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.

Got a package in the mail, this morning, from my ex-wife and my son. Souvenirs from their trip to China, for the Olympics. In the box was a pair of lacquered chopsticks, painted with delicate red and gold dragons and sheathed in a blue silk pouch; a very creepy stuffed critter, which I’m assuming was the mascot of the games, but which I’m equally sure speaks in one of those annoying, high-pitched, too-fast-to-understand voices that kids find endearing, but which give me nightmares; and finally a gorgeous red and black box, with knotted stays, inside of which is a black pen decorated with red Haiku symbols.

To say I was surprised is an understatement. I haven’t heard word one from my son since the 30-second conversation I had with him the day he got back. That was over a month ago. The same weekend that I moved here. Receiving and opening this package made me happy and sad at the same time. I fired off a thank you e-mail, but I don’t expect to get a response. There have been no responses to the three or four other e-mails I’ve sent. I wonder if the boy knows how much I miss him? Probably not. He’s a teenager. And all that that implies…

Had a very frustrating chat with Donny, last night. The vortex was in full amplification mode all day long. Missed calls, dropped calls and, finally, when the phone went dead, a very weak signal for the internet. Made it very difficult to have a decent conversation. Okay, maybe “decent” isn’t the right word. There’s rarely anything decent about our conversations, especially when they’re interrupted several times in one sitting by loss of signal. It’s kind of funny. You’d think that, knowing we could lose the signal at any moment, we’d focus on important issues and make the best of our chat time. Here’s just an example of how we did use that time…

me: mmmm... someone's cooking bologna.

Donny: Um. . . is that a euphemism?

me: it could be... for sure, but in this particular instance, I was being literal.

Donny: But srsly… Someone is COOKING bologna?

me: uh huh

Donny: That you even know that smell is… well, never mind.

me: wanna know something?

Donny: Hmm?

me: I fucking LOVE cooked bologna.

Donny: I'll pretend I didn't read that.

me: No, seriously! I can't stand it raw, but cooked... mmmmmmmmmmmm

Donny: GROSS.

me: Cooked bologna sandwiches are the BOMB, baby.

Donny: When I was younger, I remember spending the night at grandma and grandpa's house, and eating bologna sandwiches on white bread.

me: slathered with mayo!

Donny: That is how I discovered my dislike of both white bread and bologna.

me: Well, cooked is better.

Donny: Never had it.

me: I think it NEEDS to be cooked

Donny: It's sort of like hot dogs, I guess… They are NASTY. But if they are blackened, my mom and I can eat them.

me: Hot dogs ARE nasty.

Donny: Bologna is just a hot dog, rolled flat. heh.

me: They're made of pig testicles and chicken beaks.

Donny: So is bologna.

me: NO! bologna is tongue… or something. Kidney, pancreas… it's all one thing. Not a bucket load of stuff that nobody will eat.

Donny: Hang on, I'm looking.

me: of course you are... wiki wiki wiki much?

Donny: HA!!!! HAAA!

Bologna sausage is generally made from low quality scraps of meat cuts. Such may be the origin of the slang word baloney, meaning "nonsense". However, US Government regulations define what meats and byproducts can be legally included in bologna. No more than 3.5% non-meat binders and extenders (such as nonfat dry milk, cereal, or dried whole milk) or 2% isolated soy protein may be used, and they must be listed in the ingredients statement on the product label by their common names.[1]

me: leeeeeerrrrrrrrrrddd...

Donny: So there. Bleh.

me: okay, fine… whatever… cooking is still better.

Donny: Heh. Same as hot dogs… But my god, whenever I see kids gnawing on raw hot dogs, I want to gag.

me: you're a weenie.

Donny: Eat me

me: can I gag on you first?

Donny: Hmm… Yes. Yes, you can.

And so on and so forth… Oh, we talked about other things, too. Sunsets. Dirty pictures. New A/C compressors for Brutus. Dealing with people in the “land of manana.” Service reps with names from Fleetwood Mac songs. You know, important stuff. Gods, I miss that boy, too. It occurs to me that, if I had my son and my man here with me, right now, things would be pretty close to perfect. Not entirely perfect, but pretty close. There are other people and factors I’d like to work in, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?

I really do love it here, but the struggle is taking its toll. Being so far away from loved ones, doesn’t help. Having someone to talk to in person, to touch, to hold, to laugh with, would make everything that much better. Sharing the little frustrations and accomplishments of the day to day trudge, in person, would make life here glow with the kind of warm perfection that, these days, only the fleeting moments of absolutely magnificent sunset evenings, can match.

Just 25 more days. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…




What Donny’s getting for his birfday…

Two months is a long time to be away from someone, when all you want is to spend every waking moment with that person. Problem is, it’s only been a week and a half. There are still six and a half weeks left before Donny will join me here full time. A visit here and there will be all that we can hope for. Well… yes and no... All I can say is, thank all the feral gods for e-mail, chat and Skype. I do believe it will be the potent combination of those three gifts from said gods that will navigate us through those bleak, lonely weeks. Whoa… I think I’m about to go into insulin shock…

It’s not like that, really. We’re not all moon-faced and gooey when we’re talking to each other. Just chatting like we normally would on any given morning, afternoon or evening. We talk about boring things like bills and the weather and packing and unpacking and rude body functions and broken garbage disposals and traumatized cats and, well, you get the picture. Also, mostly, we’re just goofballs. Here’s a classic example of that. An excerpt from an actual, true-to-life chat we had not too long ago. Expurgated for brevity and minimally edited for clarity. I know, huh? Big words for a pot head on his third glass of wine…

*

me: Huh. Fergie, Seether and Blind Guardian just cracked my top 25. I must be playing them a lot...

him: :)

me: Pink hit it a while ago. She's at number 11...

him: Hmmm

me: Cripes, I sound like Casey Kasem...

him: LOL! You're much cuter.

me: He's just older. And more Jewish. You know how Jewish men age… Like Billy Crystal.

him: Yeah.

me: They get jowly and mushy and their noses get bigger. Or maybe their faces get smaller.

him: Yikes!

me: It's true. Maybe it's their skulls that shrink. Could account for all that extra skin. Terrible... I'm going to hell. Jewish hell. OY!

him: Oh, please. That WOULD be frightening… Imagine Fran Dresher,

me: No, thanks…

him: Singing Bette Midler songs to you for eternity.

me: ACK! So, anyway, the demon in charge would be named Morrie.

him:???

me: He'd wear Bermuda shorts and sandals with black socks.

him: LOL!

me: And he'd say, "oy, my lumbago..."

him: Totally!

me: And he'd wear thick glasses. And be three feet tall. With tufts of hair sprouting out of his oversized ears... And hell would be like Florida. Large women in mumus and giant plastic sunglasses... With perfect hair and nails. And pink lipstick.

him: Totally terrible…

me: Nagging... always nagging... THAT WOULD BE HELL!!!

him: LOL! It was a fun hell, though. Compared to some other interpretations I've heard…

me: I got carried away...

him: At least there'd be something to laugh about down there!! :)

me: Have you ever been nagged by an old Jewish woman? Seriously...

him: Not... directly, I don't think, no... you?

me: Uh huh. Waiting tables can BE hell...

him: AH, that.

me: "I asked for my eggs to be over easy... these are runny! If I wanted runny I would have asked for runny... take them away, I've lost my appetite. Just bring me a bagel. And cream cheese. The REAL cream cheese, not that fake kind you people use. And a clean knife. I can't use this one. It has spots. And while you're at it, could you please ask the chef to make the bacon crispy? It's not bacon if it's not crispy. It's limp pork. I may lose my appetite. Well? What are you waiting for? I'm going to starve to death before you bring me something I can eat! Shoo!"

him: Shame on her for eating bacon! But, yikes...

me: Uh huh. I said it was hell...

him: LOL!

me: It's 88 degrees outside, now.

him: Still 104 here.

me: Another form of hell.

him: yup...

me: Actually, that would be my hell... Phoenix in the summertime. And me waiting on old Jewish women eating pork. Shudder.

I should probably put some clothes on. And take a dump. Gotta go soon. I gotta get cute, as Scotty says...

Maybe I'll just take a whore's bath. Douche the chonch and go... After my dump, of course...

him:Okay. Have Fun!

me: I'll try.

him: Don't forget. . . Tell Nikki I said hi.

me: I will.

him: And Brian, if he's there.

me: Alright, already! Damn…

him:What?

me: Going…

him::) Ta!

me: I said I gotta take a DUMP! Zip it!

him: LOL! Sorry.

me: MM Mm mm...

him: Hasta

me: oh for... SHUT UP ALREADY!!!

him: tev

me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH...

him: SO GO SHIT, DAMMIT! No one's making you reply!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

me: It's a good thing I love you... always having to have the last word...

him: Yup. Vice versa.

me: Are YOU an old Jewish woman, or what? Seriously...

him: tev…

*

Ahhhhh, love… NARF! (Oh, and just for the record, I NEVER get the last word in. Ever. Seriously… ever…)




One from the goof files…