Just Wondering

A year ago, when I had no hot water, I did something dirty just so I could get a shower.

I wonder if he has an air conditioner.

Topping That!

I'm comming down. I'm sure you all remember the feeling. December 26th, all the presents are open, the visiting family members are all packing up and going home, the tree is being taken down, and you just feel...well a little down. Almost like all the hot air has been released from the balloon and the reality of gravity is about to take over.

Tunagirl's visit coincided with GLBT Pride, and ironically with some other things going on with my life, most which I haven't written about. Someone I dated calling me out of the blue after dumping me 8 months ago (WTF?), the miserable board meeting at my job, realizing I'm off track for my December "one job only" goal, and being asked some pointed questions I'm not really sure how to answer. Not talking about what goes on in my life is a new thing for me, and it makes things emotionally taxing.

But last week was a week of celebration, both of my life and who I am and secretly...a celebration that I survived one of the hardest years of my life. I've been in a huge transition and I'm looking forward to settling for a bit.

On Friday the 16th, the flying fish hopped a plane from Boston to JFK, where she grabbed a Taxi to as she labeled it, the unfurnished "Pizza Oven" (my apartment). Ok...yes, I know it's hot in my place...I don't have an air conditioner or fan. Now I would have had the laundry done when she arrived, but I had received a telephone call from someone that left me scratching my head in bewilderment and off to the Upper East Side until her plane arrived. She dropped her bag off and we set off for dinner with one rule this week. We could only eat in restaurants we've never eaten in before. We ate at the Tapas restaurant on Amsterdam between 82nd and 83rd, and split a pitcher of Sangria wine (this would be a common theme for our week). Our dessert was at Cafe Lazlo on 83rd.

Saturday I did a 6 mile training run early in the morning and then went off to Chelsea with the Fish Stick for Lunch at Lasagna's on 8th ave. We then did a little shopping before going to the gym. The Gym Sportsbar that is. Next thing I know, "the Salmon" is trying to spawn upstream with the bartender. She did get free drinks though, but it was in our best interest to get more food ASAP, so off to a local Cuban restaurant.

Upon sitting down, Tuna states "This is the drunkest I've ever been. My husband is going to kill you". The proof is in the picture:

Sunday we spent the afternoon scouring the streets of Soho looking at unaffordable furniture, cruising hot guys in Washington Square, Converting Tuna to a Yankees fan, had lunch at an unknown Chinese restaurant, and ran an errand for someone who was unable to do so, before getting ready for Broadway Bares. I'm not sure what to say about the show. Cindi Lauper brought a tear to my eye and the men in the show brought a stiffness in my pants. Well worth the lack of air conditioning.

Monday, I spent working both jobs and recovering from the lack of sleep. The Lovely Angel fish came to the bar where I work and discovered the level of sexual harassment I have to put up with. In two days, she had felt the need to "tampoon" 2 different people that have crossed my path. Personally, I hope to never see that happen...I'm emotionally scarred enough. She did restrain herself so I would not get fired.

Tuesday was reserved for Happy Hour. Can someone please explain to me why happy "hour" lasts from 5-9? While you're at it...explain to me why vodka with cranberry can go down so easy. We finished our evening by having dinner at Vanya's on 54th street. This Russian restaurant has very tasty borsht, but I mistakenly ordered a cranberry vodka. This wouldn't have been bad, except it was served warm with two shot glasses. Tunagirl and I both were transformed into pickled herring.

Three words: CAB RIDE HOME!

Wednesday Tuna and I played tourist by going to the top of the rock. You can see the view in detail by clicking the picture. I stitched together 5 pictures to get this view North towards my house. If I can ever get married (meaning if someone actually can stand to be with me longer than a few months, I'll do it here).

We finished evening by touring the Lower East Side before going to the Village for dessert.

Thursday was the night at the fountain of youth. We attended a volunteer training to bartend at the Pier Dance, then headed back to the Gym for a few drinks with Crash, Jase, and Kevin. Now I had demanded that we spend a nice quiet evening at home, but Tunagirl wanted to get caught between the Moon and New York City. You think this picture is bad? Imagine how much worse it is when it is full size. The oddest thing happened while going to Splash on Thursday night. Now I know I look young, but not that young. The average age of the guys in the bar were 21. I'm 36. I could literally and figuratively be these kid's daddy. Yet the bouncer asked for my email address so I could be invited to future young guy events. When did I turn into a chicken hawk? Apparently the minute I walked into the bar.

Friday was pre race day, so I'm not recapping that.

But Saturday...spending time with MAK in the pasture of Astoria. The drunk dial that I had no part of was all Tuna's idea. I was still staring at myself in the mirror. Pretty Pretty Princess is a brutal game.

Sunday was the time to be loud, proud, and really wet. The morning rains kept both Tuna and I wet, but we had a great vantage point of the parade. What I found most interesting (besides the eye candy walking by) was this woman.

I don't know the woman's story, and really don't care. She was just the sweetest lady. Tunagirl doesn't know this, but as we were leaving the parade to go work the pier, I whispered in the woman's ear "if my grandmother had ever attended a march like you are doing, we'd have had a much better relationship".


Our bartending gig involved me whoring myself out to anyone that would give us a tip, as the tip money went to charity. Of course, I saw a star from the porn I have in my house. I thought about going up to him and thanking him for all the orgasms he's provided but decided to just have Karen get his picture instead.


We finished our night watching the fireworks, listening to Jello tell us how much she appreciated that we loved her (wow...evasive isn't she...maybe this is why it didn't work with Ben Afleck), and riding the longest subway ride ever home.

Now how do I top that week?

Is My Heart Racing?

The race is over.

Friday, 3:30pm: I stopped over at the New York Road Runner's offices to pick up my race registration materials. I was handed number 5577, and given a running cap. What? No T-shirt? I'm running 5 miles and I don't even get a freaking t-shirt? What a rip off! But I grudgingly took my cap and belongings.

5 pm: Thinking that I might need to be more aerodynamic, I decide to get a haircut the night before the race. I go to the walk-in salon and ask for the next appointment. Now as I've mentioned before, finding a stylist is like searching for a boyfriend. I've got about the same luck finding boyfriends as I do hair stylists.

I asked the stylist to cut it short. Apparently he thought that meant to give my head a Brazilian wax. I looked like a Mon Chi Chi by the time he was done. But having no other choice but to live with the cut, I'll just pretend it doesn't look as bad as I think it does.

7 pm: The Front Runners invade the Gym sports bar for a pre-race celebration. Tunagirl and I arrive way early, so we sit at the bar and watch for any arrivals. Actually Tunagirl is watching for one particular arrival, but that is completely irrelevant to this story. Happy hour consists of 2 for 1 drinks. For some strange reason, everyone is giving us their free drink credits. I moderated (for probably the first time) and had only two drinks over a three hour period.

10 pm: Carbohydrate loading time. Tunagirl and I go to a Thai restaurant in Chelsea on 8th ave. Red curry with rice, and I'm way full. We grab a subway home.

3 am: The gods have decided to make this race difficult. The rain is pouring outside so hard, it wakes me up...and keeps me up for the next hour. Sort of like God was urinating on my only chance of getting enough rest to actually run this race.

6 am: Alarm goes off and I jump out of bed thinking the race has already began. Thankfully, I've been running all night in my dreams, so I'm feeling oh so refreshed as I make a pot of coffee to wake myself up. Showered and dressed, I stare out the window to see that NYC has entered monsoon season overnight. The rain is coming down sideways. Why am I doing this again?

8 am: Tunagirl asks why I haven't left yet. I make the excuse that I don't have far to go (The race starts 23 blocks from my house). I'm just not wanting to go in the rain.

8:30 am: I'm trying to stretch at the starting line, but my muscles are so tense a massage therapist couldn't have gotten me loose. I walk around a little and then line up at the starting line. Racers are lined up by the pace they are running. I walk down the line...faster than the speed of light pace....6 minute pace...7 minute pace...8 minute pace...9 minute pace...10 minute pace...11 minute pace. I realize they don't have a 20 minute pace, and to be honest, I'm not sure what my pace is. I've not run a race and have never timed myself. I guess a 10 minute pace and line up.

8:59 am: I have to pee.

9:00 am: Stating gun goes off.

9:02 am: I actually cross the starting line. It actually takes 2 minutes for the crowds of people to get past the start. The people I'm running with are moving slow, and I'm weaving in and out trying to pass people. The GLBT cheer leading squad is shaking their pom poms as we start moving.

Turning left on West drive, I head south (and uphill) for the next 25 blocks. I've been practicing on uphill climbs, and I take the hill a little faster, passing quite a few people on the way. At nearly the top of the hill, I hear screamed from somewhere on the left:

GO PATRICK!!!!

Tunagirl is cheering me on. I reach the summit and begin the downhill slope to 73rd street. I'm passing a few people I know, but most others are a sea of faces I've never seen before. Going down the hill I spot two red shirts. The one on the left reads "Fag". The one on the right reads "Hag". I follow "Fag Hag" for a quarter mile before passing them. Near 81st street I see the water relief station.

The Mexican woman working it is passing water to the runners. With the left hand she is handing water in cups. With the right, she is throwing it on the runners. It is at this point I realize I'm burning up. My body temperature is running very high, and the warm weather and humidity is making it even warmer. I drink my water and keep going.

Ok...I'm lying here. How the fuck do runners drink water and run at the same time? I put the cup to my face and water went up my nose or ran down my chest. I was in a wet t-shirt race (although not a race t-shirt. I still feel ripped off). I'm actually feeling surprised when I pass the 1 mile marker.

Somewhere during mile 2: I'm trying to keep myself positive now, but all I can think about is everything I would rather be doing besides running in a steam room at only the 1/2 way point. Redoing my taxes, paying my student loans, even having sex with women are high on my list. I say a silent prayer to the gods to turn the rain back on, as I'm so hot. I find out later that the first place finishers have already checked in by this point.

Mile 3: The words of a runner come back to me. "Follow the hottest ass you can find in front of you. Think of how much you want to have that ass. Then pass it". All I see are women's asses in front of me. I consider walking. We are going uphill on the East drive now. I don't feel that I'm running as fast now...Although I'm sure my heart is beating faster than ever.

Mile 4: A different Mexican lady is handing out water. I grab two, drink them and go for a third. She snaps at me and says "enough"! I give her a look that says I will eat her children and she hands me a third cup. I pour it on my head. I weep silently as I start running again.

I'm going over in my head the reasons I originally wanted to run this race, and the fact that my main reason has changed. Part of me contemplates realigning my priorities.

Near the finish line, I faintly hear Tunagirl screaming my name again, but I am focusing on the hot gay cheerleader who is bent over tying his shoe (Find the hottest ass). The cheerleaders would be so much more inspiring if they were naked. I turn the corner as I begin sprinting to the finish line.

Finish line:
Net finish time: 43:54 Pace: 8:46/mile

They hand me a popsicle after I cross the finish. I still have to pee, and if I wasn't so exhausted, I'd look for a bathroom. I keep moving to cool down.

Would I do it again? Yes. Will I train more for it? Hell yes. Will I run a faster race? Guaranteed.

Running Scared

During my college days, I used to be inspired by a race held every Memorial day called the Boulder Boulder. It was a 10k race that would get 50,000 participants, both elite runners to community members who would walk the event. The local news stations would even televise it, but what I found so fascinating about the race was that the whole community would support the runners. From the belly dancers that would stand at the top of the hill dancing to keep you inspired, to the bands that would play on the corners and turns. The race would always end in the University of Colorado stadium, where nearly 30,000 people would sit and cheer you on.

Each year I would watch that race, cheering the participants, and promise to run it the next year, only to have work and rehearsal commitments entangle my schedule so much that I could never find time to train. By the time the race was approaching, I would never have been able to run it. So I'd always just watch.

I ended up moving away to Athens, Ohio (AKA Butt Fuck Egypt) without ever running that race. My goals changed, I was in a relationship, I was supposed to be sluggish and married. I got sick and started chemotherapy treatments, and never really did run. When I moved to Northern Ohio, I started running, but never with any goals. I just ran for the fun of it.

Tomorrow, I'm running my first race and it's five miles long. On the hilly roads of Central Park? I've got to be out of my freaking mind. Yet, I set the goal of finishing this race and I'm working on setting goals and obtaining them. This race is just a physically demanding goal and to be honest, I know I'll do it, even if it means crawling the last mile on my hands and knees with a portable defibrilator to jump start my heart.

Of course...I'm going to need a new goal now. Shit. I don't want to run a marathon. Well only a little.

Deja Vu

Last Friday I received a call from someone that had to be admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery. Apparently he had an infection that was serious enough to warrant admission for several nights in the hospital. Over the course of a few days he was put on several different antibiotics before he was diagnosed correctly.

He had a resistant strain of Staph infection. What concerns me is that according to his doctor, this infection has become prevalent in gay men. I've attached a link to an article about it.

Scary Infections

I remember back in the 80's, when gay men first started coming down with KS lesions and PCP pneumonia, both fairly rare. It took a significant amount of time for doctors to realize that it was related to some other type of infection, and even longer to realize it could be a retrovirus.

Doctors often work very hard at treating symptoms, but forget to look at the causes. Infection is treated with this pill, but the source of the infection is not necessary. What happens if the person is reinfected? Take the pill again.

I've lived 25 years in a pandemic, and it's almost like I'm hearing it begin all over again. One thing is for sure...I'm going to wash my hands a lot more.

Baring it All on Broadway

I want to fuck an inanimate object. Specifically a mirror ball. There is something about it that I find strangely erotic. The idea of seeing myself in the small mirror tiles while I am taking pleasure makes it all the more exotic. Of course, the specific mirror ball I desire had dark hair and was also wearing body paint and had abs to die for.

Anyone know my future husband's name? How about giving me any idea where I can find him again.

Getting by With a Little Help From My Friends

A few weeks ago, I was at the local happy hour (which is always 3 hours long), when a friend approached me.
"See that guy in the Mets shirt with the blond hair?", he asked.
"The cute one with the nice smile and blue eyes?", I answered.
"Uhhh..yeah. Don't talk to him. He's crazy...and you're known to make bad choices."
"I don't make bad choices!"
"Uhhh...yeah you do."

Sadly...he's right. I've been known to make bad choices, only to have them blow up in my face. Guys who disappear, guys who are just crazy, guys who as interesting as watching a shuffle board tournament. But I'm learning to listen to my friends. If they say I should run far away...chances are, I'm putting on the track shoes.

Back in May, I wrote about the difference between being a dumbass and a wise man. Today, while on the subway, I ran into the yoga instructor again (and this time I was smart enough to get his number). During our conversation, I asked what his plans were for the weekend, only to hear that he is performing at a church this weekend. Huh...the same church and service someone else I know is performing at.

Hmmm...if your friends don't introduce you to single yoga instructors, does that count as an endorsement or a warning?

Intentionally Evasive

While attending business school I took a bit of time to study emotional intelligence and its uses in the business world. Similar to an actor reading an audience, your job is to take clues from others and guide yourself based on both the verbal and non-verbal communication.

It's something we could find useful in out daily lives. Unfortunately, I'm lazy. Wouldn't it be nicer if everyone just carried a bullhorn and announced to the world their intentions or issues?

"I'm lying to make myself look better!"
"I drive a big car to make up for my small manhood!"
"I'm on my period!"

Instead, we all have to play polite and feel around the murkey waters of another individual and hope we can figure things out without getting our hearts broken too often.

I personally know a blogger who lives on the other coast and who mentioned that he likes to bring up the big elephant that sits in the room during the uncomfortable situations. I've tried to do the same and have only recently found myself avoiding it. I swear, I could be having lunch with someone and the elephant could be eating off my plate and I wouldn't acknowledge it. Hell, I've been in some recent situations where the elephant is sitting in my lap and I've still not remarked on it.

So maybe it's time I start up my own bullhorn. Each time I approach a person during the day, I'll look them in the eye, smile, and then scream at the top of my lungs.

"What the fuck do you want from me?!?"

That should get me a date.

I Want It Now!

Does this image look familiar? It should. Go into nearly any elementary, high school, or college in this country and you will see this face on a majority of students...and honestly, it sickens me. We have a nation of spoiled brats forming.

I've never really discussed what made me quit my career as a financial aid administrator. Yes, the politics were bad, the administration was worse, but it was the students that drove me to the breaking point.

For Example: One of my more difficult cases involved a student who was coming from out of state. Based on the family's finances, the parents would not qualify for a loan, so the student would have to pay for her education by herself. With current financial aid assessments, I explained that she would have $50 to last 15 weeks after all school bills were paid. Her parents were getting my point. The school was too expensive, she should attend elsewhere. The student only asked one question. "Where's a tanning salon in town?"

Consistently students would argue with me that a car while on campus was a necessity. I challenge anyone to prove to me that a traditional student (not an orphan, or married, or older student) absolutely has a necessity for a car while going to college! I've heard every argument, and they don't work.

Currently, the New York City school system is in a controversy over banning cellular phones for all students. The students claim it's their fundamental right to have a cellular phone while in school. Their parents claim that their children need the phones to keep tabs on their whereabouts. They also claim that cellular phones provide their children with a necessary level of safety (often mentioning Columbine high school).

The school officials claim that cellular phones facilitate cheating through text messaging, and create a distraction in the learning environment.

I tend to side with the school officials on this. How many of us had cell phones while we were in high school? I'm sorry if this bothers anyone...but kids just don't need a cell phone. Yet kids still whine and parents give them what they want.

The problem is that children need to learn dissappointment as well. In life, we don't always get what we want. If we did, I'd be making a million an episode on my own sitcom with Brad Pitt as my husband and Tom Cruise as my dog walker. But when kids learn that some things have to be worked for, they are more able to appreciate it. Sometimes it's the journey to getting what you want that's the most important.

Now who's going to buy me a beer? I want one now!

A difficult question

As a gay man, who occasionally is sexually active, I make it a point to get a HIV test every 6 months. Even in my moments of abstinence, I've still made it a point to get tested. It's the responsible side of me, one I don't see too often.

The other night, I was approached to participate in the HIV vaccine trials. This is the third time I've been approached about participating in the trials, and I've been seriously considering it.

The deal at this point is they are testing to see if the vaccine is safe for human use (mainly checking for allergic reactions, potential side effects, yada yada yada). This is standard for any new vaccine use, and there is no way I can contract HIV if I take the vaccine. No live virus, killed virus, or HIV-infected cells are used.

HOWEVER, a potential side effect is what concerns me. Currently, standard HIV test look for antibodies that recognize HIV. The study vaccine may cause the body to produce these antibodies, thus showing a false positive on a standard test. More sophisticated tests would check for presence of the HIV virus, which would not be in my blood stream.

Testing positive (even if false positive) in this community is a very scary prospect. It's like getting branded with the scarlet letter and nobody wants anything to do with you. You are shunned from your community, blocked from getting some insurance, forget about getting in the military or peace corps, and some foreign travel could be banned in your future.

I've got heavy thoughts about this now, and a big decision to make. What would you do?

What's Your Score?

As a young child, my father traumatized me by forcing me to participate in the torture devices set up under the guise of "organized sports". At the age of 9, he had forced me to join the "little league", although I was more interested in playing on the swings than actually swinging a bat. My father couldn't understand me, and tried to push me in other ways. In the end, he finally resigned any baseball dreams after the incident of my sitting on the ground in right field and refusal to participate any more than my actual showing up. His statement was that I would never be a competitive person.

He was never more wrong.

I took competition in a different way, and not always a healthy one. To this day, I can remember every actor's name that has ever beaten me out for a role in a final callback. Cross me and I've been known to work hard at beating that person in whatever it is that they are doing. You are running xxx miles? I'll run that distance with a better time.

Revenge and anger are powerful motivating factors. Not healthy ones, but powerful ones. It's a good thing I don't compete with people over the number of sexual partners I've had.

Today, my boss and I are heading to the gym together. God help him. Perhaps I should give him a cigarette before we go?

Come Again?

I'm glad I'm not a woman. Seriously. Yes...I'm a feminist minded man, but in reality...I would hate being a woman. The whole monthly visit from Aunt Flo that leaves toxic waste in your house, a necessity to wear underwear, lack of job inequities, and lets face it...childbirth? Are you fucking kidding me? Pushing out a watermelon sized screaming child should be illegal!

But one of the main reasons I've been very glad I wasn't born female was after listening to a lesbian comic describe how hard it to have an orgasm. As she described it, a woman could be right at that edge, the feelings are so intense, everything is just perfect and she is just about ready to explode! Then a paper clip falls to the floor, and that itty bitty sound wrecks the whole thing. The moment is lost, might as well go make a sandwich.

That sucks! No wonder vibrators are so popular. Women could get Carpal Tunnel syndrome by masturbating too often. We men...we generally have it easy. Now it's not always the case. My brief stint with anti-depressants forced me to start without my sexual partner. "Honey, I'm going to watch this movie for about an hour and get close...I'll call you when I'm ready". And I've noticed that certain music can be quite distracting (ask me about the Dolly Parton Greatest Hits album incident), but still we men have it easy. A little porn (or the gym steam room) and we men are asleep ten minutes later.

Women...after they cum, they can do it again...and again...and again.

You know...maybe being a woman isn't so bad afterall.

A Life Long Lesson

Him: I love that you have love handles and that your hair is thinning. It makes you more human.
Me: (debating joining both Hair Club for Men and Jenny Craig) Uhhh...Thanks?

Cut to about 20 minutes later
Him: (looking into my eyes) Go slow. It's been a long time for me.
Me: (Thinking about being fat and bald) Yeah, slow like a steam train.


Lesson:
Never insult a top during sex.

Blast From the Past

June 8th. My Ex and I met this day many years ago. This is the Ex with the capital "E". The one other ex's are compared to. The one I lived with, broke up with, and still talk to often. We're friends now, which wasn't always the case. We set up rules. We don't discuss the people we are currently dating unless it's serious. A way to keep the peace.

Our relationship has made my current relationships difficult at times. Like when explaining to a new boyfriend that your Ex still calls and periodially visits. "No...we aren't having sex and aren't together anymore. I've not seen him in nearly two years". Add to it the financial connection of joint credit cards and loans...and well...I know what divorce is like. I've moved on, yet, after living with the same person for 5 years, you can remain connected while not being in love with them. This is what I've firmly believed over the years since we broke up.

Today, I get roses and balloons delivered to my office telling my "Happy Anniversary".

How the heck do I respond to this?

Dealing with the Devil

"Your first reaction will be to suck in some air and flinch from the pain. This is when the action starts to take place."

No...I wasn't in a graphic sexual education class...Although I was learning how to screw someone. In my MBA program, I was required to take a negotiation class. The instructor explained that in negotiations, you never make the first move. When purchasing that car, you wait until the salesperson makes the first purchase quote. You then suck in the air, flinch, and say nothing. After the uncomfortable silence, the salesman will say something in the lines of "but this is negotiable."

Last night...I got to practice the "suck and flinch". A few months ago, a social organization in town got my contact information. They have been calling me incessantly for the last 3 months trying to get me to come to their sales presentation. I finally agreed to go.

When I walked into the office, I knew this was going to be an interesting meeting. The receptionist who greeted me looked like he had just come from an Ambercrombie and Fitch modeling shoot (including a shirt unbuttoned down to his waist). With his perfectly tanned skin and white teeth, he whisked me off to the private room, sat me down and offered me a cappaccino. I can only guess where the foam would come from...but I did decline. I filled out the little form that tells the salesman all he needs to know about me and prepared for the attack.

Now most people never realize that the minute you speak to a salesperson, you are setting yourself up. The smartest thing you can do is answer as much as possible in one word answers.
"What brought you to the city?" he asks.
"Work", you answer. Keep it short and simple.

The room they placed me in was very similar to the finance room at the car dealership. Private, very air conditioned, and in this case, with pictures of hot guys (presumably all members) enjoying all the events this company offers. The salesman walked in and the sales pitch began.

Each night a different event is planned. I could be in the company of other successful gay men, all looking to supplement their busy schedules with social activities. I might even meet the love of my life.

The nuts and bolts of the program were as follows.
$37.00 Monthly membership fee.
$1275.00 Initiation fee.
Random Event fees based on number of events and which events purchased. I averaged the amount to $60 a week.

I did the math in front of him.
(37.00x12)+1275.00+(60.00x52)=$4839

$4839 to have friends? I sucked and flinched.
He balked and reduced the overall price by a little over $600.

I think this was why I never wanted to join a fraternity. The idea of paying yearly dues to have friends just perplexed me. Yes, those friendships often allowed for networking contacts, but I just can't justify paying $4200 to have a social life. Not when I don't have any furniture in my house. That amount of money could furnish my entire house from IKEA.

I decided I'm going to make friends the old fashioned way. Slap $20 bucks on the bar and introduce myself to the guy standing next to me. And with the additional money...maybe I'll buy some porn. With luck...my new friend will want to watch it with me.

Geek Pride!

Guess who's rack this is!

"Where did you meet your friends at?" my manager asked me last night at the bar.
"Online" I truthfully answered.
The look she gave me said she thought I was joking.

Three years ago, when I started writing this website, I never dreamed I would have met anyone through it. I didn't even know anyone was reading these pages until I received an email from a reader. It was at that moment that this entire site took a change. Self editing and small censorship became necessary. Name changes were used to protect the innocent, last names and telephone numbers of those bitches who've fucked me over were given out freely. But it still became a source of creativity for me. When I was stuck working on new routines, I'd use this site to work through it. The friends I've made were the added benefit.

Why is there a stigma to meeting people online? At least when you meet online, there is more likely a chance that people will be sober. How many people can say that when they've met someone in a bar? At least meeting online, I've gotten to know people's brains first. Ok...this isn't always true...I may have once or twice gotten to know a persons body first.

But what's the big deal? Yeah...I'm part nerd, but I've got great company. Published authors, graphic designers, housewives, bus drivers, gay, straight, and a few straight but "looking to experiment".

So yes...I'm a geek who met his friends online. My friends may be geeks too, but I'm betting that a bunch of men would love to meet the geek attached to the above rack.

The Dangers of Testosterone

Wooooooooooooo!!!!

It's the familiar sound you hear on every college campus in this country. The sound of drunk 20 somethings intent on killing the brain cells they so desperately need to finish college. Only college students would come up with 1,000 different ways of drinking alcohol. Ice luge shots, beer balloons, jello shots, shot guns, and my personal favorite...beer bongs. It's amazing that most of us even survived college.

And I like to say it's only a few frat boys...but well...I was never in a frat. A frat boy...but never in a frat. Eventually we grow out of that stupidity...or so I thought. Apparently I was intent of reliving my college days last night, by drinking a "funnel" at a bar. I hated doing beer bongs when I was in college, and there I was...a grown 36 year old man, on my knees, sucking of all things...beer? At this point in my life, the only time I get down on my knees is if I want to make a good impression.

I've come to a discovery. Women mature as they get older. Men will always act like idiots. Can you picture many 40 year old women screaming "woooooooooo!!!!" as they show their breasts and drink funnels? I can't. But I can picture 40 something men during a convention. Testosterone makes men stupid.

A time and a Place for Everything

Last Tuesday I met my future husband. I saw him while I was at the gym. Great looking, about 5'9", with dark brown hair, and brown eyes. Watching him on the treadmill, I decided to run just a little longer. When he finished his workout, I caught his eye just as he was heading into the locker room.

As my workout was finished as well, I also headed to the locker room to shower and change as well. We struck up a conversation in the steam room a short time later. He's a concert pianist who is performing in London the next two weeks. A little younger than me, he is also single.

So why aren't we moving in together or at least speaking on the phone? Because there is a time and a place for everything, and it's just impossible to ask someone out for a date while sitting in a steam room with several straight guys overhearing your conversation. Seriously, the last thing I need is 4 fat straight guys, each growing their pubes long enough to cover the bald spot on their heads, complaining that I am watching them take a shower. (trust me, I'm not)

We are only ships that passed in the steam room. Shit!

Of course this did get me thinking, where are appropriate places to meet people and ask them out on dates? I'm not really a bar person (shut up), and I've only dated two men in my life that I met in bars. So I'm always looking for new places to meet future husbands...like prison.

Wouldn't it be great if we could all just wear a button that says "Looking". Life would be so much easier. Until then, I'm increasing my list of places I can't find dates.

• Methadone clinics
  
• Catholic Churches (Although I'm not really a priest's type)
  
• Online (Which is usually for sex only)
  
• Bars (see above)
  
• Public parks (see above)
  
• Highway rest stops (see above)
  
• Gym Steamrooms