MythCreant

moving... again...

2009-11-23T16:22:20Z

The move is over, the weekend gone and here I sit, surrounded by boxes and the formidable task of turning a new locale into a home. How many times now have I been in this situation? Too many to count. Like most people, I hate moving. Passionately. I gave up “swearing” that I would never do it again long ago. I thought of that on Saturday, when one of the gals helping us said, “After our last move, I told my husband that I was going to die in that house. I hate moving and never want to do it again.” Yeah. I understand, completely. Kind of wish it worked that way…

I’m not exactly sure when it was that I came to the realization that, because of the type of person I am and the lifestyle I prefer to live, moving every few years was an inevitability. Two failed long-term relationships, two houses purchased and lost, two households filled with memorabilia portioned out to the winner (i.e., not me), a handful of shorter relationships that never quite allowed for roots to be set down. Being an acquired taste isn’t easy, especially when those who are so taken by my “worldliness and sparkling personality” grow tired of it. Consequently, if walking away is going to be done, I’m usually the guy who ends up doing it. Starting over has become a fact of life, I’m afraid. I’m just not a hunker down until the day I die kind of guy.

Not that don’t want to create a home that will last more than a few years, I do. I’d love that. It just hasn’t happened yet. Which isn’t to say that this won’t be the time. It could be. I hope it is. Donny really is the perfect mate for me, in every possible way. Let’s just hope he still feels the same way in five or ten years. In which case, I wish these new digs were more to my liking, than not. It isn’t a bad house. Got a lot of charm, in a 1940s kind of way: wood floors, coved ceilings, brick fireplace, big back yard. It’s also got a tiny kitchen, wood panel walls, no closet space and is located on a dead-end dirt road in an area of town that some might call “unsavory.” Still, it’s got a lot of potential and I’m resigned to creating a comfortable living space for both myself and Donny, for as long as it lasts.

He and I have been pondering the possibilities; how to decorate this room, what to do about that room, what, if anything, can be done about the huge dirt lot that is the back yard. It’s going to be an enormous project for us. Probably pretty costly, too. Funny, considering neither of us are in a secure enough financial place that we can begin earmarking large chunks of money for things like putting in a yard, ripping up ugly carpeting, refinishing floors or even buying the much-needed shelving that will get boxes of books up off the floor. Ah, well… max out another credit card. I’m already so far in debt my great, great grandchildren will be feeling the pinch, why stop now, right? Joke. It’s a joke… gads…

Then there’s the time issue. I just don’t have it. I’m off all this week and will do everything I can to unpack and tidy up. I also have a huge ad campaign to kick off and a newsletter to put together, but that’s just par for the course. Then there’s that holiday thing to deal with and the fact that one of Donny’s friends is coming to visit, which will most likely hinder said ongoing project. After this week, I’m back to the 16-hour-a-day grind, six days a week. Not a lot of time for home projects. Which is kind of depressing, because there’s so much I want to do here and the prospect of still wanting to do those things a year from now doesn’t sit well. So, I try not to think about it.

Instead, I’ll begin by tackling the kitchen. There’s got to be a way to get everything into that room. I just have to be creative. Then I’d better start working on the guest bedroom, since Katy will be getting into town sometime Wednesday. Oosh, and I’ve got to start breaking down all those empty boxes that are piled up on the back porch and hauling storage items out to the storage shed. At some point I have to take a break and go in to the office, to start working on that ad campaign. Farm some of it out, if I can. Yeah, it’s going to be a busy day. Let the fun begin…

The task ahead…

the more things change...

2009-11-14T20:28:04Z

Donny signed on the dotted line yesterday. He is now the proud owner of a house, soon to be our home. He was so nervous. I vaguely remember being that nervous, myself, a long, long time ago, when I signed on my first house. Still a little bit so on the second. One needs only lose two houses to unscrupulous ex-partners before one actually learns that it’s all transitory in the end. If they don’t take it, the bank probably will. I do admit, it was nice to have equity to draw from, but the whole concept of having a “nest egg” to fall back on gets lost somewhere along the way, especially when the property is “co-owned.” And with the IRS still sniffing around and looking for any way to get the money they think I still owe them, best not to tempt Fate. So, now we have a home and Donny owns a house and I'm okay with the whole damned thing, even though it drives Donny crazy that I keep calling it his house. Which it is, technically. And, again, that's just fine by me...

In other news, I got an e-mail from my son. First time he’s spoken to me since March. Since way before he moved to Boston. It was short, but thoughtful. I’d like to know how school is going and where he’s living and what his thoughts are about living in a strange city, on his own, for the first time, but he’ll most likely never tell me. Too busy being 18 and independent. Too busy starting his life, away from the ‘rents. I can relate. I couldn’t wait to get away, myself, when I was his age. And I just kept getting further and further away, over the years. Now I’m a bad son. I talk to my mom, maybe twice a year. Usually around Mother’s Day and her birthday. Not because I don’t want to talk to her, but because I’m just too busy. One should never be too busy for one’s parents. I guess what goes around comes around. I really miss him…

there and back again vii: a journey into the past

2009-10-13T01:45:14Z

This past weekend was my 30th high school class reunion. I can’t even begin to describe the mix of emotions and thought processes that such an unwelcome revelation elicited. They ranged from disbelief that three decades had passed since I’d last trod the hormonal halls of conscripted learning to a curiously resigned wonderment as to which of Life’s many moribundities had befallen my former classmates.

I have, of course, skipped right over the horror, revulsion and bitterly staunch announcements that not only would I “not be caught dead” at such a function, but “hell would freeze over” if ever I did. I am still among the living and, last time I checked the temperatures in Phoenix, heat was still the norm. Let it suffice to say then that, due to a cancellation at the theatre, I found myself with that rarest of occurrences: a free Saturday night! Hence I made the effort, with Donny in tow. I have to admit, it wasn’t horrible. I have to further admit that Mama Kelly’s Magic Muffins made it that much easier.

There were high points, certainly. Cindy almost setting the table on fire, while sitting directly across from me, was among those. She’s just lucky I was drinking water rather than something alcoholic, otherwise it would certainly have added fuel to the fire when I doused the fourth of her combusting napkins with it. Later, being told by the former star quarterback that, not only did he think I had the hottest date there, but that I must be “doing something right,’ rated right up there, too. Heh.

Overall, though, it was just weird being amongst those people again. Some haven’t changed much. Others were virtually unrecognizable. Kids I’d known since kindergarten and journeyed with through 12 grueling years of formative social training, have suddenly been transformed in my cheesecloth memory card into middle-aged parents and grandparents. The snippets of obligatory backstory I nodded and smiled through I found to be all too common for those who never quite escape their small hometowns all across the nation. In other words, no real surprises. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but neither does it rate a rundown.

Instead, I’ll muddle through the rest of the weekend, which gave texture and immediacy to the nostalgia like a DeLorean rocketing through time. Since I technically had a three-day weekend, owing to the fact that my next event isn’t until Wednesday and I have been putting in a lot of extra hours lately, Donny decided that it was necessary for us to take a “road trip.” I’m glad we did. Though it wasn’t anywhere nearly long enough to be considered “relaxing,” it was definitely good to get away. And we did have those muffins… We didn’t go far. Just up the hill to Ruidoso, where we rented a room at a rundown old ski lodge called the Swiss Chalet and used it as our base of operations.

Normally I don’t waste time on superfluous descriptions of boarding houses. Generally if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. The Chalet, however, was a particularly fine choice, considering. It was eccentric and quirky with a definite haunted feel, much like the Overlook Lodge in both the book and the movie, The Shining. I kept expecting to see odd little children riding tricycles or phantom bartenders doling out doleful advice. Instead, we snooped around and found neglected walkways, dried up Jacuzzis and a seemingly forgotten-by-time, and thus thankfully unlit, observation deck from which we marveled at the vastness of brilliant star-filled skies, unobscured by light or air pollution.

Never mind that the room itself had two copies of the exact same bad Bob Ross-type landscape print on the wall, or that the key card read, “Want room service? Call Dominoes!” with a phone number printed in bright yellow letters below, or the fact that the hotel bar closed at 6pm. It was still a pretty cool place to wile away a few hours of speculatory deducting, like those meddlesome kids driving around in the Mystery Machine used to do. Because, you see, we weren’t there for the room service, the art appreciation or any other amenities. We were there to explore.

Our exploration actually began Sunday morning, with a chill in the air and fog infiltrating the surrounding forest like the Hollywood backlot of yet another tedious Stephen King knock-off. Once properly fortified by a downhill dash to Starbucks, we made the drive over the mountain to the historic Old West town of Lincoln, setting for the infamous Lincoln County War. Naturally, not being a native New Mexican, Donny had never heard of the Lincoln County War, though such pivotal historical figures as Pat Garret, Billy the Kid, Lew Wallace and Kit Carson were known to him. That made the exploration all the more enjoyable.

We trolled through museums, read plaques and historical markers and wandered trails off the beaten path for hours. Then we drove back, had an early dinner and did the same with the tourist shops of Ruidoso. I found it very interesting that, with all the history permeating the area, I couldn’t find a single decent book on the subject of the Lincoln County War. I’d told Donny that, when I was young, the War was an obsession of mine, rivaling his own obsession with the Titanic. Now I feel that odd obsession returning. I think I’d forgotten how fascinating that story is to me but now, having walked those haunted streets again, the banked coals are starting to remember the flame. Oh, and now we have Amazon! That ups the ante by raising the parameters of obsession to a whole new level!

The rest is just filler. Crisp mountain air, low-scudding clouds, colorfully-turning underbrush, all the things one might expect from a lovely mountain excursion. Unsettling trips down memory lane notwithstanding, it couldn’t have been a better road trip. We made good use of our “down” time. The only critters we encountered during our brief getaway were a parking lot-wandering skunk, countless squished raccoons and three shell-shocked fawns, milling across the road after their mother was mowed down by a hit-and-run semi.

Huh. It occurs to me that this might not be the best way to end a journal entry. Or is it? Upon further reflection, I think it might be, after all. Hey, why not? That’s the cycle of life, baby. There can be no enjoyment of the bright side without occasional peeks into the darkness beyond.

And that just about sums up my entire weekend. ‘Nuff very much said.

History. In the making.

bangin' out another word

2009-09-22T03:42:34Z

Holy Crunk, I’m tired. This doesn’t bode well, considering the week I have ahead of me. Neither is it a big surprise, considering I’m now on day eight of a 13-day event blitz. So much to do, so little time. It’s been like this for a while now. When I’m not at work, I’m working from home on stuff I couldn’t get done in the 12 to 16 hours I WAS there.

Sadly, it leaves very little time for composing thoughts, much less sitting and jotting them down. Tonight, I’m on strike. Yes, there are still things I need to attend to, but right now I just don’t give a fuck. I’m tired and I don’t want to think about work. No, instead I just want to sit here and, apparently, write about how I don’t want to think about work. Pathetic.

I should be taking this opportunity to hit a few high points which have transpired since last time I tried to do a mind dump. What was that? Oh… huh… two weeks ago. sigh. Now the fun part is going to be trying to remember what I’ve done, besides work, for the past two weeks. There had to be something…

OH! Donny and I drove to Carlsbad Caverns last Sunday. Not yesterday, but a week from yesterday. It was awe-inspiring and it was really nice to get away, but since it was only a day trip, I feel like we spent the majority of the day in the car. I’m not a fan of long road trips, unless there are several days available to experience them. One day is not enough, especially when it’s my ONLY day off. Ugh… work again…

Where was I? Oh, yeah, the Caverns. They were even cooler than I remembered them being from school field trips forty years or so ago. It was all very surreal, but made all the more charming by Donny’s excitement at seeing such a beautiful natural wonder, up close and personal, for the very first time. Naturally we took lots of pictures. Unfortunately, most of them didn’t come out, because it was so freakin’ dark down in those caves. Got a few good ones, though. Maybe sometime next year I’ll have time to upload them to Flickr. Maybe.

Oh, and the Nosotros concert the night before that trip went very well. We didn’t sell nearly enough seats to make our money back (this is becoming a problem), but everyone involved, from the volunteers and staff to the management and talent, were very pleased with how smoothly the day went. I’ve got a very good staff. They do me proud.

And we hosted a seminar at the theatre, on Tuesday of last week, featuring a smooth-talking motivational speaker/author from back East, whose name I shall not mention here for fear of reprisals. Said speaker was already creeping me out with his car salesman patter and snake oil salesman demeanor, but when he suddenly hit on me I was completely flabbergasted. Seriously? You’re about to go onstage to address a room full of Optimists (the Club, not the disposition) and you’re asking me if I want to get up close and personal with you in your hotel room later this evening? Seriously?

No, it wasn’t a misunderstanding, either. He started by asking me what the hot spots were in town. When I told him that I didn’t really get out to the clubs much, because I work all the time, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “What about gay clubs?” I told him he’d have to go to El Paso. He asked about a couple of local clubs by name, asking if any gay men hung out at them. I pleaded innocence. He smiled and said, “Well, I’d like to do something tonight, to blow off steam.”

Then he, very lackadaisically asked me if I would like to have “some drinks” with him in his room later that night and “see where they take us.” Um… “I think that’s your cue…” was all I could think of to say. He winked, turned and stepped on-stage, while I went in search of a shower. Wanna know what the capper was on this creepfest? He was wearing a wedding ring AND, during the course of the next three hours on-stage, he not only mentioned said wife, but spoke of her and their “loving union” in glowing terms that would have had a diabetic screaming for insulin. Ew.

Oh, and this past Saturday night, I had the extreme pleasure of watching as Donny—MY Donny—sat in on a sound check with Jazz legend Ernie Watts and held his own. It all happened very quickly, but the upshot was that the scheduled pianist was late, having been held up in football game traffic, so Donny stepped in on the piano. “Play something,” Ernie said to him and play something he did. He launched into one of his own compositions while Ernie and his band riffed along with him. It was a stellar performance. I was so very proud at that moment. It still makes me smile to think about it.

Scattered in there, somewhere, was the scorpion adventure... I also got my furniture for the green room donated for free... created some musical PSAs with Donny that are now being played before each event and which are garnering a lot of complimentary buzz... had a lovely dinner with Hilary and Randy to talk about her latest upcoming dance project. I also created concepts for four different Renaissance ArtsFaire posters, two of which were taken to completion and which turned out pretty fucking cool, if I do say so myself. One is being used for print advertising. The second will be made into billboards.

Which brings us right back around to work again. It’s funny in a not really “ha ha” kind of way that I can’t stop talking about it. Even when I’m making a concentrated effort not to mention it, the topic looms large. It also occurs to me that I’ve once again floundered into the next installment of Melissa’s five-word challenge, without realizing it. Why bother trying to explain what the word “workaholism”--the fourth out of five words--means to me, when the example is right here, on the screen, in black and white. So, there you have it. Without preamble or conscious effort, a demonstration of how the word relates to me.

Word four down. Time to haul these tired old bones up the stairs and fling them into bed. With luck I’ll actually get a full night’s sleep.

Somewhere deep inside the Earth’s crust...
Proof that I do occasionally escape my “ism”

the end of the day

2009-09-08T00:57:01Z

Whew. It has been a very full weekend, beginning when Donny’s parents flew in on Friday morning. It was his mom's birthday, which worked out perfectly, under the circumstances. I saw them, briefly, at lunch, then had to take care of my First Friday Art Ramble duties. Once those were completed, and the last of the loiterers expelled, I locked up and pointed Earl toward Mesilla, where Donny would be making his debut as a paid performer at Vintage Wines. Happy Birthday, mom, your talented son is finally getting his due! It was a good set, with a very appreciative crowd made up of lots of familiar faces, which was very nice. Lots of wine consumed there, too, which wasn’t. Especially the next morning.

We ended up closing down Vintage and, at 1 o’clock in the damned morning, going to breakfast at the old Village Inn on El Paseo. Weird. The last time I was in that Village Inn, it was around 1am… sometime in 1984. It was surreal to be sitting in that place, snacking on a breakfast skillet and surrounded by a whole new diehard crew. It was a big crew, too: Donny and me, his parents Don and Patty, my theatre assistant Stephen, Mike and Kelly, Nicki and John. I think it was a perfect close to Donny’s memorable day. Couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. Well... I would have left out the hangover part... I think Patty had a pretty good birthday, too. Score.

Early Saturday morning our buddy James arrived on our doorstep, after driving all night from Phoenix. Yes, we knew he was coming. No, it didn't make the inevitable any easier to deal with. Donny and I pulled our groggy, sleep-deprived and hungover carcasses out of a barely warmed bed and set about playing host to our caffeine-fueled, motormouth guest ("I knew I was in trouble outside of Bowie, when Satan started speaking through Cher..."). A few hours and one tiny white pill later, James finally passed out on our couch, allowing Donny and I to drive over to the theatre for rugrat wrangling… er… Magic Carpet Story Time. Another duty completed, we shot back home to gather up the ‘rents and, while James snored on, packed them off to lunch at Si Bistro, then to the Art Festival at the Holy Cross Retreat outside of Mesilla. Religious art. ‘Nuff said.

James was up and quite chipper when we finally returned to Casa Cosmic. The rest of the day is something of a blur for me, however, owing in part to the lack of sleep and in part to the killer margaritas James brought with him from La Pinata, packed in an ice chest. Gods, I love those Margaritas. I'd forgotten how much. Memories came flooding back. Or maybe that was just the effect of swaying back and forth like a sailor on rough seas. All I know is that, without knowing exactly how it happened, the five of us somehow found ourselves at High Desert Brewing Company later that evening, sucking down microbrews into the middle of the night. Hangover number two a-brewin’ with a side order of spinach-feta-quesadilla heartburn. Yum.

Sunday we were up a little later than usual, but still not late enough to consider what came before a 'good' night's sleep. As I sat doing laundry and contemplating the glass shards shredding the inside of my skull, James broke out with the rest of his booty—beans, rice, green chili, red chili and hot salsa—from La P. And, because logic had obviously packed up its bags and vacated the premises sometime the day before, I soon found myself making homemade tortillas for a late breakfast. They were well received. Once devoured, we all felt a little more motivated and soon were driving out to the Harvest Wine Festival, along Highway 10 outside of town. Oddly enough, once there I found that I wasn’t all that interested in suckling from Bacchus' hairy, purple teat. Go figure.

Actually, this is what really happened: After just two teensy samples, my body said to the mushy stuff between my ears, “mushy stuff, if you let him do that again, I’m going to throw us all down on the ground, spout fermented proteins into the air and refuse to get up again without a soup spoon.” To which mushy stuff replied, “Um… maybe if I make him feel really queasy, then throw in some hot flashes and, for good measure, a little hot salsa reflux, he’ll get the picture...” He did. It worked.

Yet another festival experience ticked from the bucket list, we made our way to Mesilla, so Patty could do some shopping. Then, because James really wanted to go to a farmer’s market he’d read about in the paper, we hit the road for La Union. Donny and I have been to La Union, but apparently our elementary mathematic skills had died ignobly in the previous evening’s brain cell massacre. It never occurred to either of us that there was no earthly way we could get to a farmer’s market 45 miles away, along back roads, before the market closed 45 minutes later. We drove all the way out there, to discover one lone guy hanging out in the middle of a field. The drive back was sobering.

Well, we couldn’t have that, now could we? Oh, no. Musn’t disappoint the gods of drunken gluttony on this, their very special weekend. After a quick stop at Sam’s Club for a pallet of beer, then home to pick up supplies, we were off to Mike and Kelly’s for dinner. Pleasantly surprised to see Myra and her husband Mike in attendance. Sat out back, drinking beer and tequila shots and chatting it up with good people amongst a ballet of swooping, hovering, flittering hummingbirds. Until the sun went down and they transmogrified into mutant mosquitoes the size of Humvees. The ones that survived the ensuing smackdown were, no doubt, pretty pickled by the time we finally gave up and went indoors. Dinner was delish, but it was another late night. And, hello hangover number three!

Dragging ass today. Don and Patty flew out this morning. James followed at a more leisurely terrestrial pace sometime around noon. I was so proud of myself, when I remembered to gather up Deb’s long overdue photos and send them to Phoenix with James. It was my only real accomplishment today. Had lunch with Donny, then sent him on his way to work. Poor baby. If he feels half as bad as I do, it’s going to be a long night. Of course, this is the same man who said wistfully, after James departed, “I want one more day…” Know what I want? To feel like a 28-year-old rock star again. Even if only so I could appreciate that one inexplicable desire...

Labor Day Pains: Clockwise from the upper left:
James, Don, Mike, Kelly, Mike, Myra, Donny, me, Patty.

bloody hell

2009-09-04T04:41:21Z

What can one say about a day that begins with my having to deal with a bloody crime scene behind my theatre and ends with a screeching stress headache caused by too many hours spent staring at a computer screen? Eh. It wasn’t all bad. It had its high points. For one thing, it looks like I scored furniture for the Green Room, as a donation from one of the showcase furniture warehouses in town. For others, I got the stage painted, created two posters and the ancient theatre chair has been mounted and now sits proudly in our lobby. Not bad for a day’s work. Sometimes it really is the little things.

Those "little things" more than made up for watching two bumbling police officers--who, I’m pretty sure, aren’t fully out of puberty yet--poke around a grisly scene that would have made Dexter's chones moist and declare with finality that “it looks like there was a fight and somebody got a bloody nose.” Right. That’s why there is blood sprayed all across the wall, in several places, and splattered across the pavement and pooled in the cracks of our walkway. Dark blood. Dark clotted blood. With chunks. Oh, and syringes. A couple of those, too. Some type of insulin pack, obviously. I think one of the reasons my eyes hurt so much, right now, is because of all the rolling they did, earlier.

Once the junior officer patrol went back to class--or the arcade, or wherever it is that junior officers go when they're not expertly canvasing a crime scene--I spent the better part of my morning dealing with CSI: Las Cruces. That’s a joke. There’s no such thing, but it is becoming something of a running gag. I did hear many television-fueled "educated" speculations on what had occurred. And at times it really did seem like The Lone Gunmen had turned their attention to Crime Scene Investigation, instead of unsolved FBI cases; but no real answers were forthcoming.

Won't be any, either, because eventually city employees came rolling in with sand, shovels, water and a big ol' bottle of Clorox bleach. They scraped and wiped and washed and scrubbed the entire area down. Did a pretty good job, too, under the circumstances, but they did miss some spots. All that remains of a mystery that may never be solved. Evidence eradicated. I may never know what happened on the back steps of my theatre, last night. I doubt it will make the local paper. Nosebleeds seldom do. I just hope that whomever it was that bled out back there had the good grace to expire elsewhere. The last thing I need to deal with is a junkie ghost.

words: three of five

2009-08-28T14:45:24Z

This is actually taking a lot longer than I expected it to. I don't know why I'm surprised. With so much going on, lately, it's a wonder I have time to ponder the essentials, much less the aesthetics. But aesthetics are part of what my world is about, these days, so it's become something of a convoluted Catch 22. Whatever. Good things happening all around us. The new season at the Rio Grande Theatre has been launched and the word is spreading rapidly. Been getting a lot of ink in local newspapers and magazines. People are starting to take notice. My job, though it has really only begun, is accomplished. Hell, I just got a nice hefty raise, after only three months on the job. That's got to count for something, if only that the 16 hour days I've been putting in haven't been for nothing.

And still, despite the long hours, I find myself deliriously happy. The time I get to spend with Donny are still choice. He still lifts me up and, wonder of wonders, doesn't nag me about being a workaholic. He understands that it's part of the job and necessary to accomplish what I need to. He supports me one hundred percent, rather than whining about the fact that I'm never home. I'm damn lucky to have him and I work hard never to forget that. Even the little moments he's unaware of send me. Like when I wake up in the morning and, before rolling out of bed, I kiss him on the neck just to listen to him giggle in his sleep. Or the extreme pleasure I feel when I go about my duties down at the theatre and can hear him playing the piano tucked back on the stage, like a musical phantom. So many little things.

Which, interestingly enough, brings me to the next "word" in Melissa's assigned series. Or, "words" as the case may be. This would be one of the hardest for me to verbalize, simply because my responses are more emotional than logical. I guess that's the fun part. The exercise, as it were. Formulate those gooey, squishy feelings and give them substance. Sure, why not? I've already done so a little above. And it's just a word, right? Right. Take a deep breath and plunghe. That third "word" is "Donny Prosise" and Donny Prosise...

“…is a weird kid.” That’s how I would have referred to him had I met him, ten years earlier. Of course, he would have been 17 or 18 at the time. A high school dropout, living on his own with his boyfriend. I would have been 37 or 38, sliding into my 40s and just finishing up my tenure with Paramount Studios. I would just have been starting work on Blue Food, while he would have been experimenting with nailpolish and wild hair colors. Flamboyantly flashing his big gay colors. There would, I think, have been very little attraction.

So, you see, though there are times when the 20-year age difference makes itself irritatingly apparent, I’m honestly glad that we met when we did. He was just the tonic I needed to jumpstart a tired, jaded outlook and put me back on the path of creative living. Emphasis on the “living,” I think. I’m still not exactly sure how it happened. We’d met before and though I’d thought him adorable, there had been no spark. It took a three-month immersion in community theatre to bring us together. Psycho Beach Party. He was my Starcat. I was his Kanaka. History was made on that stage.

Sharing the stage with Donny was, easily, one of the best experiences I’ve ever had in theatre. And there have been a lot of those. The chemistry between our two characters bled off into our personal lives and, before we knew it, we had become fast friends. Despite words of warning from our significant others, we couldn’t stop spending time with one another. Talking, laughing, dorking out. It was never dull. Which is probably why the friendship withstood the end of the play, the rocky relationship he was in and the dissolution of my own 13-year debacle. We sort of helped each other limp through our respective battlefields together and became even closer in the process.

Even so, I still marvel at the fact that this beautiful, talented and charmingly twisted young man is here. With me. He’s an amazing musician. His fascination with words and languages is refreshing in this text-happy, truncated and mostly illiterate world. He’s outspoken and proudly marches to his own drum. His sex drive surpasses even my own, which is saying something, because, quite frankly, it’s good to finally be with someone who can keep up with me. He’s funny and sharp. He’s a dork in the best possible way. It’s rare that I can leave his presence without at least a smile on my face, no matter how bad the day has been. His touch thrills me. His smell excites me. And he’s here. With me.

He followed me close to 400 miles to happily create a new life. Here. With me. I don’t even know what to say about that last part. This is a man with deep friendships and strong family ties. He had a good job, with great benefits and a nice paycheck. He could have made a very nice life for himself in Phoenix. But he put it all aside, rearranged his life, loaded up his belongings and said “see ya later,” to his peeps. Just to be with me. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand that. And despite my predilection for morbid shoe gazing, especially the airborne variety, I can honestly say nobody has ever made me happier. In every way possible, he’s become the man of my dreams.

He’s also become the only person I’ve ever had a relationship with who holds the power to really and truly break my heart. It’s a very scary feeling to discover, this late in life. It’s a fear that surpasses what was, up until now, my greatest terror; dying alone. In the world of Tarot, he would be my Knight of Cups. A card I’ve never pulled before. I can’t help but think that this latest spread was designed to keep me on my toes. And to make me appreciate the more mercurial aspects of this rollercoaster ride we call life. If I have to be on this ride, I can’t think of a partner I’d rather experience it with.

words: two of five

2009-08-21T04:00:46Z

Yes, I know. It's been a while, but I've been busy. Very busy. The new season has begun and the 12 hour days have become 16 hour days. The heat is on, but I'm trying to stay cool. Today was the last day of my "probation." I'm now official in this position. My boss told me this evening that I'll be getting a raise. This is a good thing. Tomorrow night, one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Namoli Brennet, will be taking my stage for the first time ever. I'm exhausted, but feeling pretty zen right about now. So, with wine glass in hand, I sat my naked ass down and pondered the next word on my list. "Theatre." Heh. Perfect.

This word is loaded, and I wonder if Melissa has any idea… It means so many things to me. Not surprising, considering where I find myself, these days. I never really imagined myself managing an historic landmark like the Rio Grande Theatre, but here I am. It consumes my life, but I have no real complaints. The challenges are immense, but I don’t really feel daunted. I can honestly say that I have never felt so appreciated by the people I work for. It’s both a pleasure and an honor to have been so charged. In terms of the “word,” however, it barely scratches the surface.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been referred to as “theatrical.” Not in the melodramatic sort of way some people are theatrical. I’m not now, nor have I ever been, a limelight personality. Though I find myself comfortable on a stage, I’d rather be behind the scenes, pulling the strings, if you will, in a very Machiavellian way. I just happen to be very fond of stagecraft. Performance, whether it be acting, singing, lecturing or any other form of storytelling, from a stage area, fascinates me. It’s like magic.

I attribute this fascination to the fact that, as a child, I had a terrible stutter. The stutter seemed to vanish, however, when I read aloud from other sources. My mother, being a reading teacher, discovered this fact early on and made me read aloud at every opportunity. This led to my composing and memorizing my words in advance and speaking them back before whatever audience I found myself. Memorization took the pressure off my poor brain and taught me how to slow down, compose my thoughts and speak them clearly, rather than in a rush and tumble of painfully stillborn sentences. It was only natural that I would join the drama club in high school. Everything changed dramatically, if you’ll forgive the pun, after that.

As already mentioned, I wrote a play while in high school and had it drag me all the way to national championships in New York City. I was a junior in high school at the time. I still don’t think the play was very good, but others seemed to like it. As a result, I was offered a drama scholarship to New Mexico State University. College was a notion I’d never even entertained, up until that point. It got me out of Tularosa and completely changed my life. The “career” didn’t last long, as I was ejected from the drama program by the dean, when he found out that I was tricking with one of his married professors. Shit happens. I moved into the writing program.

Over the years that passed, I kept finding myself dragged back into theatre. I did summer stock in Silver City, New Mexico, way back in 1982 and it was there that I met the first real love of my life. Years later, I wrote a play about the ghosts haunting me after that first love’s suicide. Before it was ever produced, I wrote and saw staged a handful of short, one acts. I continued acting, here and there, in a variety of productions, mostly alternative, some requiring nudity. I founded a theatre troupe in Phoenix and, eventually, had my ghost play produced in 2007. It was on stage, a year later in a production of Psycho Beach Party, that I met Donny, the man who taught me what true love is all about.

And here I find myself coming full circle. I’m back where I started on this little journey. Difference is, I’m not a theatre student this time around. Now I’m the guy in charge. I’m master of my own destiny. I’m managing the hottest entertainment venue in town and I have the hottest partner, another one of those “theatrical” types. Still, the word “theatre” fits. Without my ever really realizing it, that word has helped shape me. It continues to direct me. It’s a part of my destiny, it seems. And really, who am I to complain? If all the world is a stage, I've got pretty choice billing.

words: one of five

2009-08-15T16:12:24Z

There's this meme going around, in which somebody gives you five "relevant" words and, in response, you have to write something about each one. Normally I don't go for "getting to know me" memes. Waste of time, mostly, but also, they tend to be dumb. This one is a little different. For one thing, Melissa Maples challenged me and she is anything but dumb. For another, it gives me something to write about and I work best with assignments. Of course, I'm not about to do it the way everybody else does. Rather than jot down a few words on each topic, one after the other, I think I'll weigh each one carefully, then write about it at length. One word at a time. One journal entry, as I find the time. That said, the first word is "writing." Here goes...

Asking me to write about writing is a bit like asking a hemophiliac to describe bleeding. Scratch me and it’s an almost certain fact that ink will flow from my veins. It’s both a blessing and a curse; a joyous compulsion and a cruel obsession. It is, in a word: life. Which makes it all the stranger that I find myself at a point in my life wherein writing plays such a small role. For over 25 years I’ve not gone a single month without having at least one article, essay, review, interview, poem or short story published in some publication, somewhere. All that ended three months ago when I took on the very taxing job of running the Rio Grande Theatre.

Why? Because there just hasn’t been any time. I know, that sounds like a lame excuse for a self-proclaimed write-a-holic. If there’s time to eat, to sleep, to shit, there’s always time to write. Therein lies the problem. I rarely find the time for any of those things, anymore. I eat on the run, I sleep sporadically and my digestive tract may never forgive me for the neglect and misuse. It just happens to be the way it is, these days. I still work ten to 12 hour days, six days a week. Ah, but it isn’t so dire as it sounds. I do write. I’m writing now. I’ve got folders filled with notes, reflections, private journal entries and lists. I’m big on lists. It’s the publishing part that’s fallen by the wayside. No big loss, really. The challenge of this new job far outweighs the need for validation as a writer. Maybe I’ve finally outgrown that selfish desire. Maybe…

So, yes, writing is a necessary part of my life. Like oxygen. Even when I was a young turk rebelling against the strict protocols of the Catholic Church and the evil nuns who kept us in lockdown at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic School, I wrote. Short stories, mainly, about the ungodly and often grisly demise of Sister Alphonsine, my chief nemisis; she of the immobilizing halitosis and arthritic death pinch. I was seven or eight at the time. Later, in high school, I wrote my first play and took it to national playwriting competitions, despite vociferous condemnation from my stepfather, who believed all that "creative crap" I was doing was, not only a waste of time, but a sure sign that I was a sissy boy, unworthy of his hometown letterman reputation. Hell, even his despicable act of burning my journals and sketch pads, in the front yard when I was 16, didn’t deter me. I learned then that it wasn’t what had been written, but what was left still to write that mattered.

I wound up in college, just so I could escape the man, the church and the repression. Had to turn a lot of tricks to make it happen, but I’m not complaining. Coming from a small town, with no real prospects and a depressing lack of monetary worth, I happily sold my ass for the privilege of attending the University. And, lo, while there, I discovered a whole new world of possibility. There were people attending and teaching at the University who proudly proclaimed themselves writers and pursued careers in the field! I was smitten and I never looked back. Had my first short stories published in the local student lit journal. Joined the college newspaper and got my first taste of a byline. I guess I just never stopped after that.

Over the next 30 or so years, I wrote constantly. It became a driving force, no matter what job I held. Over the years, I wrote for, edited, managed and published a series of entertainment magazines. I had my own ridiculously successful literary website for a few years. I worked for Paramount Studios, which then parlayed into freelance work with every major Hollywood studio and a clutch of smaller, independent production and distribution houses. I was a columnist, staff writer, freelance publicist and writing consultant for whomever would have me. I wrote and had three plays produced. And I had enough short stories published to fill three anthologies. Not a bad run, when you think about it. In fact, I’m probably the most prolific writer nobody has ever heard of. I’m okay with that.

It’s odd to sum my career up like that, in such a short paragraph. There was so much more to it, obviously, but in the end, everything in this line of work can be summed up in a paragraph. I’ve done more than my fair share of reducing others to a synopsis of concise syllables. All’s fair in love and words. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. It wasn’t the details of the experiences that counted, it was the overall experience itself. I was, by gods, and still am, a writer. I always will be, until the day I die, crippling arthritis or dementia not-withstanding. I guess if I had to come up with an epitaph for myself, something to carve into the granite that will someday be my footnote, it would be, “I came, I wrote, I lived the impossible dream.”

‘Nuff said.

and so it goes...

2009-08-02T15:08:21Z

Damn, August already. Don’t know where the year is going. And the new season is almost upon me. I’ve got two bands from Phoenix playing on the 18th, followed by Namoli Brennet on the 21st. After that I’ll be living at the theatre again. Events booked every weekend and every other weeknight through Christmas, then a short break before it starts all over again. Still no complaints. Not every planned event is necessarily my cuppa, but some are very cool and I’ve got a wide demographic to satisfy. I’m almost looking forward to the onslaught. It’ll be exhausting, but what a rush, huh?

I feel like I should be making the best of the time off I’ve been getting, but after a full week (and they are still very full weeks) all I want to do is vegetate on Sunday. It kind of sucks, because I was looking forward to getting out with my camera today, but doesn’t look like that’ll be happening. It’s been way too long and I suppose I could go it alone, but I’d rather have Donny along. It’s always much more interesting and gods know it’s been months since we’ve had any sort of outing together. One that doesn’t involve family or visiting friends. Sigh…

Poor Donny could use it too. He’s been having a string of bad luck lately. First his favorite co-worker was fired, then his iphone got drenched and now he’s discovered that he has to work tonight, giving him six nights in a row. He’s not a happy boy. Add to that a less than glowing review from his boss and a miniscule raise and he’s downright morose. Wish there was something I could do to cheer him up, but as long as he still has five more ten hour shifts to go, with nobody to talk to and no phone to distract him during the lulls, we may just have to ride this one out.

I’ll just make him something to eat when he gets up around noon, then try to distract him as best I can during the three and a half hours before he has to head off to work again. I hope this new job with the city comes through for him. It’s an office job, but it has benefits and will make use of his skills, something ye olde sex shoppe isn’t doing. It would be nice for him to have a regular schedule, again. Mine is already bad enough. Two erratic schedules makes for a couple of very cranky housemates.

Oh, and speaking of houses, there’s that groovy, rambling old manse we’re trying to rent, too. Should know tomorrow if we’re in or not. Good news would go a long way toward making him happy, even if it does fill me with dread. I hate moving. Detest it, really. The packing, the schlepping, the unpacking, the finding a place for everything all over again. The hours I don’t have that are necessary to make it happen. And did I mention that my season is about to start? Yeah, that… but if it makes the boy happy…

what dreams may come

2009-07-22T14:20:56Z

I had a wonderful dream, last night, which is surprising under the circumstances. Maybe the wild, elemental thunderstorm drove the demons of spite and odium back to Phoenix, where they belong. I was sure I was going to have nightmares after being put through the wringer of dealing with a manipulative ex-boyfriend and his cronies lashing out at one of my only true friends left in that hellhole, with no other reason than to get back at me for imagined slights. It’s a long story and not one I’m inclined to go into here. Why give them the satisfaction of a recap when the truth is, their actions only show them to be small, petty and indiscriminate bitter old queens. Nuff said on that topic.

I was talking about my dream. A gigantic, Technicolor extravaganza filled with music, special effects and amazement. Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. It’s always been even bigger than Christmas in my house, ever since I became old enough to have my own house. In fact, for years, the Halloween party at Casa Chaos in Phoenix was THE party of the year, bringing in hundreds of revelers from all over the country and becoming the talk of the town for months afterwards. What’s not to love about the occasion? All the pageantry and dark pleasure wrapped around a holiday steeped in ancient blood rituals and man’s deepest, darkest fears. LOVE IT! Yes, I know it’s still months away, but that’s not the point. The point is that I had a dream about Halloween last night. A groovy dream. A smashing dream.

In the dream, I had put together a show for the Rio Grande Theatre in which, on Halloween night, the Phantom of the Theatre swooped down over the audience to orchestrate an evening of camp entertainment, the likes of which this little town has never experienced and probably never will. It was a multi media extravaganza, filled with creeping fog, aerial Vampire dancers, camp horror imagery projected on giant screens, a drag segment featuring the women of cinematic horror, a perhaps not very tasteful restaging of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” (with Michael as a real zombie), a Gregorian chant or two, a visit by Edgar Allen Poe and, as a finale, an appearance by my favorite goth ghoul, Voltaire, singing such favorites as “Brains,” “Goodnight, Demon Slayer,” “Graveyard Picnic” and my all-time favorite, “When You’re Evil.” Oh, it was a glorious dream…,

Could it ever come to fruition as it appeared in my fevered brain? Doubtful. For one thing, I’m simply too busy, these days, to orchestrate something like this. I don’t even have time to pull off a nice dinner with my beautiful boyfriend, how in all the Hells would I be able to oversee something of this magnitude? Definitely something to think about, though. Maybe not this year, but next? Who knows what’s possible, once I really get my feet under me and clean up the mess left behind by my predecessor, a full-time job in and of itself? Heh. The phantom knows…

Oh, and let’s not forget the VILLAINS!!!
As presented by Disney and the brilliant Voltaire…
Now that's what I'm talking about!

as time goes by

2009-07-19T22:48:40Z

In two days it will be exactly 25 years since my first real love took his own life. There’s been a lot of water under that particular bridge, since then. Almost seems like another lifetime ago. 15 years ago I was still haunted by that dark event in my young life. Ten years ago I exorcised those demons by writing a play about the incident. Five years ago, I decided to stage it and a year later, Rain Damage made it’s premiere at Soul Invictus, in Phoenix.

It all seems so remote now. I face this anniversary with much less angst than previous milestones. There’s a tiny bit of melancholy at the thought, but nothing debilitating. I went through all that anger and recrimination years ago. I realize now that I am no more responsible for his actions than I am for the movement of the clouds across the arched windows before me. It took a while to get here. I’m glad I didn’t follow him into that dark place. Just think of all that I would have missed. ‘Nuff said on that topic.

Life continues to be challenging in a very good way, down at the theatre. Still putting in long days and even longer weeks. Making a lot of headway. The rewards are subtle, but hardly insignificant. The new season is coming along beautifully. My dreams of having a real green room, instead of the half-assed storeroom/holding pen the theatre now has, are beginning to come to fruition. The new partnership with the local community college will be adding much-needed support staff in just weeks. It’s all good.

I suppose it comes along with the territory, but somehow, in the process of trying to find two minutes of relaxation time, I’ve managed to re-immerse myself in the world of music. First, I was thrilled to discover that The Cliks have finally released their sophomore album, Dirty King, which I promptly ordered from Amazon and put into heavy rotation the minute it arrived via U.S. post. I have a fantasy about luring them down from Canada for a show at the RGT. Long shot, but we’ll see…

I also discovered, quite by accident, a group from Germany that has been around for twenty years, called Corvus Corax. Never heard of them until I stumbled upon one of their albums in a box of cds at the theatre. These guys are HOT! And though their music isn’t necessarily for every taste, I’m completely smitten. Who knew bagpipes could be so damned sexy? Seriously. This video was included on the cd I found, which cinched the deal for me.

Still salivating at the prospect of picking up the latest from Namoli Brennet, who will be playing the RGT next month. It’ll be good to spend time with her again. Haven’t actually seen her since moving from Phoenix. She’ll be playing songs from the new album and I’ll score a copy at the same time. Life will be good. Very, very good. Add to that the possibility of bringing Daniel Cartier to town in the Fall and Matt Alber in the Spring it just keeps getting better and better.

My recent phone conversation with Daniel made it sound very promising. His new album should be completed in October and he really wants to get out of Nashville for a while. Fingers are crossed. Matt has been e-mailing with Donny and it sounds like he’s very interested, too. That’s a WHOLE lot of Queer Music for this little town. They’ll never know what hit ‘em. Literally, if I play my cards right. It’s shaping up to be a very interesting season.

Now, if I can just find a little time to catch up on much-needed rest. That, in and of itself, would be fantastic.

Sunday mornings

2009-07-05T15:01:44Z

I’ve come to love my Sundays, despite the routines of laundry, cleaning and shopping that inevitably occupy large chunks of time. It’s my only day off, now, and, thus, my only day of rest. Or what passes for rest. I don’t mind the routines, because it makes me feel like I’m actually accomplishing something here. Like I’m not a stranger in my own home, which is how I tend to feel the other six days of the week. I’m no longer working 14 to 16 hour days, but it’s rare when I get home in under 10. 12 is usually the norm. Long days, but fulfilling. I have no complaints.

And, as I said, I have my Sundays, which are magical in their simplicity. Donny sleeps in, because of his schedule, so I tend to have the entire morning to myself. Between loads of laundry and pushing papers around (real cleaning is not my thing and usually only happens when I can’t stand it anymore, or someone is coming to visit. Like today.), I listen to music I want to hear, sip on exotic teas, putter in my secret garden and generally begin plotting my week.

If I’m lucky, and the muse is paying attention, I’ll get a little writing done, though nothing like the bad ol’ days when ink ran in my veins and the only way to keep the multitude of voices from sending me over the edge was to crank out pages of prose. I have to admit, I miss those days. I miss the creative angst and the need that was less desire and more necessity: A drive to explore every possibility of a situation, or vivisect the emotional rollercoaster through introspection and displacement. Yeah, those were the days.

One reason for the change is that I’m more at peace now than ever before. Content. I haven’t been back in New Mexico for a full year yet, but there are times when I feel as though I never left. My sense of place is complete. I’m home. And as challenging as it can be to start a new relationship (we’ve only technically been living together for 8 ½ months), I’m happier in this one than any the last three decades produced. If I could see my son more often and have Deb, Jess and Scotty near enough to pass idle time in familiar comfort, it would be very close to perfect.

But I digress. I was extolling the virtues of Sundays. My day of regeneration, if not rest. Today I’ve got contracts to look over and sign, so I can drop them in the mail on Monday. This evening I’ll create an ad for the Symphony program. Easy sneezy. The routine allows for such intrusions. I have all morning. When Donny finally rolls out of bed, usually around noon, I’ll begin preparing a late lunch. I love to cook and Sundays seem to be the only time I get to do so, anymore. We usually eat around 2:30 or 3:00. By 3:30 he’s dressed in his work clothes and heading out the door.

The larder is pretty bare, so I’ve got to do some grocery shopping. Maybe I’ll call my mother, or my son, for a quick check in. Tonight’s routine will be disrupted by the late arrival of Donny’s friend Jim, who is passing through on his way home in Texas. It’ll be odd. I don’t really know him and with Donny’s schedule, they won’t get much of a chance to connect. I don’t know what time Jim is leaving tomorrow, but Donny will probably sleep in. Which means I’ve got to entertain tonight and tomorrow morning.

Which means, I’d better wrap this up so I can do some real cleaning. Gods, I would love a mimosa right about now. That would make the day—THIS day—complete. Hmmm…

It’s not much of a garden, but it’ll do…

goodbye, old friend

2009-06-21T05:04:17Z

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I told myself that it wasn’t the way she would want to be remembered. I almost made it, too. Then I read the article a friend posted from last week’s Phoenix newspaper and there they were. The tears. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m crying for the loss of a wonderful and influential personality from my past, or the reminder of a mortality that eventually catches up with everyone. There’s always a time in every person’s life when they believe themselves, and those around them, to be immortal. Of all the amazing souls I’ve encountered during my journeys, she was one I believed would live forever.

Tonight, in downtown Phoenix, where a small group of artists helped raise a dying city up out of the ashes two decades ago, those same artists are gathering to hold a memorial service for one of its own: Rose Johnson. Artist. Free spirit. Friend. I can’t be there, because of a full schedule and the realities of a life in transit. It’s always been that way. I was never fully a part of the “scene.” I knew the people and had my part in its history, but my path always seemed to take me in directions outside of the “circle.” Even so, there were those who impacted my life greatly and she was one of those.

Rose was one of the first creative people I met when I moved to Phoenix, way back in 1989. The meeting was unexpected and uneventful. Or so it seemed at the time. She was selling t-shirts emblazoned with her own artwork from a booth at the Tempe Art Show, off Mill Avenue. She was thin as a rail, then, with a blonde Mohawk and smiling blue eyes. It would have been easy to dismiss her. But when those inquisitive eyes locked with mine and she spoke in that cultured British accent, I knew she was special. And I never forgot her.

Two years later, I would “meet” Rose in a more official capacity. As the representative of the Faux Café artist enclave, I was one of nine original members of the group that created what would eventually become the now insanely popular First Friday Artwalk. Rose was one of us. It was a different time then. The inner city was mostly boarded up and empty after 5pm, when those still working in the few establishments left downtown went home for the day. Though so much time had passed, Rose remembered me. Or maybe she just recognized the shirt I was wearing that day. It was the one I had purchased from her two years earlier. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. A friendship was born at that moment.

Yes, she was an indelible part of that “burgeoning” Phoenix artscene everyone likes to talk about, these days. But she was more than that. She was my friend. We would work together several times over the next few years, on various projects. She illustrated for a couple of the magazines I edited. We worked together and played together. We would laugh together, party together, hang out together. She would date one of my best friends for a while. And though my own personal path led me further astray of the downtown area, she was always happy to see me when we ran into one another, in a grocery store or a neighborhood bar.

At some point, I bought one of her paintings. Not just because I loved the image, of a suffocating city rising into a claustrophobic sky, but because she needed the money to pay her rent. It’s still one of my favorites. Both the painting and the memory of her smiling eyes when I handed her the two hundred dollars that would sustain her for a little while longer. It occurs to me, from time to time, that the transaction was probably one of the best “investments” I’ve ever made. Toward the end of my tenure in Phoenix, when people saw that I had a Rose Johnson original hanging on my wall, they would suddenly become curious about my “art collection.” My answer was always the same, “Everything I own is something I like by someone I know.”

As the years dragged by and downtown Phoenix rose like the mythical bird it was named for, our paths diverged further. We lost track of one another when Rose moved to Bisbee, though I saw her every once in a while, at various art shows around town and we always talked about my coming out to visit, but it never happened. I knew she was there. Her exploits were legendary and always being related by this friend or that common acquaintance. And, once again, I would say, “someday I need to drive down to Bisbee and catch up with her.” Then life would get in the way, as it often does, and the notion would fade again.

I guess I just thought she’d always be there. Whether in Phoenix, or Bisbee, or Bali, where she suddenly found herself drawn, she would always be out there: a free spirit, creating art spontaneously and giving unconditionally. Her fame would continue to grow and with it, my “investment.” When I looked up at that painting, which has always occupied a prominent spot on the wall of whatever living space I found myself in, I always felt like there was a piece of Rose still with me. A reminder of a friendship I treasured and an influence I could never properly put into words.

That piece is all that I have left of her now. That and a few scattered memories. A picture or two. Postcards from shows dating back some 20 years. A pdf copy of a newspaper article about her final days. Not much else. And tonight friends gather in Phoenix to mourn her loss, to celebrate her life and to send her spirit on its way to wherever the journey may take it next. Wherever that is, I’m sure she’ll charm the hell out of the spirits she meets there, brightly inquisitive blue eyes smiling all the while. She escaped that suffocating city long ago. Now the escape is complete. Thanks for the memories, Rosie. Thanks for being a part of my life.

http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2009-06-18/news/rose-johnson-the-phoenix-arts-community-mourns-one-of-its-pioneers/1

Bye, bye, Rosie. I’ll miss you…

ah, mondays...

2009-05-11T14:54:59Z

Hate 'em. I do, however, love clever advertising. That in and of itself is a conundrum, because I think commercials are the devil's work and have led to our society becoming a consumerist nightmare hell, the likes of which even Dante Alighieri could never have dreamed up. Unfortunately for the damned (that would be us), they are a fact of life. So, that said, if I have to be subjected to them, I'd much rather they be entertaining, clever and make some attempt at artistic expression. Either that or just make me smile on a heinous Monday morning...

back, but still ramblin'

2009-05-08T01:10:27Z

We’re back from our whirlwind roadtrip to Northern New Mexico. Didn’t get much sleep, so we’re both pretty exhausted. Donny has to work tonight, poor boy, but at least he’s still young. Me, I’m already fading and it’s only after 4pm as I start this. So much to process, still, but I’m pretty scattered. I’d like to be able to get it all down on paper, while it’s still relatively fresh, but I’m afraid I’d just end up babbling. Kind of like I’m doing now. Maybe I’ll just hit the high points. Let’s see…

Made good time on our trip up to Santa Fe on Monday, getting to our destination at around 3:30, which is awesome, considering we left at 11:30, after Donny rolled out of bed (yeah, his schedule still sucks) and despite the fact that Google Maps suck and we ended up getting lost in Santa Fe because, apparently, there are TWO Paseo del Peralta streets. They’re about a mile apart. They also run parallel. That’s fine city planning, if you ask me, and yet one more reason to dislike Santa Fe. If it weren’t for the fact that we were there at the invitation of my oldest and dearest friend, Tammy, I would normally avoid the diet art capital of New Mexico, like I did Scottsdale in Arizona. Sure, it’s got some great history on prominent display, but so does Las Cruces and every other little town in the state. Fewer tourists elsewhere, too. ‘Nuff said…

Met Ian and Tammy for drinks at a bar called the San Francisco Bar & Grill, off the old town plaza, then wandered around a bit. There were huge crowds milling around on the plaza and we soon found out why. The Gumball 3000 Rally was passing through town, even as we stood there. We didn’t stick around long, though, because it was crowded and once you’ve seen one souped up race car trundling its way through clueless milling crowds, you’ve seen ‘em all. I think Donny was a little disappointed that it wasn’t more like the movie, but reality seldom is. If the cars had been going at breakneck speed, there would have been dead tourists splattered all over the place. No big loss and it would have afforded some AWESOME photo opps, but, again and alas, the reality was nowhere near as interesting.

Wanting to get the hell out of the area and feeling a bit puckish, we went in search of a restaurant that wasn’t a) overpriced and b) geared toward Midwestern palates. Tammy had come all the way from California to have “good” New Mexican food and, since their arrival on Saturday, had absolutely no luck. She was convinced that it didn’t exist in Santa Fe. My philosophy has always been, if you want to find the best places to eat, ask a resident. So, I asked a woman who was handing out flyers to her massage center and she pointed us in the direction of a place called La Choza, out near the Railyard Park & Plaza. The food, as expected, was excellent! We ooohed, ahhhhed and mmmmmed our way through some of the best Southwestern cuisine I’ve had in a long time. And that’s saying something, considering where I now live.

Completely sated and in good spirits, we returned to the resort, where Tammy and Ian had their suite. Nice place, even if she did consider it a “shithole.” I guess we just have different expectations. Any place with a separate living room and fully-stocked kitchen, flat-screen TVs in both the master bedroom and the living room and a nice little deck for after-dinner bakage, is a-okay in my book. Made all the better when Ian broke out the scotch and a dvd of “declassified” atomic bomb film footage that he picked up in Los Alamos, the day before. Very cool atomic bomb shit. We giggled and snarked our way through the entire disc before we realized that it was ACTUALLY in color, not black and white and, after Donny figured out how to switch the jacks to make it work, we watched it again, before heading to bed.

Next day, after a fitful sleep on a hideaway bed that wasn’t very comfortable (are they ever?), we wandered the plaza with Tammy and Ian, taking pics of the Basilica and Loretto Chapel, where the “miracle staircase” is housed. Did lots of window shopping, handled a few goods and even scored a bargain or two. Hungry again, we stopped and had lunch at a place called Catamount, which was off the beaten track a bit, had a nice selection of beers and good pub food. The second best meal T&I had while there. What would they do without me? Heh We wandered some more, took more pics, and finally rolled out of town around 5pm. I, for one, was happy to see Santa Fe diminishing in the rear view mirror. The second leg of our journey had begun.

Met Juli at the San Francisco Brewing Company, outside of town, and followed her home to Shanti Community, outside Madrid, where we found that we would be staying the night in Shelly’s latest project: a vintage 1946 school bus that is being renovated into guest quarters. Cool is the operative word, here. Back at the main Yurt, Juli made a lovely vegetarian Cinco de Mayo dinner consisting of “ficken” fajitas (that’s fake chicken for the uninitiated), beans and home made quacamole. Yum! Spent the rest of the evening chatting by the wood stove and laughing like a loon as Donny grilled the girls on the finer points of foreplay and oral sex. Shelly, with her dreadlocks and butch “frontier hippie” attire, just shakes her head and laughs, then tries to answer the questions as best she can. It’s quite a sight to see and yet one more reason why I adore that boy. He’s fearless, filterless and has three more questions for every one question answered.

It was late when we finally made our way out to the bus, but the moon was close to full, so the property was lit up like a magical desert faerie land. Temperatures were only in the high 40s all night and, if not for the fact that we didn’t realize we’d left two windows open, we would have been nice and snug all night. As it was, we huddled together for warmth and slept fitfully. The next morning, after a short walk we had a wonderful breakfast of eggs, salmon and corn tortillas, courtesy of the third resident of Shanti Community, Terry. Then, Shelly and Terry, who lives in a camper on the property, treated us to a jam session before we had to head out. About as far from corporate America as one can get, out on Shanti property. Maybe that’s why we like it so much. One final stop in Madrid proper, to pick up gallery information and make some very cool purchases, and we were off on to the final leg of our journey, where…

…I finally met my old friend Jamie Joy. We’ve “known” each other, via the internet, for close to ten years now. She was one of my writers when I was still doing Blue Food and is a celebrated erotica writer in her own right. We’ve kept up with each other over the years, especially after her harrowing ordeal as a survivor of Hurricane Katrina and her displacement from her beloved New Orleans. She’s now living in Albuquerque so, since we knew we’d be passing through on our way back home, we made that our final stop of the trip. The three of us had sushi at this groovy little spot called Sushi King on Central, then went back to her place to chat before crashing for the night. Memorable. Especially since she introduced us both to “monkey balls.” Mmmmm… monkey balls…

After a good night’s sleep (for a change) we left ABQ early and had a leisurely drive home, stopping in Hatch to indulge our cravings for Sparky’s BBQ. It had been a while since we’d been there, which is sad when you think about it. Takes maybe 30 minutes to get there from LC. We drove longer than that when we lived in Phoenix, if we wanted to eat in Tempe or Chandler. Which we did. Often. I was very happy to see that a) my review was framed and hung on the wall and b) they’d expanded their menu since the last time we’d been in. I went for the pulled pork, brisket and green chile tacos, which seriously rocked my boat. By the time we got home, it was barely after noon and we had a few hours to unwind before Donny had to get ready for work. All good.

Now that I reread everything I’ve written, it sounds like we did a food tour. Weird. There was, obviously, a LOT more that went on, between meals, but damned if I can find the words to make them sound halfway as interesting. Not that the sex, conversation, sex, sightseeing, sex and naked photography wasn’t interesting, I just don’t have the strength, right now, to elaborate. That and I’m hungry. I’m sure that has something to do with it. Thought those tacos would carry me through the rest of the day. Hm. Got a little wine left, some cheese… crackers… I think I’m all set for a quiet night in. Bed soon, methinks. Judging from the number of e-mails waiting for me when we got home, the next few days are going to be busy. And so ends the ‘vacation’ of Dave and Donny.

Next!

Little bus on the prairie. Our home away from home. One of several…

the man in the moon

2009-05-03T15:12:20Z

Moon Man, originally uploaded by MythCreant.

Been an interesting week, overall. Donny’s parents were here for the early part of last week. Had to juggle work with activity, but was still able to get out a bit with them. Had High Tea on Tuesday, then took them to the Garden of Death on the other side of the Organs on Wednesday. From there, we shot across the playa to Alamogordo, to visit the International Space Museum. Some very cool stuff there. Saw the last resting place of Ham the chimpanzee, the first living creature to be blasted into space. Lots of memorabilia from the once vital space program, too. It’s a wonder that we ever made it out there, judging by the archaic equipment we perused. All good.

Kind of in limbo, right now. Preparing for a four-day road trip with Donny, next week. Santa Fe on Monday, Madrid on Tuesday, Albuquerque on Wednesday, home on Thursday. Visiting with a lot of friends. Tammy and Ian are staying at a resort in Santa Fe. Haven’t seen Shelly and Juli since my show in early March and haven’t actually been to their place in Madrid since last November. Never met Jamie Joy in person, though I’ve known her for ten years now. That’ll be interesting. May be the only chance I get, before she moves away from Albuquerque and back to her much-beloved Southern states. All good.

Days are getting hotter, but the nights are still cool. Got the itch to do some planting, but am putting that off until we get back from our trip. Next weekend, it’s all out atrium makeover. Got some interesting ideas at the Showcase of Homes, yesterday. Still, I think I’m going to stay with my original idea to concentrate on herbs. It’s been way too long since I had an herb garden. Cooking with fresh herbs is the only way to go. I think having the garden in place will finally ground me a bit. Give me something to putter with in those rare down moments, when deadlines have been met and expectations are temporarily on hold. All good.

Still feeling a bit like that Moon Man we saw at the space museum; the artificial man who was sent into space, before Ham, or any of the other living, breathing beings. The first, real, humanoid figure to float around in zero gravity, while the world turned, blue, white and green, below him. These days, he stands in a well-lit corner, all colorful and big as life, with secrets that only he can know. He has a place in history, though a small one, and has been relegated to the stacks, a relic locked away behind glass with only his memories of a time when he touched the stars to keep him company. All good.

Yeah, sometimes it’s like that. Despite family, friends, a beautiful lover, deadlines and expectations, sometimes I’m a different kind of flying monkey. Sometimes, I’m more like Ham, buried under concrete, on the steps of a museum, a monument decorated with plastic bananas. Sometimes, my memory of the stars is faded, like an old photograph, or super 8 movies, shot on archaic equipment in a time before home computers, or camera phones, or photoshop. Sometimes, I’m that Moon Man, locked in a hermetically sealed display case, lost in a memory and longing for an herb garden to call my own. Sometimes I’m all those things together. All at once. All good…

gearin' up

2009-04-27T03:44:45Z

Been having some really fucked up dreams, lately. Stress dreams. No doubt about that. Seems my plate is overflowing again. Took on the responsibilities of full-time webmaster for the Arts Council, last week. Which means I’m cleaning up the mess left behind by a series of people who clearly had no idea what they were doing. Like YEARS worth of ass-hattery all piled up in a congealing mass of dead links, outdated information and error messages. Of course, they want it taken care of immediately. It took them months to finally decide that I was the one to do this, but now that the decision has been made, the hoops have been set aflame and the whip is descending. This must be what Sisyphus feels like.

This is made all the more stressful by the fact that Donny’s folks are coming into town tomorrow and will be here until Thursday. I’m hoping that I can pull myself away from the computer long enough to be a good host at least part of the time. Still have the newsletter to finish up, too, and the articles for my magazine gig in Phoenix are up in the air. Normally they’re due by the first of the month, but as I haven’t been paid for four months and nobody seems to want to take my calls, or answer my e-mails, I’ve decided not to do them for the first time in five years. Kind of weird feeling, that…

So… yeah. Helped Donny celebrate his birthday yesterday, then sat my ass down and wrote an 897 word short story for a 24-Hour Story contest I entered way back in December. Had I realized, then, that the date coincided with Donny’s birthday, I wouldn’t have signed up. Turns out his having to work later in the day actually came in handy, for once. I had the story done in just under the requisite 900 words, to spec, and sent off with 17 hours to spare. I doubt it will make the cut, not being my best work, but I felt pretty damned accomplished when all was said and done.

Now I’m going to go finish making a Black Forest cake for Donny and his ‘rents, before heading to bed. Got to get up early and clean, before they get here. Who knows, I might even get in some web magic, too. It could happen…

I love spoiling him, whether it’s his birthday or not…

bits 'n bobs

2009-04-19T23:08:47Z

New and much-needed purchase made today. Donny’s brother turned us on to a great deal on an All-in-One printer/scanner/fax machine. It’s one of those deals wherein you turn in your old printer and get $50 off a new printer. The printer in question is highly rated and normally out of my price-range, but as we were badly in need of a printer and scanner that actually works AND it was on sale at $40 off the regular price, we ended up saving close to $100 on it. Very exciting. And now I can get back to doing what I do best. Creating things. Of course, I had to test the scanner, first. Did so by scanning in the cover of a book my mom gave me when we were in Houston for Christmas. Some day I want to scan the entire thing and upload it somewhere. Printed in 1931, it’s a total kick…

Cook book or sex manual, you decide…

The other day I was… well… I hesitate to use the word “bored,” because normally it’s just not a part of my vocabulary, but because I did something about it, I guess it’s okay to say so. I was bored for about ten seconds, until I pulled a Ray Bradbury, by looking around my office to see what would catch my imagination. The eye settled on one of my favorite Harryhausen figures, then I remembered that I still had an unopened box of “Horrified B-Movie Victims” that my son bought me for my last birthday. Pulling them all together and grabbing my camera, I went out to find a good place to stage some fun. This is just one of the resulting images. I’m now using it as a desktop background…

I love that the “horrified” figures have that cartoony
Robot Chicken look to them. Classic…

And, finally, the WTF? Image of the week. Once again, an ad, this time taken from AdsOfTheWorld.com. It is, according to the website, a toilet tissue promotion meant to communicate that Silk Soft is 100% recycled. Stickers were placed on standard toilet tissue dispensers on selected public toilets around Copenhagen. No word on how well the promotion worked, but it does raise an interesting question: why would this make anybody think that recycled toilet paper is a good idea? I’m just curious, but I would LOVE to be a fly on the wall when people are faced with this marketing nightmare…

Apparently shit happens in Copenhagen, too…

snatch, the image

2009-04-10T20:42:20Z

Well, it’s a done deal. Scotty liked the simple poster image I created for his upcoming drag extravaganza in Phoenix. Considering he needs ads for delivery to magazines there by Monday, it’s a good thing he did. Also did a couple of flyers for him, 2-up and 4-up, and the “web” image below. He says it will be posted on the bar website. So, there you go and there it is. Moooooovin’ on…

Snatch sounds like it’s gonna be a hoot…

all work and little play

2009-04-10T05:37:12Z

Tired again. Interesting week. It’s almost Friday. By mere minutes, actually, and yet I’m not entirely sure where the week went. I do feel somewhat accomplished, but that may have more to do with the fact that I’m not behind the eight ball on any particular project, at the moment. No deadline demons drooling into my cheerio bowl. It’s nice.

Just completed an event poster for my sistah Scotty, back in Phoenix. Been a while since I’ve worked on anything like it. I find I miss doing so. There was a time when I created all the ads, posters, flyers and sundry marketing tools for both our old theatre troupe, Artist’s Theatre Project, and our former performance space, Soul Invictus. I’ve concentrated on writing for over a year now, almost exclusively. It was a nice change of pace. I really should put my design portfolio together. Could bring in some extra cash.

Earlier in the week, I whipped out a couple of press releases, one for a client in L.A., another for my friend Hilary’s upcoming show at the Rio Grande Theatre. Also worked on a quick turnaround interview and article for the newspaper and wasted FAR too much time on that thrice-damned powerpoint presentation for the DAAC. That last one just keeps coming back to haunt me, like heartburn. Or hemorrhoids. Even did a restaurant review with Donny, which elicited neither, for a change.

So, yeah… as workweeks go, it’s been pretty good. Staying busy. Wish I had more to report, but aside from a brief excursion up to A mountain, it was just too windy to do much of anything except stay in and work. Well… not all work. We do find time for other things. Donny had three days off. It shouldn’t take too much mental exercise to figure out how we spent at least some of that time. That’s right, cooking! I love to cook. He loves to eat. It all works out beautifully. Heh…

Maybe I’ll post the poster once it’s been okayed and finalized. Tomorrow, or Saturday. We’ll see…

Starting off at a slow simmer. It's not all pots and pans, y'know…

wtf? sunday...

2009-04-05T16:51:02Z

Something to start the day off on the right foot. Creative advertising that makes you look twice. Courtesy of AdPunch.org

Fancy a beer, then?

another whirlWIND night

2009-04-04T16:07:33Z

Last night was brutal. Broo-TAHL. The winds blew like the gates of hell had been opened up and every banshee that had ever occupied those cursed halls was loosed on the Mesilla Valley. Not much can wake me once the Sandman has struck, but the howling, banging, blasting 60 mph winds did the trick. Didn’t sleep well at all. Ugh. I kept waking in a stupor and half expecting to be half way to Oz, with visions of flying monkeys and bike-riding bitches dancing through my head. At some point, Donny came home from work and I know I babbled at him a bit, before he crawled into bed and fell asleep. Mine was fitful and the dreams… well… there may be a story of two in there somewhere, but that’s an entry for another day…

The early part of the evening was pretty great, on the other hand, despite the winds. I hung out at the Rio Grande Theatre gallery again, for the Art Ramble, early on. I’d found out a couple days ago that the curator had decided to extend my photography exhibit another month, so was down playing meet and greet for the second first Friday in a row. Pretty cool. Once again, met plenty of cool people, including one guy who may set me up with a MUCH better processing and framing deal than I had previously. Also, there are three more sales pending which, if they do sell, will mean I’ll have sold a total of eight pieces. That’s half of the show. Not bad for a first exhibit. All I was missing to make the evening magical was my Donny, but he was there in spirit.

I also met the new Executive Director of the DAAC, who is a very nice guy, and took him on a tour of the galleries along the downtown mall. It was a good opportunity to get to know him better. I think we’ll get along, just fine. I introduced him to various gallery owners and the folks at the Las Cruces Museum of Art. While there, the museum manager asked me if I’d be interested in being part of the museum’s advocacy group. She’s supposed to send me information. I’m honored to be asked, but know that it most likely entails a LOT more pro bono writing and I honestly feel that I’ve topped off that tank, here. What I need is some real paying gigs, but we’ll see. The gig could offer another set of inroads.

Once back at the RGT, my friend Hilary stopped by and hung out with me for a while, toward the end of the show shift. Afterwards, she talked me into having a glass of wine with her. I waffled at first, because it was so windy out and I didn’t feel like dealing with it, but I’m glad I took her up on her offer. It was a very nice way to wind down the night. Our first stop was Vintage Wines in Mesilla, which was one of mine and Donny’s favorite weekly haunts for a long time, until it just got too expensive on our limited budget. Hadn’t been in for weeks and Nicki, the owner, seemed happy to see me. Unfortunately for Hilary and me, the place was packed, both inside and out, so there was no place to sit. We were there for maybe 20 minutes, just long enough to polish off a glass of wine, then decided to move on to someplace where we could actually sit and talk.

That someplace was Hilary’s favorite restaurant, the Double Eagle, on the Mesilla Plaza. Very exclusive, very expensive, very high end touristy kind of place. In fact, the only time I ever go there, is when I’m with Hilary. She, being a regular, knows everyone, including the wine steward, so it was an experience I don’t often get. She ordered a wonderful French wine, the name of which, naturally, I’ve already forgotten and a plate of cheese featuring Manchego, a Norweigen Brie, a very smooth Goat and a Blue Cheese squeezed from the backsides of actual blue cows. I figured it had to be, because I’ve never paid $18 for a plate of cheese in my life. It was good, and I do admit to feeling more than a few twinges of guilt that Hilary always seems to pick up the tab, but she knows how broke I am and she DID pick the place.

Time always flies when I’m with Hil, which I know confuses a lot of people. What can this elegant dancer from Indiana, who has traveled the world and dated rock stars, have in common with this old desert rat? All I can do is shrug. We enjoy each other’s company, spending the time together talking about art, music, dance and the difficulties of being a working artist in today’s economy. We also talk about wine and travel, the possible collaboration on a book of New Mexico wineries, and encourage each other to move forward with projects that may, on the outset, seem impossible because we a) live in Las Cruces and b) are both having a hard time making money at what we do. It’s actually a lovely way to while away a Friday night, while Donny is working.

We were also treated to several visitations by the inimitable Bugs Salcido, who stopped by our table a couple of times, to “check in.” He was having dinner with friends in the other room and had seen us enter, so would pop over to chat briefly during lulls in conversation at his own table. Or something like that. It always amuses me in a deep, patently voyeuristic way, to watch the interchanges between Hil and Bugs. It’s always half veiled flirtation and half sibling rivalry, topped off with a dollop of surreal musical shorthand that only the two of them understand. I always wish I had either a tape recorder handy, or a camera mounted overhead. I don’t really know what I’d do with the footage once I captured it, but it would afford me hours of fascination. Kind of like Dian Fossey, I think.

It was close to midnight by the time Hil and I wrapped up our evening, which is a rarity for me, these days. We walked back to her place, where I climbed into my car and drove home. I thought briefly of stopping by ye olde sexxe shoppe to visit Donny, but the wind and the late hour deterred me. I was bushed and, even as my little Ford Taurus was being buffeted along the roadway by the devil winds, wanted nothing more than to lay my weary head to rest. Which would have been a beautifully poetic way to end the evening, if not for the hurricane winds whipping up a mad frenzy right outside my bedroom window. Damn winds! They must end soon.

Yes, it appears to be a pirate and, no, I have no idea…
Maybe the winds brought him.

paths unfamiliar and known

2009-03-23T02:19:48Z

There are ghosts here, but they haunt me only intermittently and rarely unbidden. I occasionally find myself traveling paths unfamiliar, in search of a past I barely remember, in a town that is twice the size it was. What I find are new streets, houses and apartment complexes, where once were only open fields. But still there are moments when my memory is jogged by questionable landmarks. There’s enough here to induce comfort. Not enough to satisfy. But still I search for vestiges of a life that no longer exists. It happens from time to time. Comes with the territory, I guess. I mean, what else can be expected when one returns “home,” 25 years later?

You see, I grew up in this town. Lived here for six years after I graduated from high school. Lived, loved, worked, paid taxes, shopped and grew attached to this little southwestern college town. It meant more to me than the even smaller town in which I’d spent the first 18 years of my life. And for good reason. It was here that I discovered my self. My worth. My potential. My direction. It was here that I met the woman I eventually married. It was here that my parents moved, fascinated by and drawn to the life I’d discovered beyond the confines of predictability. It was here that I forged a life that was uniquely my own.

A lot happened in this town I called home and yet, now, 25 years later, there is very little to connect me to that past life. The University still stands, though it’s grown over the years. I wander somewhat familiar sidewalks, but have a hard time finding buildings that once were as familiar as the sound of my son’s laughter. Beyond the halls of academia, some of the old haunts are still there, but under new ownership. Many roads and place names nearby are familiar, though altered by renovation or crumbled by the stagnation of urban blight. In the distance, the mountain and the river are stoically familiar, but access to them has changed. The world I currently occupy is similar, but not at all the same.

And so, I find myself forging a new life here: New friends, new relations, a love I could never have anticipated, back then. Even a completely different side of town to live in. I find success in areas I couldn’t even fathom 25 years ago. Yet, when I return to the old stomping grounds, I find shadows. Yes, there is an apartment complex I once lived in and, right over there, the activity room that served as our “chapel” when I married my wife of ten years. Just down that street is the house that my parent’s lived in, for a while, before moving north, then on to Houston where they still, happily, reside.

Further on down that street is the apartment complex where I had my very first, no-roommate, grown-up place. I paid $175 a month for that apartment, back then. Lived directly below my best friend and, later, her sister-in-law; the woman who would be my future wife. My sister lived in that complex, too, for a while. Gave birth to my niece while living there. It was there, too, that Paul, my first real love, would drive from Silver City, in the wee hours of the night, to be with me, unbeknownst to any and all who knew him. It was there that I received the fateful call that he had committed suicide. It was there that I mourned and would have joined him, if not for the people who lived in that complex--the tireless friends who saw me through the crisis.

So many ghosts wander the walkways of that run-down strip of twenty cinderblock apartments. Memories, both positive and not. There was a time when I knew every person who lived in that dump. Partied with them. Made love to some of them. Where are they now, I wonder? I don’t recognize a single face. I don’t really expect to. The Pizza Hut we spent hours fraternizing in still stands, right across the street. It haunts me with its familiarity. But it isn’t the same at all, is it? I can sit in the very same booth I sat in over 25 years ago. I can look through the window and see the door of the apartment I occupied. The laughter and the tears have become nothing more than echoes. No, it isn’t the same, at all.

I think it exceedingly strange that not a single person I knew, back then, is anywhere to be found, today. Yes, I know that this is a college town and, thus, transient by nature. I know that many of the people I befriended the first time around have moved on, as expected. But what of the people who weren’t college students at the time? What of Sherry, and Matt, and Anna and Charles? People who owned property here. People who had family here. People who, as natives, helped me grow to love the town as something more than a staging ground for a future elsewhere. I scan the white pages, seeking familiar names, to no avail. Have they all moved on, too? Are they all past tense? Is it possible that I have returned only to discover that what familiarity exists does so only in my fevered imagination?

I guess it’s true what they say; you can never go home again. And if you do, it’s not the same place at all. It may still “feel” like home, but there is little homey about it, outside of what’s created this, the second time around. I’m not complaining. Not at all. Just making an observation. And sharing the fact that, every once in a while, I find myself driving down dimly remembered streets, looking for familiar faces, finding only strangers and connections never fully made. The ghosts, it seems, are a necessary part of my journey.

There’s plenty to anchor me to the here and now…
He is, by far, the most significant.

SCORE!

2009-03-14T16:01:24Z

I love the local swap meet. We found this rarity for a buck and a copy of Fleetwood Mac's Rumors for three bucks. Both are in excellent shape. I mean, seriously, Bette Davis. Singing. LOVES IT! Now, all we need is a record player...

You just know this is gonna be a kick!