbed all the paperwork and left for work. A couple of hours later, I’m configuring someone’s browser, and they have a account to get out through the firewall. Naturally I have to test that. Usually I use The Weather Channel, and bookmark Rochester’s forecast for ‘em. Given the confusing state of affairs this morning, I checked my site by name, (didn’t bookmark it for ‘em though.) Lo and behold, the "new" site comes up! It must be I hit it this morning just as the changes were going through.

I obviously don’t have the CDnow links on here to make money. But I figure that as long as I like to share music that I like, why not sign up with their program?

The e-mail brought other gems as well. There’s been a lot of off-site discussion lately of the "journal wars." And there were a couple of items today.  In a rare moment of pre-breakfast lucidity this morning, the whole thing came together for me. The very same people who spurn both the bars and the community are behaving online like the queens they were born to be, (although without calling anyone she, Mary, Missy or Miss Thing.) Just another catfight like backstage at a drag show. Puts a whole new spin on things, don’t cha think?

Here’s how to make a short story long:

Yesterday I had to do the pee-in-a-cup thing for Citibank. Interesting strategy -- been working there a month and they spring this on me, and oh by the way, it has to be done by the end of the week. I guess it’s to catch folks who "celebrate" their new job.

Anyway, I’m on four different prescriptions and my fear is testing false-positive. I take my prescription bottles with me, but they never want to check. Since I don’t have kids in the apartment (where would I put them anyway?), and having a bit of arthritis in the hands, the pharmacy honors my request for non-childproof caps on the bottles. At bedtime, when I looked for my meds, I remembered they were still in my backpack. The cap had come off one. Naturally it was recently filled, and they’re the smallest ones I take. (Couldn’t have happened to the half-dozen "horse pills" in the other bottle. Noooo.)

So I set aside the ones I take at bedtime, fished the rest out of the backpack, and put the bottles away. Never took the ones I’d set aside. So it was one of those 70mm Technicolor Cinemascope Dolby Surround Sound dreaming nights. Don’t ask me where this one came from. But it’s the first one I’ve had that I’m willing to share.

In my teens I had a paper route. In this otherwise working-class neighborhood, there was a Mercedes, an antique aluminum bodied Rolls-Royce, his and hers Porsche 911s at one house, and at another, two of the then-new Porsche 914s. One in orange, the other yellow.

In the dream last night, the guy gave me the yellow 914. Through the dream, I could smell the leather, feel the shifter, pedals, seat and steering wheel. I could also feel the Gs when cornering, accelerating and braking. I carried on conversations with various passengers, could hear the motor and the stereo. Just kinda gives you an idea of my multimedia dreams. Others are truly wild.

That got me thinking this morning about how much I love to have the new Boxster. But 40+ large ones for the "entry-level" Porsche is a bit steep for me, and wouldn’t really be worthwhile given Rochester’s cratered streets and the prodigious amounts of road salt used in even a mild winter. Ah, but to dream. Maybe when I move out west and have some proper mountain roads to put one through.

Also had me thinking about my early years driving. Basically, I learned to drive behind the wheel of two friends’ parents’ cars. We would go out and get toasted, and I was the only one with the cojones to drive back. I was 16, only had a learner’s permit, wasn’t even supposed to be behind the wheel after dark, or without my parents. But I had the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. My friends’ father, was the New York State Commissioner of Motor Vehicles. And I was driving his intoxicated sons home.

Yep. I learned to drive in the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles’ personal cars while stoned and drunk. (His Cadillac Fleetwood’s license plate was "X".)   Never spilled a drop of Miller’s nor, thankfully, any bong-water.

His eldest daughter smashed up her ’73 Capri with startling regularity. By the time she sold it, the only original sheet-metal was the roof. She works for DMV now. His younger son, one of my friends, drove his brand-new ’79 TransAm through the barrier at the end of an expressway. He did not do it as well as Burt Reynolds.

Ah, yes. Memories. Back in 1978 I almost got a two-year old Mercedes 450SEL for only 10K. The estate selling it wised up a day too soon though. I learned the fine arts of smooth braking and smooth cornering while driving the delivery truck for a another friend’s dad, who was a florist. Yes, you can drive in a sporting manner and not tip over the funeral arrangements.

Then there was the time while driving home from the bar one night, I stopped at the gas station where I worked part-time, to use the facilities. Being only a half-mile from the police station, this curious activity was spotted. The investigating officer determined I was too inebriated to drive home. Parked my truck, and he drove me home. I went in the house and waited for him to leave. Then I went out, and rode my brother’s 10-speed back to the gas station. Threw it in the back of the truck, and drove home.

Oh to be young and irresponsible again!

Like the time, before I could drive, with the guy I had my first major crush on. His parents and mine have neighbouring cabins on one of the Rideau Lakes in Ontario. I was so infatuated, I’d do anything he said. (But damn, he never said what I wanted him to.) We got stoned one night and decided ice cream was a good idea. Six miles by not so much a dirt road, but a two-lane cowpath. We took his dad’s brand new ’73 Mercury Marquis. 460 motor, (what’s that almost 8 liters?), no "de Sade" option.

He had it sideways in a power-slide around a 180 degree turn. Forgot about the large patch of the Canadian Shield granite exiting the turn. The rear wheels locked up on the granite and we shot straight up an embankment through a remarkable amount of Canadian flora. In the effort to recover from this turn of events, he had the car up on two wheels, (my side down) and very nearly rolled it over. Never did get ice cream that night. Too busy cleaning our shorts.

And although it’s cold, gloomy and raining a drizzly rain, I’m feeling pretty good right now. So maybe it isn’t the weather, but about 10 hours of sleep. I’ll tell you more after my nap.

Although nothing spectacular has happened this weekend, it’s been interesting nonetheless. Ran into Terry, of Terry & Dale on Friday night. Haven’t seen him since his dad’s funeral. He was officially at work, but unofficially at Muther’s. He says he’s doing all right, and I believe him. He was out with Bill, a straight friend of ours. Bill was looking all tanned and healthy, just back from a cruise with his wife.

They were up to their usual antics, just out to have a good time. And we did. Of course when Terry’s out to have a good time, it usually involves prodigious amounts of Southern Comfort. And I’m afraid I matched him drink for drink with Dewar’s.

As the place cleared out around last call, the three of us took to the dance floor and made incredible fools of ourselves. We were joined from time to time by several other fools, one of whom was quite cute. It was fun. Of course my sense of balance was, shall we say, compromised. This was entertaining, until I twisted an ankle. It takes a lot to do that when you’re wearing Nike hikers. Anyway even though we had hidden our drinks under our coats, Fred or Lenny found them while we were dancing. Good thing too. I for one was over-medicated.

Thank heavens Muther’s is only a two-minute drive from my apartment. Even less if you make the lights, which I did. Yesterday was spent nursing a hangover of gargantuan proportions, and icing my ankle. I’m still amazed I was able to do it any damage. I was wearing the same boots I wear skydiving. They lace up fairly high and have good arch and ankle support. Of course I’m not "overserved" when I jump out of flying aircraft.

So when Willie called yesterday at around dinner time, I wasn’t quite in the mood. We talked for a long time. He’s beginning to have doubts about his thesis. What he decided to do seems simple on the surface, but is actually quite complex. He wants to create a web-based method for people who don’t have a TTY, to call deaf people who do.

The hitch in the whole thing is that TTY machines don’t use the same type of modems that PCs do, nor do they use the PC standard 8-bit ASCII character set. So he has two technical challenges. The first is to interface a PC with a TTY type modem. The second is to convert 5-bit Baudot to 8-bit ASCII. And he wants to do it all with Java, preferably applets.

He’s gotten a source for the TTY modem, but the company isn’t going to give him any tech support, because they’re working on a similar project. They’re really trying to discourage him from doing this. Unfortunately, it’s working. I’m thinking of taking dinner over to him tonight and try to restore his resolve while I’m there.

Last night was the Winter Ball for the Gay Alliance of the Genesee Valley. I thought it would be fun, and I haven’t worn a suit to anything but business functions in a good long time. I’ve only got about seven suits and another seven jackets. It’s a shame to see them just hanging there in the closet. Fortunately, I lean towards the classics, so nothing’s really gone out of style. On Friday I had asked Johnny if he wanted to go, he seemed non-committal, so I let it drop. Turns out, he thought it was next weekend and he really wanted to go. I guess I should have pressed the matter.

Last night at Muther’s after the ball, there were lots of guys in suits and lesbians in evening gowns. Nice to see for a change. Casual wear is comfortable and relatively worry-free, and almost everyone has enough sense of style to look good in it. But if you can pull off getting dressed to the nines, (which I can,) that’s a whole different matter. And of those present at Muther’s last night, everyone in evening attire pulled it off wonderfully. Gay people really do have good fashion sense.

They keep trying new stuff at Muther’s, which is good. But you already know my feelings about the new coat-check. And this week, they painted over some of the flat-black on the walls and put light-blue bulbs in the recessed lighting. Standing under the pale blue light makes me feel like I’m a special at K-Mart. And I don’t think it’s a flattering light for anyone. But they’re trying.

On the other hand, the new DJ booth works. There’s a lot more room by the dance floor now, and I have to admit, I spent a lot more time over there now. By the time I left last night, I was definitely feeling the effects of sonic assault to the ears. Now they have to do something about the sound system itself. Lenny works it a lot better on Saturdays, and it almost sounds good. The guy on Friday however, either has a tin ear or doesn't have the knowledge to tune the sound properly. Maybe I should offer myself as an audio consultant.

Saturdays have become my preferred night out at Muther’s. The crowd is nicer, and more into having fun, the sound is better, although far from perfect, and Lenny plays music that’s closer to my taste. Anyway, after a day of rest, I feel better going out. Friday I’m beat from work, and I think most everyone else there is too. Makes a helluva difference in the crowd.

And, there are three guys I’m kinda interested in there on Saturdays. I still don’t quite know where I stand with Johnny, so I haven’t followed through. Yet. We’ll see what happens next week.

I guess I’m as effected by the age-thing as I accuse others of being. I’d really like to find a guy around my own age, plus or minus a couple of years. But frankly, AIDS decimated my generation. There’s a huge population gap in the 30 to 50 range out there. So I’m faced with twenty-somethings and fifty-somethings.

As people and as friends, I don’t have a problem with the age difference. But relationship-wise, I find it difficult. Younger guys are definitely cute, and kinda fun. No doubt about it, but there’s a big difference in "head-space". And I worry that as I get older, a younger partner will leave to find someone younger than me. On the other hand, I’ve been the younger partner in most of my relationships and friendships. It would be nice to be the older partner for a change, to see how that plays.

I know how it goes with older guys, having had more experience in that area. And I know they can be loving and stable. But as the younger partner, I know that there’s always someone younger than me waiting to take my place.

And then I think about "What if he dies before me?" I could have ten or more years of being old and alone. And I’m frightened to death of that. Accidents aside, one or the other of us will go first, no matter what the age or age difference. But I’ve spent my first forty years being lonely. I don’t want my life to end with an extended period of that too.

It’s the last of a bunch lent me by Mark. Last August. I’ve torn through at least ten books in the last three or four weeks. I’d been saving this one.

I suppose I should tell you a little about Mark. He reads this so I have to be careful. J Hi Mark! We met within weeks of my coming-out 22 years ago. He gave me my first job DJing in the bars, must’ve been April or May of 1976. We became close friends in a fairly short amount of time. We call ourselves sisters. And although he moved to Florida for a while, and I sequestered myself in the suburbs, we’ve remained close spiritually.

The past few years we’ve helped each other through our troubles. And although I’ve always felt it, I don’t think I’ve taken the opportunity to actually say the words: "Thanks for being there, sister. I’m really glad you’ve stuck by me." In case you hadn’t noticed, I can be a world-class asshole sometimes, and he puts up with some of my shit, and rubs my nose in the rest. Of course, I return the favor.

So, back to the book. I’m reading Harlan’s Race by Patricia Nell Warren. As the jacket says, "The long awaited sequel to the landmark classic The Front Runner." I’m probably the only gay man who didn’t read The Front Runner in the 70s. I didn’t really think a woman could write a gay novel, and I hadn’t developed a sense of place in the world. I didn’t think I needed to read about being gay in the 70s, I was living it.

The bars, the baths, the parties, the drugs, and always the sex. I was a real wild child. (I can hear Mark saying, "No dear, you were a slut!") True. Looking back, I think I must’ve been a caricature of being a gay man in the 70s. Is it the times that were different, or was it us? I guess I don’t know much about what it’s like to be in your teens and early twenties and be gay in the 90s. From the outside looking in, it seems very different, and yet, a lot the same. Oh who knows?

While in the mood, there’s also someone who I’ve never said thank you to, for saving my life. "Thank you Vince. You really did save my life. I owe you one." There’s no doubt in my mind that had I continued into the 80s like I had done in the 70s, I would have died of AIDS a long, long time ago. He’s the one responsible for reining me in. And I’m glad he did.

I’ve felt a change coming on again. I seem to go in cycles. The reflective Bruce is coming back. I felt reflective a couple of months ago, just before I started this. The cycle of change moved on. I’m glad things are moving back. There’s so much I need to reflect on. Then I can take the lessons, and move on. The depression has started to lift a bit too. Again a cycle. This one firmly matched to the calendar. Seasonal Affective Disorder. The days are getting longer, and I’m starting to feel better. Just a bit, mind you. But it’s palpable. It’s there.

And I’m sure a good part of it is the book. It’s filled with such intensity of feeling. Fortunately the chapters are short so I can sit back and let it soak in. Or take a nap. Or eat. Or write. It’s printed on great paper too. A good heavy acid-free stock, a brightness of 94 or 96. Here in the throes of the digital revolution, I hope they never stop printing books. And I hope they print more of them on high quality stock. I didn’t have the read it on the copyright page, only confirm it. I can feel the difference in acid-free paper.

And although I’m a willing and active participant in the digital revolution, it just doesn’t feel the same, reading from the screen, interacting only by means of a mouse. And it’s not just my hands. It’s harder to read from the screen. By the time I get the type and line lengths to a comfortable size, you can’t read the screen anymore. So you’re stuck with the big type, long lines and don’t even get me started on scrolling! It’s just plain harder to read, and you’re stuck in one spot for the duration.

Well, I think I’ve had enough of a break from the book. Reading stuff that makes me think about emotions and feelings is just as hard for me to do as it is to write about it. I can’t tear through at 100 pages an hour. I have to stop. Rest. And reflect. Of course, the reflection is the hard part. I’m making far too many typos. Time to quit.

I didn’t take dinner over to Willie tonight. I just didn’t want to go out in the cold and the rain. I called and left a message on his machine though. Offered to stop by with dinner tomorrow night.